The Snow Wolf's Mate

Only One Moon:

[POV: Dayana]

They say hatred is like poison—that it eats you alive from the inside out. But that’s not true.

Hatred is clean. Sharp. It gives you focus when everything else around you is blurred and chaotic. Hatred is the reason I’m still standing. The reason I’ve won.

I’ve always hated Aria.

Not in the petty, childish way little girls hate someone who stole their toy. No. My hatred for her was rooted deeper—woven into my bones like a curse, pulsing through every vein. I didn’t just hate her. I was made to.

From the moment I could walk, they told me I was better. Smarter. Stronger. The chosen one. And she? She was... unfortunate. Weak. Fragile in that quiet, trembling way that made adults pity her and children want to shove her in the dirt. And Goddess, did I shove her.

I never let her forget who she was.

Even when we were small, I could see it—the way our parents looked at her. Cautious. Cold. Like she was a mistake they were too afraid to undo. And then they’d turn to me and smile. Our Dayana, they’d say. She’s born to lead.

And I believed them. Of course I did. How could I not?

But I knew something else, too. Something they thought I was too young to understand.

I remember it clearly—the night I learned the truth.

I was nine, hiding behind the curtains of Father’s war room like I always did when I wanted to listen. Mother was there, speaking in hushed tones with an old woman whose eyes looked like cloudy water. A witch. A real one.

They spoke of the prophecy.

Two sisters. Same blood, same moon. One to raise the pack to glory. One to burn it to ash.

The witch told Mother how to stop it. How to end the weaker one before she could grow strong enough to fight back. Before she could challenge fate.

On the day of the Luna’s rise, the strong must spill the blood of the weak with her own hands.

I didn’t move. I didn’t blink. I just listened.

And something clicked into place inside me.

Aria wasn’t just an embarrassment. She wasn’t just a soft, pitiful girl hiding behind books and tears.

She was a threat. And threats needed to be eliminated. So I made it my life’s purpose to destroy her.

I lied to the elders and told them she’d stolen from the pack’s stores. She spent three nights in the dark cells, shivering and starving. I watched from the window and smiled.

I had friends who liked me more than they liked the truth. Friends who would corner her for me. Friends who didn’t stop swinging until Aria curled in on herself like a kicked dog.

I even slipped something into her food once. Nothing deadly. Just enough to make her throw up for three days straight. I told the healer she was faking it.

And no one questioned me. Because I was Dayana. The golden daughter. The one everyone trusted.

The one Cole chose.

Goddess, Cole. Even his name feels like victory.

Cole was everything a future Luna could want: the best fighter among young wolves, sharp-eyed and clever, quick with his hands and quicker with his mouth. And gorgeous—obviously. His wolf burned bright, powerful, and sure. He was meant for power, and I was meant to stand beside him.

He was going to be Alpha one day. And I was going to be his Luna. It was written in the way we moved together—two blades cut from the same steel.

Then Aria had to look at him like he was some storybook hero. Like her pathetic heart could mean something to someone like him.

I saw it. The way her gaze followed him. The way her hands trembled when he trained nearby. And I felt it, too—something in Cole, a flicker of softness when he spoke to her.

I couldn’t allow that.

I made sure Cole saw Aria exactly how I wanted: weak, emotional, unstable. I whispered carefully chosen half-truths into his ear—lies wrapped in concerned confessions.

He didn’t believe me at first. But I was patient. I painted her as fragile. Needy. A liability. And when he looked at me instead of her, I knew I had him.

Now, here I am.

Lying in Cole’s bed, his arm draped over my waist, his scent still clinging to my skin. The moonlight filters through the curtains and dances across his bare chest. He’s beautiful. Mine.

And Aria is gone. But not for long.

The prophecy was never about peace or reunion. It was a sentence. Only one of us can survive. Only one of us gets to become more than just a name in someone else’s legend.

So if it’s her or me? I probably choose me.

I will be stronger. Smarter. Better.

Because I’m fighting to live. And when the time comes, I’ll make sure Aria stays dead. Permanently.

But because fate doesn’t forget. And so do I.