The Warrior Luna's New Bond After Divorce

Chapter 3

Ruby POV

The dungeon smells like old iron and wet stone. Moisture beads on the walls and slicks the mortar; when I touch the stone, grit comes away black on my fingers. Cold seeps up through the floor and settles in my bones, a slow marinade that makes my teeth ache. A narrow slit of a window sits high in the wall, barred and mean; a thread of night peeks through with a single pale star.

Tink. Tink. Tink. Drips tick somewhere beyond the corridor, countless, patient, and in an irritating rhythm.

I sit beneath the slit with my back to the wall, knees up, arms wrapped tight enough around my shins to feel the pulse in my wrists. Four in. Four out. The air tastes of metal and damp rope, something I guess I’m lucky isn’t tied around my wrist or dangling me from the wall like a spectacle.

The command sits in me like a seal. I try to reach for my wolf, but only touch silence, the place where my power used to live. That silence should undo me, but it doesn’t; instead, it sharpens everything. My hearing pricks, my vision clears, my muscles coil the way they always have before a fight. And I realize I’ve been a warrior longer than I have been Luna, and that training will always be a part of who I am.

I push to my feet. Pins and needles climb up my calves, a hot prickle under my skin that’s gone too cold. My balance shakes for a moment, then steadies. The dungeon is small enough that four slow steps take me to the wooden door. I move quietly, heel to toe, out of habit more than need. I’m sure that no one cares if a prisoner makes noise, but old instincts die hard.

A heavy security chain dangles from a plate bolted to the jamb, the size of my palm. If it were looped, the door would open only a hand’s width; unlooped, it can swing free. I study it the way I used to study an enemy’s armor, looking for weakness. The iron is scarred by rust, the color of dried blood. I reach out but stop short of touching it.

I lean closer and press my ear to the wood. Nothing. No footsteps, no voices, only the low hum of light from the hall beyond. When I shift my weight, the chain stirs, a faint clink that ripples through the silence.

I stay there a breath longer, hand hovering near the lock that I’d never be able to pry open. Then I turn to the window.

The slit is narrow and high enough that I have to stretch to reach it. I brace my palms against the stone and lift onto my toes. Cold air slips through the gap, tasting faintly of pine and rain. Outside, the night stretches endless with moonlight brushing against the edges of the forest like a painting. For a heartbeat, I forget the cell and the chains. There’s only sky.

Without meaning to, I hum under my breath. Soft and steady, the rhythm of marching feet and blood, an old warrior's tune. The one we used to sing around dying fires when the world was still cruel. The melody trembles, faint at first, then steadies. I close my eyes and let the words spill out in a whisper.

Moonlight stains the field, I rise.

Claws to the wind, fire in my eyes.

Dusk may fall, but the howl remains

The pack remembers, so do I.

The last line breaks into a whisper that trembles between prayer and promise. I press my palms to the stone, feel the cold bite against my skin, and let the air fill my lungs until it hurts. Never give up until the last moment.

Then I tilt my head backward toward the slit of the sky and let it out; a sound caught halfway between a cry and a growl. It starts small, low, like a ghost of something I’d forgotten. Then it deepens into a true howl. It cuts through the damp air, and I let it go, scraping my throat until I taste iron.

The walls carry it, and the vibration travels down my spine and settles into my chest. It’s the call of a warrior, not a Luna, the same signal we used on the field when the odds were lost.

I’m alive.

I’m here.

Come if you can.

Somewhere above, a guard might hear only a prisoner’s madness. However, to those who know what it is, whether it's another pack or a guerrilla team, they’ll hear it and understand.

I drop back down, breath shaking, ear ringing. The echo lingers like smoke; maybe no one will hear it. Perhaps no one will care.

But I do.

And for now, that’s enough.

The sound dies. I stay still, waiting for something, an answer, a shift in the air, the sound of feet coming down the hallway. Nothing. Only that persistent, steady drip in the corridor and the slow pulse in my own throat.

Then a change. The dungeon’s quiet morphs, a faint scrape of what I assume to be leather on stone. Then: footsteps. Light and careful.

Metal brushes metal; a key slides into the lock and turns with a soft, satisfied click. No chain set.

Light spills across the floor, and Ava slips through the doorway, closing it without resetting the lock or hooking the chain.

“How is it in the dungeon?” she asks, her voice sweetened to the point of sickness.

I don’t stand. I don’t give her the satisfaction of rising for her. “Congratulations,” I say. “You finally have what you wanted.”

She tilts her head, as if the angle lets her see me better. “Do I?” She steps closer, her eyes bright with a kind of affection that has nothing to do with love, void of whatever sweetness laced her demeanor just seconds earlier. “Jake was… upset. But he’ll calm down, he always does, especially if I’m in his arms.”

