The Warrior Luna's New Bond After Divorce

Chapter 7

Ruby’s POV

The canvas sighs with the wind. Warm stones press my ribs and feet; the bandage at my shoulder rasps when I shift. Outside the camp, murmurs; low voices, a pot lid knocking once, a twig of pine crackling in the fire. I count with it.

Four in. Four out.

A strip of wool scratches the inside of my elbow where Lily tucked the blanket and the grit of dried salt lingers at the corner of my mouth.

Ava’s face drifts up first. The way she held a cup as if kindness could be poured. But it quickly becomes Alice with her tray and careful hands that smelled of boiled bitter roots and lavender. The memories come like knives twisting at an already festering wound.

I squeeze my eyes shut, but it doesn’t stop the flood. The scent of antiseptic and crushed herbs clings to my nose. The way Alice’s fingers trembled when she thought I wasn’t looking. The way Ava’s voice cracked when she said my name like it still meant something. I’d buried these moments under layers of grit and duty, but now they rise, slick and sharp, refusing to stay quiet.

Another wound that runs farther back comes too. Father wanted a son to take the Alpha trials. He had three. Rex stood where Father’s praise always landed. Ryan’s eyes were always measuring where to cut. Roger’s grin was always hopeful and open. They all had our father’s dark black hair, while I had our mother’s vibrant red.

When he looked at me, he saw a flaw and told me to step aside. The words were neat, set in stone, final. So I put my want for the title into my fists and chose the warriors’ yard instead; steel, drills, and bruises that bloomed and faded. Out there no one could pretend not to see what I could do. It almost felt like freedom, like I belonged.

I remember the first time I landed a blow that made a senior stagger. The silence afterward was thick with disbelief, then grudging respect. I bled, but I stood. That moment became a talisman I carried in my chest, proof that I could shape my own legend.

Then I met Jake again. I let the path I built with my own hands bend toward him. I gave up the rank I bled for to be his Luna because I believed in the future we would build together. What I received was the taste of betrayal and the weight of hurt. The words line up like a drill I used to run at dawn. Now the mate bond feels like rope burn, something we were taught to worship that turns to ash when you put your weight on it.

“Ruby?”

The voice at the flap pulls me out of my thoughts, and I look up. A man stands half inside, shadow cut in two by the tent light. Taller than Jake ever so slightly, built long and lean the way runners are, shoulders corded from miles and fights. Dark hair cut loose and wind-tossed, brushing against his ears. A pale scar splits his left eyebrow and makes that eye look like it's always asking a question. His eyes are a soft gray, steady as a river.

I don’t know this face. Not pack, not enemy. When I woke, Lily said a name Tyler, but this is the first time I put it to the man.

“Didn’t mean to wake you,” he says.

He doesn’t stare, but his gaze runs over me like a hand checking for breaks; bandages, posture, breath count. A soldier’s inventory. It makes my skin feel too thin, like I should pull the blanket higher.

“Do I know you?” I manage.

He tips a nod. “Tyler. We answered your field call. I’m the one who pulled you off that rock shelf.”

The word shelf jolts through the bruise of memory.

“I was awake,” I say. The words come out rough. “Thank you… for the ridge.”

He stops a pace from the cot. “You are welcome.” His eyes linger on the edge of the dressing at my shoulder. “How bad’s the pain?”

“Manageable.” I hear the lie in it, so I’m sure he does too. His jaw shifts once, then settles.

“You were out a long time,” he says.

I nod. It should be easy to look at him, but that gaze keeps me taking measurements I can’t see. Not hungry, nor cruel, just weighing. I don’t know what scale I’m on, and that’s what unsettles me more than I want to admit.

“Lily says you’ll heal,” he says, not asking. “It will take time. Rest here. When you’re strong enough, I’ll escort you back to your pack.”

Back. The word twists in my ribs. “No.” The refusal leaves me before I can swallow it. My voice is a rasp, but it does not waver. I push onto my elbows. Fire lances across my back, and spots spark in my vision. “I’m not going back. I’ll stay. With your team.”

His eyes widen, a flash of surprise, and then the look turns to the flat appraisal of a battlefield. I know what he sees: bandages, tremor, wolf-silence. A wave of shame surges hot and constricting in my throat. Of course, he doubts me; how could he not, given the state I’m in?

