Chapter3
1231 Words
The mess hall was already half full by the time Arya walked in.
Voices bounced off concrete walls—sharp bursts of laughter, the clatter of trays, chairs scraping across the too-slick linoleum floor. The Hold’s mess was functional and harsh, like everything else here. Long steel tables, bolted stools, no windows. Overhead lights buzzed with that dull fluorescent hum that made your brain ache after too long.
Arya stepped into the line and reached for a tray. She rolled her shoulder—still sore from Theo’s last takedown attempt. Her knuckles were red from catching Blake’s jaw too cleanly. No one commented on it.
They didn’t have to.
Behind her, two girls leaned into a conversation that wasn’t quite quiet enough.
“She’s not even marked yet,” one muttered, breath sharp with judgment.
“Doesn’t matter,” the other said. “He looks at her like she already is.”
Arya didn’t flinch. She slid her tray along the track, grabbed the black coffee, skipped the eggs, and took a meat bar from the warming bin. The worker behind the counter gave her a polite nod—but her eyes lingered. Just long enough to register that Arya wasn’t just another trainee anymore.
Everyone was watching her now.
She caught sight of the others—Lyra, Fallon, and Meira—seated near the edge of the room. Daughters of powerful families. All of them eligible. All of them armed with pedigree and posture. They waved her over, like they’d been waiting.
Arya could’ve ignored them.
But she didn’t.
She made her way over and dropped into the open seat at the end.
“Morning,” Lyra said with a practiced smile, nudging her tray aside.
“Barely,” Arya replied.
“You looked sharp out there today,” Meira said, not quite meeting her eyes.
“Blake’s probably still seeing stars,” Fallon added.
Arya gave a clipped nod and took a bite of her food.
The others filled the silence quickly—talking training schedules, which enforcer was injured, what gear upgrades were delayed. Casual enough. But the energy beneath it all was tense, electric. Thin smiles and sideways glances. They weren’t nervous with her. They were nervous of her.
They all wanted to be Luna. They just didn’t want to compete with someone the Alpha might already be bonded to.
Arya stayed quiet. She didn’t need to play nice.
But when she stood to leave, Lyra’s voice followed her. “Tell Keagan we said hello.”
Arya didn’t turn around.
She didn’t know why she brought the extra coffee and meat roll. Not really.
Habit, maybe.
Hope.
She walked the east corridor in silence. The halls were quieter now. The buzz of morning routine fading as everyone was sent to duties. She passed the strategy rooms, the closed council chamber, the archive vault. Her boots thudded against concrete with soft, hollow echoes.
She paused outside Keagan’s study and hesitated.
Her reflection stared back at her from the brushed steel of the double doors. Hair pulled back. Hoodie zipped halfway. Still flushed from training.
She knocked.
“Come in.”
His voice. Low. Familiar. Still capable of undoing her with two syllables.
She entered.
The room smelled like ink, dust, and his cologne—sharp pine and something darker underneath. The study was neater than usual. Maps on one wall. Notes pinned along a board marked with border shifts and rogue sightings. Folders arranged by color and region. No chaos. No clutter. Just control.
Keagan stood near the window, reading a datapad. The light framed his jawline, caught in his dark hair. He looked like a leader now. Every inch of him said Alpha.
But when he saw her, his face softened.
Like the air changed when she entered.
His smile came easy. Almost relief.
She rolled her eyes, but her pulse spiked. “You didn’t show at training. Again.”
“I’m guessing my absence was noted.”
“You missed a hell of a takedown.”
He walked over, still smiling. “How generous. You bring me food and guilt.”
“I assume your ego misses getting knocked down.”
Keagan crossed the room slowly, his smile deepening. “You wound me.”
Arya held up the coffee. “Just black. Like your soul.”
He took the drink from her hand, their fingers brushing, and heat flared up her arm. The same kind that always followed him. Familiar. Dangerous.
“I shouldn’t let you spoil me,” he said, voice low.
“But you do,” she replied, softer than she meant to.
He stepped in closer, placing the coffee aside. One hand slid to the edge of the desk behind her. The other followed.
Suddenly she was caged—his arms braced on either side of her, his body just far enough not to touch, just close enough to set her heart racing.
“Do you remember that summer on the ridge?” he asked.
Arya blinked. “Which one?”
“The one with the river. Where you fell in.”
“I didn’t fall. You pushed me.”
“Semantics.”
His forehead rested briefly against hers. Her breath hitched.
“You were soaked,” he whispered. “Hair a mess. Shivering. And I thought, ‘God help me, I’m going to kiss her until I forget where we are.’”
He grinned—and kissed her.
Soft at first. Testing. Then deeper.
And just like that, she was seventeen again, standing barefoot in the mud with her heart cracking open as he kissed her under the pine boughs. They’d spent entire afternoons that summer at the river. Running through the forest until they were breathless. Chasing, tackling, kissing. Stopping time with their mouths.
Her fingers clutched his shirt. His hand slid behind her neck, drawing her closer.
His lips still tasted like memory.
His scent still calmed the part of her she never let anyone else see.
When he lifted her up onto the desk, she didn’t resist. Her knees bracketed his hips. His hands framed her jaw, his breath catching slightly as he kissed her harder.
It wasn’t just attraction.
It was ache.
But then—too soon—he pulled away.
Not far. Just enough.
His forehead rested against hers. “I missed this.”
Arya didn’t speak. Her throat was too tight.
Keagan stepped back, hands falling away.
“I really do have to work.”
She lowered herself off the desk, forcing her feet to move.
“Thanks,” he said, with a smile that almost hurt. “For breakfast. And the rescue from paperwork.”
Arya zipped her hoodie up halfway. Nodded once.
“Keagan—”
He looked at her.
She wanted to ask: Is it going to be me?
She wanted to say: Don’t make me run if you’ve already chosen someone else.
But instead, she just said: “Next time, show up for drills.”
He gave her a half-smile. “I’ll try.”
She left.
The hallway felt colder now.
Her boots echoed softly as she walked back toward the common wing. Every step away from his door felt like a descent—one she didn’t know how to stop.
She touched her lips once. Briefly. Remembering.
That kiss had felt like a beginning.
But it had ended like a goodbye.
- Writer
