I Never Meant to Be His Luna

Headlights cut through the rain just far enough to show Lyra Quinn the next crooked turn before the forest swallowed it again. The coastal road clung to the cliffs like a scar, wet asphalt gleaming, guardrail rusted and dented from too many bad nights. Her truck shuddered as she dropped a gear to climb, the engine protesting over the roar of the storm. “Don’t die on me now,” she muttered, slapping the cracked dashboard. “We’re almost past Hollow Ridge. You can fall apart after that, sweetheart.” The power gauge flickered. Lyra’s fingers tightened on the steering wheel. “No. No, no—” The headlights cut out. For one breath there was nothing but black water on the windshield and the howl of wind. Her stomach dropped. She stamped the brake, felt the wheels hit a slick patch, skid. The truck fishtailed. She rode the skid, counter-steering, letting the weight of the engine pull them straight. They lurched to a stop half sideways across the narrow road, tires screaming. Her heart hammered against her ribs, her wolf slamming up against her skin in a rush of adrenaline. The engine wheezed and died. “Great,” she breathed, listening to the rain batter the metal shell. “Perfect timing.” She sat there a second, palms flat on the wheel, pulse slowly easing. The familiar twinge stirred behind her eyes—the distant thrum of a pack border not far ahead. Her wolf pricked its ears toward that invisible line, toward the warm hum of many hearts beating together under the storm. Lyra shoved the sensation down. Not yours. She grabbed her flashlight, shoved open the driver’s door, and swung her boots onto slick asphalt. Rain hit her like a wall, cold and heavy. She hunched into her jacket and popped the hood, propping it one-handed while the other held the light. “Come on, old girl,” she muttered, squinting into the steaming maze of metal and wires. “Give me something easy.” Something moved at the edge of her vision. A shadow blurred against the guardrail, too low and fast for a human. Her wolf snapped to attention, hackles up. Before Lyra could turn fully, a massive dark shape lunged out of the treeline straight at the truck. She dropped the hood and stepped back on instinct. The wolf—big, midnight-furred, eyes catching the flashlight beam with a flash of gold—skidded, claws scraping. He shifted mid-snarling step, bones cracking, fur pulling under skin. In the space of a heartbeat, there was a man stumbling in the downpour instead of the wolf. Broad shoulders, bare chest slick with rain, dark hair plastered to his forehead. He lifted an arm to shield his eyes from her beam. “Get that light out of my—” Lyra was already moving. She didn’t think, just reacted. One step in, one twist. She hooked a foot behind his ankle and slammed her shoulder into his chest. Surprised, he went down hard on the wet pavement with a grunt, breath leaving him in a rush. She planted a knee on his sternum and the flashlight under his jaw, pinning his head back. Up close, he smelled like pine, wet fur, and Hollow Ridge territory. Definitely pack. “Bad night to play chicken with trucks, sweetheart,” she said over the rain. “You trying to die, or is this your usual patrol technique?” His hands came up, palms open in a gesture that was almost peaceful despite the growl rumbling in his throat. Even flat on his back, he radiated that quiet, leashed power that screamed Alpha-bred. Strong. Annoying. His gaze flicked over her—drenched jacket, grease-stained hands, the way she held him like she’d done this a hundred times. Something like surprise sparked in his eyes. “Get off me,” he ground out. His voice was low, rough, soaked in authority. “You’re near our border.” “Yes, I noticed,” Lyra shot back. “I was trying very hard to keep going past it until your oversized wolf threw himself at my engine block.” His jaw clenched. Rain ran in rivulets from his hair into his ears. “You killed your headlights. Thought it was a rogue trying to crash through.” She huffed a laugh. “Newsflash: rogues prefer not to hydroplane to their deaths on unfamiliar roads.” At the word rogue, his gaze sharpened. Her scent was all over him now—wet leather, metal, the faint wild edge of too many nights alone. His wolf pushed, responding to something in it, in her. Lyra felt it too—a tug, a brief, unwanted softening in her chest. The echo of a pack’s call, wrapped in one man’s skin. Absolutely not. She pressed her knee a fraction harder into his sternum. “Ask nicely, border boy, and I might let you up.” One corner of his mouth twitched despite the circumstances. “You’re on Hollow Ridge land, technically. I could order you.” She snorted. “You could try.” A beat of crackling tension passed between them, rain drumming on metal and skin. Then, with a sigh somewhere between frustration and reluctant amusement, he said, “Fine. Would you please get off me, so you don’t blow out my lungs if I need to shift again?” “There,” Lyra said, easing back just enough to rock off his chest and onto her heels. “Was that so hard?” She rose in one smooth motion and stepped away, keeping the flashlight on him. He sat up slowly, ribs protesting, then got to his feet. Up close, he was tall enough to make her feel shorter than she liked, muscles cut from years of training, not vanity. He ignored the rain and her light both, studying her with a soldier’s focus. “You’re Lyra Quinn,” he said, like confirming an intel file. “Rogue mechanic. Atlas’s favorite headache.” Lyra arched a brow. “And you’d be…?” He hesitated for a fraction of a second, then offered, “Cassian Reid.” Reid. Her wolf stilled. She’d heard the name in passing, attached to rumors of a prodigal son and an heir who’d walked away from his pack for years. Of course the night her truck died on the edge of Hollow Ridge, she’d literally run over the Alpha’s little brother. “Good for you, Cassian Reid,” Lyra said lightly, like his name meant nothing. “You going to arrest me for assaulting local wildlife, or help me get my truck running so I can get the hell off your doorstep?” He glanced at the dead truck, then back at her, something unreadable in his eyes. “Depends,” he said. “Are you planning on coming back?”