Coming Back as Enemy's Luna

33. Cliff

= Amara =

So… that was his brother.

The realization hit me a second too late, settling in my chest with a strange weight. I hadn’t known he had a brother. Or maybe I had—somewhere in the back of my mind, buried under half-heard rumors and unfinished stories—but I had never really known it.

Then again, what did I actually know about him at all?

Very little, if I was being honest. Just whispers passed between packs. Speculation wrapped in caution. A reputation built more from silence than truth. I had taken the time to study the Veyrath pack—its structure, its territory, its history—yet somehow overlooked the one person at its center.

The Alpha himself.

It felt careless now, almost foolish. As if I had prepared for the land but not the man who ruled it.

My thoughts drifted back to the tension earlier, sharp and unmistakable. Whatever existed between Mikael and his brother—whatever history tangled them together—it wasn’t something small or ordinary. It wasn’t the kind of conflict brushed aside with time or distance. No, it felt deeper than that. Personal and raw.

And that made me wonder if I was already standing too close to something I had no right to touch.

Would he even allow me to cross those boundaries?

Not just the physical ones that marked his territory, but the invisible lines drawn by blood and resentment. Lines that had clearly been carved long before I ever arrived.

Was I even allowed to step there?

But then again, why would I even think of crossing that line? I hadn’t come here to blur boundaries or chase meaning. I was here for one thing, and one thing only—revenge.

I didn’t resist when he pulled me along, my thoughts too loud to protest. I let him pull me along, my fingers loose in his grasp, my thoughts trailing behind my steps. The path we took felt familiar, winding down and away from the noise, and it didn’t take long for the realization to settle in—we were done for the night. Heading back. Retreating into quiet.

So when we reached the grounds of his home, I didn’t question it. I expected—assumed—that we would go straight inside. That he would push open the door without hesitation, guide me through the threshold like it was the most natural thing in the world.

But we didn’t.

Instead, he changed direction, guiding me toward the back yard. The path beneath our feet grew familiar as soon as I recognized it, winding its way through stone and earth toward the cliffside. The air shifted there, cooler, heavier, carrying the distant scent of the tree below.

When we finally reached the edge, he stopped.

That was when his grip loosened. Or maybe—only then—he realized he was still holding my hand, still pulling me along as if I were tethered to him without question. I caught the flicker of surprise across his face when he realized he had been dragging me along instead of leading. The motion stalled for half a second, just long enough for him to register it.

“I’m… sorry.”

The words caught me off guard. My eyes widened before I could stop myself, surprise rippling through me like a held breath finally released. In all the time I’d known him, I had never once heard him apologize to me.

Not like this.

“I didn’t realize I was dragging you along with me,” he continued, his voice lower now, rougher, as if the admission itself cost him something.

For a moment, I just looked at him.

Then I smiled—a small, unguarded thing, meant to soften the space between us.

“No worries,” I said gently. “I understand.”

And I meant it.

He didn’t respond. No nod, no acknowledgment. Instead, his gaze shifted forward, fixed on whatever lay ahead of us. The air between us settled into a quiet that wasn’t uncomfortable, just… heavy. The kind filled with words that had almost been spoken and feelings neither of us knew how to name yet.

His hands at his waist as he stared out over the stretch of land below. His territory unfolded beneath the crescent moon—dark hills and treetops swallowed in silver light, shadows layering over one another like secrets he refused to speak aloud.

The world seemed to quiet itself around him.

All I could hear was the wind rushing past us, carrying the scent of earth and pine, the soft rustle of leaves whispering through the trees below. Crickets chirped somewhere in the distance, steady and unbothered. An owl called from the dark, its sound low and hollow, cutting through the stillness like a reminder that the night was watching.

I hesitated.

I didn’t know whether I was meant to join him or remain where I was. The space between us felt intentional, fragile, as though stepping too close might fracture something unspoken. I stood there for a moment, torn between curiosity and restraint, weighing every possible misstep.

In the end, my feet moved on their own.

I walked closer, careful and quiet, stopping just short of standing beside him. I left a measured distance between us—not far enough to seem cold, not close enough to intrude. Close enough to share the view, but far enough to respect whatever thoughts had pulled him to the edge of the world.

I didn’t want to disrupt the moment he was having.

I followed his lead and lifted my gaze to the night sky.

Stars spilled endlessly above us, an entire ocean of light stretched across the darkness. For a brief moment, everything else faded. The tension, the ache in my chest, the weight I carried without ever naming it—I drifted, suspended in that vast, silent beauty. I couldn’t remember the last time I had seen the sky like this, unbroken and alive.

Then the memory cut in.

Bitterness surged sharp and sudden, stealing the breath from my lungs. The last time I’d stood beneath a sky like this, I had been standing on the edge of death. One step closer to nothing. One heartbeat away from losing everything.

If not for the man beside me, I would have been gone long ago.

The memory surfaced without warning.

The gathering.

The way the air had shifted the moment Gabriel spoke. His words aimed straight at me with no attempt to soften the blow. I could still hear it—still feel the sting of it settling beneath my skin.

I let out a slow, heavy sigh, forcing my shoulders to relax as I tried to shake off what he had said. Tried being the key word.

Because no matter how much I wanted to dismiss it, I couldn’t deny the truth buried beneath his insult.

Throughout the party, the pack was only civil to me because of Mikael.

That realization sat in my chest like a weight I couldn’t dislodge. Their polite nods, their measured smiles—it was all conditional. A fragile courtesy that existed solely because he stood beside me. If Mikael hadn’t been there, if his presence didn’t shield me, I already knew what I would be to them.

Prey.

Gabriel hadn’t invented their resentment. He had simply been bold enough—or cruel enough—to give it a voice. He said out loud what the others only dared to think. He turned their unspoken judgment into words and made sure I heard every one of them.

And it hurt.

There was no use pretending otherwise. The ache was real, sharp in a way that settled deeper than pride. But pain didn’t blind me to understanding. I knew where they were coming from, even if I didn’t agree with it. I knew what I represented to them. What I disrupted.

I had chosen this path with open eyes.

No one forced me into this world, into this bond, into standing at Mikael’s side despite the consequences. And because it was my decision, the burden that came with it was mine to carry.

So if enduring whispers, insults, and challenges was the price I had to pay, then so be it.

I would endure it all. Because walking away was never an option I was willing to take.

I turned my head and stole a glance at Mikael.

He hadn’t moved. He stood there in silence, his attention fixed on the horizon. Even wrapped in darkness, even with only the faint glow of starlight to outline his features, my night vision caught what others would’ve missed. The tension etched into his face. The grim set of his jaw. Whatever thoughts haunted him, they were heavy enough to pull his expression tight.

Then, slowly—almost imperceptibly—his features softened.

It was subtle, the kind of change that only someone watching closely would notice. As if the sky had reached into him and loosened something he’d been holding too tightly for too long.

My chest tightened.

The moment his gaze shifted, I looked away.

Too quickly.

I focused back on the stars, forcing myself to appear absorbed by the view, as though I hadn’t been watching him at all. As though my attention hadn’t lingered where it didn’t belong. I kept my eyes fixed on the endless dark above us, pretending the quiet between us didn’t feel charged, pretending my pulse hadn’t just betrayed me.