I lift my gaze to meet hers. “You don’t need to tell me how he is.”

Ava’s smile turns soft, almost tender. “He held me after,” she says. “Said it wasn’t my fault. Said he never should have let things get this far.” She takes a step closer, the hem of her pale dress brushing the damp floor. “You see, Ruby, he’s been mine longer than you’ve known him.” Her eyes shine with pride, as if she's sharing proof of a love story rather than a confession. “He still looks for me first. Still listens when I speak.”

I frown, my brow furrowing. The ache behind my ribs deepens, but I keep my voice steady. “If that’s true,” I say quietly, “go tell him. Tell him to his face and take what you think is yours. I’m not staying.”

Her expression shifts, no longer proud but a fierce glare. “Jake’s too soft-hearted,” she snaps. “He’d never do what needs to be done. He still believes you’ll come to your senses. I’m here to help him do what he can’t.”

“Help him,” I repeat. The word tastes bitter. “By letting me go.”

Her eyes don’t flinch. “No, no. You see, if you died instead, he could let go of his duty to you. He could stop chasing an heir from your goddess-forsaken bloodline.” She says it with kindness, like it's mercy; she’s proud to offer it. “You were a mistake, Ruby.”

“I was a choice he made himself,” I say softly. “And you hated that.”

Something in her face shutters. Her voice trembles once, almost unnoticeable. “No,” she says. “I corrected it.”

The light from the window cuts a single bright line across the floor. I mark the distance to the door with my eyes. A step and a turn. Two at most.

“You shouldn’t have come here alone,” I tell her.

She laughs, one quick breath through her nose. “I’m not alone, though?”

She pulls her dress up, revealing knee-high boots, and draws a small silver knife and a whistle that gleams dull and flat. My pulse spikes, and the chains that surround my heart tighten.

“If you scream,” she says, “they come. If you don’t, I’ll end this quickly. Either way, you stop being a problem.”

I rise slow and steady. The command that seals my wolf can’t touch what I was before, a trained warrior even without shifting. “You brought silver into your Alpha’s dungeon,” I say. “Bold.”

“Necessary.” She lifts the knife to the level of my throat and steps closer. Her hand doesn’t shake, almost like she's practiced this a hundred times.

I keep my eyes on hers, not the blade. “You looked me in the face and called yourself my friend,” I say flatly. “You braided my hair and fed me tea while you poisoned me.”

I remember her fingers weaving through my curls, humming softly under her breath, always going on about how much she adored my dark red hair. Jake’s hand resting on my stomach the night I told him I was late and I’d noticed a shadow in the doorway.

Her smile is small and real. “And you drank.”

I take one step to the side, almost casual, and the light from the slit slides off the knife and into her eyes. She blinks just once, but it’s enough for me to see the doorway at her back, the chain unlooped, the lock resting open like a held breath.

“You don’t need to do this,” I say. The words are true and untrue all at once.

“Yes,” she whispers. “I do.”

Her wrist shifts. I move.

My forearm slams into her wrist; a sharp sting zips up my elbow as the blade slices past my ribs. With my free hand, I hook her right elbow and drive it into the stone. The impact jars her and knocks a breath from her.

The whistle flashes in her left hand. I pin that wrist high against the wall beside her head. The whistle pops loose, drops, and skitters across the floor.

She bares her teeth. “You can’t shift,” she hisses. “You’re useless.”

I lean in; over her shoulder, the unlooped chain hangs slack.

Ava’s eyes flick to it, then back to me. She understands. Her knife hand rolls; the edge bites cloth and skims my side. Pain flashes white. I release, and she lunges.

I grab the slack chain, pivot my shoulder, and drive my hip into her. The slam puts her into the wall. The knife clatters, spins, and slides to a stop near the threshold. I bar my forearm across her collarbones and keep her there.

The night outside sings with a faint howl. Three short, a pause, then two long. I tighten the chain in my fist, and my throat tightens as I watch Ava’s composure crack. Fury burns through her pretty mask. She stomps at my foot; I take it on the edge and let the pain burn through. She drives her head toward mine; I lean back, and her skull grazes my cheekbone, sparks bursting across my vision.

Her eyes flick back to me, wild and furious. “Jake will never let you go,” she spits. “Even if you crawl out of here, he’ll drag you back.”

“Then he’ll have to run,” I say. “And he’s never been as fast as he thinks.”

She laughs, small, ugly, with all teeth, and lunges for the knife.

I take the pressure away all at once. She surges into empty space, off balance. I step aside, shove her shoulder, and send her stumbling toward the center of the cell.

The door stands open a finger’s width. The chain hangs loose in my hand.

I look at her, and she looks at me. For a heartbeat, everything stills.

Then Ava comes for my throat.