He does not answer at once. He shifts, lowers to sit cross-legged, elbows braced to knees. The movement is deliberate, unhurried. “You think I look down on you,” he says. Not a question.

I can’t help but flinch at his words, their weight pressing down on me. Moonlight sneaks under the flap and catches the thin silver scar that cuts his left eyebrow. “Wouldn’t you?” I ask. “I’m wrapped like shattered pottery.”

His response surprises me. “I look at a warrior who crawled through hell with her hands bleeding,” he says. “Not at what’s broken.” His tone holds no pity, only the clarity of a strategist. “You walked away from your mate-bond. That takes a spine most wolves don’t have.”

The words ripple through the quiet. I flex my fingers under the blanket; the raw skin stings. “Then why the hesitation? You know what I can do.” My voice drops. “Or did.”

He furrows his brows and opens his mouth, but the flap lifts before either of us can continue. Lily slips in with a steaming cup and a coil of fresh bandage draped over her arm.

“Good, you’re awake,” Lily says from the doorway, cheerful as a small bell. She brings the smell of willow and mint with her, and a bowl that smokes in quiet wisps. “I have broth, and a lecture prepared, and I am equally serious about both.” She flicks a look at Tyler, “And you. Out of my way for thirty seconds. Make it sixty.”

Tyler stes back without a word. Lily kneels, checks the wrap with gentle fingers that still find every wince, then replaces the warm stone at my ribs with another.

“Tea,” she says, blowing across the surface of it. “Willow, yarrow, mint. Sip. Growl at me if you must, but sip.”

I take the cup, the warmth radiating through my fingers. “I’m fresh out of growls,” I respond, unable to suppress a faint smile despite the ache in my body.

“You can borrow one of mine.” She tips her head toward the tent wall where camp sounds thicken. “We eat at dusk. One pot, two loaves, hands washed, mouths shut until the injured are seen. That rule was written by someone else here, and we’ve kept it since.” Her glance softens. “You’ll start with broth.”

“Is your broth always this bossy?” I ask.

“Only around people who try to sit up and audition for hero before the stitches think it's a good idea,” she says and tucks the blanket more securely against my shoulder. “Drink.”

I obey. Heat runs down and settles in my stomach. Tyler had turned toward the flap, but he hadn’t left. He’s giving us privacy without making a show of it, eyes on the ground.

“About what you were saying,” Lily murmurs as she checks the edges of the bandage, voice for me alone.

I keep my eyes on the tea. “I won’t go back.”

Tyler huffs a breath that might be a laugh, might be surrender. Stepping forward, he closes the distance between us by the width of a boot, his tall frame casting a shadow that seems to press down on me. “I heard you, and I didn’t mean any disrespect.” He draws a breath, gaze steady. “I know exactly who you are, Ruby. But without your wolf, you're not suitable for the line right now. I won't put you there, and you get hurt.”

The words sting not because they are cruel but because they are true. I lift my chin anyway. “I’m not asking to run point on a raid. I'm saying I'm rogue and I choose to stay. This is a camp, not a throne room. There's work here I can do, wolf or not. I can demonstrate in human form, teach holds and breaks, map approaches, set decoys, and read signs. If you've got a gap, I can fill it.”

I know the tempo of a strike team, the way fear moves through a unit like static. I’ve mapped terrain in my sleep, trained pups who couldn’t hold a blade straight. I can still see the angles, the choke points, the places where a decoy buys seconds that save lives. My wolf may be silent, but my mind is sharp. And sometimes, sharp is what keeps people breathing.

He studies me for a beat that feels like a measure before a march. Then he nods once. “We’ll revisit after you’re healed. But for now, you can do simpler tasks.”

“Fair,” I say, and I mean it. This is not defeat; it’s a compromise.

Outside, the world continues to hum with life; a call for water echoes through the air, the clang of a pot against another reverberates like a heartbeat, and the fire crackles, sending small sparks upward as if trying to escape the confines of the flame. I wrap my fingers around the cup tightly, feeling the rough ceramic against my skin. The tea is bitter, its taste a mix of herbs that intertwine with the lingering sharpness of reality, but it’s warm and comforting against the chill that settles deep within me.

I take a sip, allowing the warmth to spread through me, grounding me in the moment. I’m still here, standing on my own two feet, a presence in this camp with purpose. And that’s a start.