Senira of the Broken Moon

The old tongue has no word for what she is.
Born without a caste, without a moon to speak for her name, Senira has spent twenty years surviving a world that never bothered to count her.
In the Red Wind pack she is a Shatterborn, the lowest of the low, useful enough to hunt and disposable enough to be handed to the tribe's heir like an afterthought.
Velek is not cruel. He is simply certain, and his certainty has a word for her: solvara. Pleasure mate. Warmth-kept. A thing held rather than chosen.
She has three months before she turns twenty and that word becomes her life.
Then Kaedryn comes.
He arrives out of the North silent, dangerous, and with purpose she does not yet understand.
He has not come to save her. He has come to collect her, a prize for a master. A Vampire Lord who rules a kingdom of endless night and has decided, for reasons Senira cannot fathom, that he wants her specifically.
Dragged from the only world she has ever known into the deep north, where the broken moon hangs close enough to touch and the moonspire trees glow cold and beautiful in the permanent dark, Senira discovers something the pack never told her.
She is not powerless. She has never been powerless. She has simply been surrounded by people invested in her believing otherwise.
But power has a cost, and in the North that cost is paid in want. Kaedryn, who brought her here in chains and watches her now like she is something he has not yet decided what to do with. His master, who looks at her across the dark of his ancient court with eyes that have seen centuries pass and have chosen, out of all of them, to stop on her.
Two men. One broken. One eternal. Both dangerous in ways that have nothing to do with their teeth.
And Senira, who has spent her whole life being told she is nothing, finally learning what nothing can become when it has had enough.
Some things the old tongue has no word for. Not because they do not exist. Because they have not happened yet.