Rejected Once, Claimed Twice

First Blood

I should have left the residential area the moment I heard the women talking.

Instead I stayed, moving carefully between the cabins as the pack began to wake. Smoke rose from chimneys. Voices drifted through open windows. The scent of breakfast and familiar wolves filled the air, stirring memories I had spent three years trying to bury.

I was almost clear of the last row of houses when a sharp cry cut through the morning quiet.

A child’s voice. Terrified.

I stopped.

Another cry, followed by the low, aggressive growl of a wolf who had lost control.

I moved toward the sound before I could talk myself out of it.

Behind one of the smaller cabins, a young boy no older than eight had been backed against a woodpile by a half-shifted male. The man’s eyes were wild, his claws extended, foam at the corners of his mouth. Rogue sickness — or something close to it. The kind that turned a wolf feral without warning.

The boy was frozen in fear.

I didn’t think. I simply stepped into the open.

“Hey,” I called, voice calm and cold.

The feral wolf snapped his head toward me. His nostrils flared. For a second he seemed confused by my lack of pack scent. Then the madness returned and he charged.

I met him halfway.

My blades cleared their sheaths in one smooth motion. I sidestepped his first swipe, let his momentum carry him past me, and brought the flat of my right blade down hard across the back of his neck. He staggered. I followed with a precise strike to the knee, dropping him, then pressed the edge of the second blade against his throat just hard enough to break the skin.

“Stay down,” I ordered quietly.

He snarled and tried to rise. I increased the pressure until he went still, chest heaving.

The boy stared at me with wide eyes.

“Go,” I told him. “Find an adult. Now.”

He scrambled away.

I kept the feral wolf pinned, waiting for the inevitable arrival of pack enforcers. Footsteps approached fast — more than one set. I didn’t look up until a familiar, commanding voice cut through the air.

“Step away from him.”

My blood turned to ice.

I raised my head slowly.

Asher Blackwood stood ten paces away, flanked by two warriors. His golden eyes locked onto mine with the force of a physical blow.

The fractured bond in my chest roared to life.

For a moment neither of us moved. The morning air felt too thin. I could see the exact second recognition hit him — the slight widening of his eyes, the sharp inhale, the way his entire body went rigid.

He knew.

Even after three years, even with the changes in my face and posture, he knew.

“Luna,” he said, and the sound of my name in his voice sent a violent shiver down my spine.

I kept my blade against the feral wolf’s throat and met Asher’s gaze without flinching.

“Alpha,” I answered evenly. “Your pack member was about to tear a child apart. I handled it.”

One of the warriors stepped forward. Asher lifted a hand and the man stopped instantly.

Asher’s eyes never left mine. The intensity in them was almost unbearable. I could see the questions forming, the shock, the something darker and more complicated that he was trying to control.

“You’re supposed to be gone,” he said, voice low and rough.

“I was.” I finally eased the blade away from the feral wolf’s neck and stepped back, though I did not sheathe my weapons. “Now I’m not.”

The two warriors moved in to secure the half-shifted male. Asher stayed where he was, as if rooted to the ground.

The bond between us — broken, damaged, but still somehow alive — pulsed hard enough to make my fingers tighten on the hilts of my swords.

Asher’s jaw flexed.

“You shouldn’t have come back,” he said.

I tilted my head slightly, letting a cold little smile touch my mouth.

“And yet here I am.”

For the first time in three years, I stood face to face with the man who had rejected me in front of the entire pack.

And this time, I was not the one who looked away first.