Chapter 23
They didn’t exactly roll out the red carpet. Turns out, being announced as the future Luna of a brutal, power-drunk pack doesn’t come with applause. Just a lot of sharp eyes, hushed conversations, and one too many wolves sizing me up like I was the weak link about to snap.
I followed Pierce through the main corridor of the pack house, stone walls, black steel fixtures, a giant crest above the fireplace that screamed ‘we bite first, ask later’.
He didn’t say much, just kept walking, jaw tight, shoulders tense like he was daring anyone to challenge what he just claimed. And yeah. That was the word. Claimed.
Everyone here knew it. The Luna bond might not have been formalized yet, but Pierce had made it crystal clear: I was his.
The door opened and silence dropped like a guillotine. Ten wolves sat around the obsidian table. Soldiers, tacticians, Alphas from smaller branches. All eyes on me.
Dom spoke first, voice dry. “Didn’t know we were recruiting journalists now.”
“Good,” I smiled sweetly. “That means I’ll be the one taking notes while you crash and burn.”
Matteo choked on his coffee. Pierce didn’t laugh but his hand brushed mine under the table, just for a second. Solid. Warm.
Like a tether. Like ‘you’ve got this’ without saying a word.
The meeting started. Territory threats. Supply chain risks. One plan revolved around a new transport route that cut through a known patrol zone. Everyone seemed chill about it.
Everyone but me.
“That’s a trap,” I said flatly. Heads turned. “You send a convoy through that route, and you’re basically gift-wrapping your weapons for the local enforcers.”
“And you know that because..?” Dom asked, not even bothering to mask the condescension.
“Because I already did a story on smuggling ops three years ago. The port’s under surveillance. Cops aren’t stupid, they just wait until the haul’s big enough to make headlines.”
Pierce leaned back. “She’s right. Reroute it.” No discussion. No debate. Just that.
The room went quiet, but I didn’t smile, didn’t even gloat. But something in me settled, like the first thread of real authority had just been stitched into my spine.
After the meeting, I caught Pierce watching me with something dangerously close to pride.
“Don’t look at me like that,” I said.
“Like what?”
“Like you didn’t know I had claws.”
“Oh, I knew,” he said, voice like cracked velvet. “I was just waiting for you to use them.”
His voice dripped with approval, but his eyes were all challenge. He leaned in like he might kiss me—but didn’t. Just stood there, exhaling heat and silence. And I hated how badly I wanted him to close the space.
So I did it instead. I reached up, curled my fingers in his shirt to kiss him hard, like I meant it. Like I needed it. But he dodged. He tilted his head, mouth brushing past mine, grinning when I stumbled into the nothing he left behind.
That made me freeze at my place.
“Are you—serious?” I growled.
He looked down at me like a cat amused by a mouse who thought it could roar. “Didn’t know you were feeling needy today.”
That smug smirk, that low, cold tease—it hit exactly where he knew it would. Right where I hated it most: my pride.
I shoved him. “You’re such a goddamn asshole.”
He caught my wrist before I could turn. Tight enough to make me feel his pulse under my skin. “I gave you claws, Lyra. Use them wisely.”
My stomach twisted, heat flooding everywhere it shouldn’t. Because it wasn’t just what he said—it was the look in his eyes. Dark. Knowing. Like he still wanted me, craved me, but wouldn’t let himself.
And that’s what had been driving me crazy.
The silence. The distance for these last days. The way he touched me with his eyes but never his hands—not since that night.
“You’ve been distant,” I said before I could stop myself. He said nothing. “What now? Once you got what you wanted, you got bored?”
His jaw tensed. “Is that what you think?”
I didn’t answer. That was all the answer he needed. A flash of something—Amusement? Frustration? Regret?—crossed his face, but it was gone before I could name it.
“Come with me,” he said.
I followed him down the hall again, confused and off-balance. He didn’t speak, didn’t glance back. Just moved like a storm held barely in check.
He stopped at a door. Familiar. My room. My things. My space. He tossed a key into my hand and cold metal slapped against my palm.
“Now you’re sending me away?” I asked, pulse spiking.
“I’m giving you a break.” He leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed. “You’re overstimulated, and when you get overloaded—you bite too much.”
I glared. “So this is about my attitude?”
“No,” he said flatly. “It’s about mine. You’re still not ready for what I am when I stop holding back.”
My throat went dry.
There was no apology in his voice. No tenderness or any regrets. Just brutal, sharp honesty wrapped in velvet menace. And still, I didn’t walk away. “You think locking me out is going to fix that?”
“I think giving you space to crave me might.” My breath caught at those words.
Bastard.
It wasn’t that he didn’t want me. It was that he wanted me too much. Enough to hurt me if he let it all go.
“You’re playing games again,” I said, hating the edge of hurt in my voice.
“I’m building a war,” he said. “And you’re a pretty one fucking distraction I can’t afford right now.”
I swallowed the ache. Bit down on it until it bled. “Then why keep me at all?”
His eyes flared. And then—without a word—he stepped forward and grabbed my face, kissed me like he wanted to burn the doubt out of my mouth. It was punishing, possessive, his.
His tongue pushed past my lips like it had the right and I let him. Because I wanted to. Because I always would. He pulled back slowly, lips bruised, breath rough.
“I’ll find you,” he said quietly, like a threat. Like a vow.
Then he left. The door shut behind him like a promise still echoing through my ribs.
* * *
Going back to my apartment felt like trying to squeeze into high school jeans after surviving a war.
Everything was where I left it. Same scuffed coffee table. Same cracked tile in the bathroom. Same dull hum of the fridge in the dead silence.
Even the wine stain on the rug stared at me like a ghost from a simpler, stupider time—when heartbreak meant getting ghosted, not nearly dying under a man who kissed me like he wanted to own my soul.
I dropped my keys on the table, stared at the silence, and tried to convince myself this was normal. That this was my life again. It wasn’t.
It all felt… wrong. Too small for who I’d become.
I still don’t know why Pierce wanted me to come back here.
He said it was about space. About letting me breathe. That I’d been overstimulated, overloaded. But I couldn’t stop wondering if it was something else. Something uglier.
Did I really bore him now?
Was I just a game he’d won—a challenge conquered, lust scratched out of his system? Or just the shiny thing he chased until he caught it? A challenge to break, bed, and get bored of?
The thought made me want to punch something. Or throw up. Maybe both at the same time.
And probably the worst part, that I couldn’t even lie to myself anymore. I wanted him. Not just the pretty, tragic pieces—I wanted all of him just for me.
The possessive, damaged, occasionally unhinged bastard who had ripped the old version of me to shreds and made it feel like a favor.
I knew it was wrong. Like… ethically, emotionally, probably cosmically wrong. Our relationship was born out of threats, blood, and one very questionable mating bond. Not exactly the stuff of romance novels.
But still, that bond—it was real. Tangible like a string tied around my ribs, always pulling in his direction.
Some days it throbbed, some days it sang. But it never let go.
