I Never Meant to Be His Luna

Chapter 9

For a heartbeat, the world narrowed to pressure.

Magic hooked into Lyra’s chest like a hand in her ribs, yanking her toward the shimmer over the ravine. Old words wound through the pull, thick with command.

Lyra. Come home.

Her knees dipped. Her wolf reared, torn between fury and the old reflex to obey.

“No,” she ground out.

Cassian moved.

One second he was heat at her side, the next his hands were on her shoulders, solid. His wolf flared, a hot wall slamming between her and the tug.

“Eyes on me,” he said, low and edged with Alpha. “Not them. Me.”

She clung to his voice.

The wards flared, a rippling veil of light across the ravine. A shape pressed against it from the far side—broad shoulders, familiar stance. Not Jonah. Heavier. Older.

Silas.

His scent knifed through the air: cedar, iron, bitter herbs. Her stomach lurched.

He was chanting; she felt the rhythm battering at the border, hunting for cracks in her magic and her will.

“Atlas,” Cassian snapped into his com. “Ravine. Old pack working the wards.”

Static, then Atlas’s voice, sharp. “Hold the line. Do not cross.”

The tug spiked, white pain behind her eyes. Her wolf howled inside her skull.

Twelve years ago, she’d stood in another circle and let these hands shove their will down her throat.

Not anymore.

Lyra bared her teeth at the shimmering outline.

“Get. Out. Of. My. Head.”

She grabbed Cassian’s jacket, not to pull away but to anchor. Their bond flared under her palms, hot and clean and entirely theirs. The amulet Isolde had given her burned cold against her skin.

The wards answered.

Light shot up from the ground in a hard line, slamming down between her and the pull. The magic rope snapped. Lyra staggered back, gasping.

Across the ravine, Silas jerked, one hand flying to his chest. His chant broke.

For a heartbeat there was only her ragged breathing and the rush of wind.

Then another scent brushed her senses, thinner but unmistakable.

Jonah.

Not at the border—further back in the trees—but close enough his wolf brushed hers like a ghost.

“Lyra!” he shouted. “Stop, you’ll make it worse—”

Cassian’s growl cut across the ravine. “He doesn’t talk to you like that. Not here.”

Atlas pounded up the path with Darius and Jace, eyes narrowing on the still-glowing line. “Report.”

Lyra swallowed. “They tried to use old bond hooks. Drag me through, or crack your wards with me as a key.”

“Did they get anything?” Atlas asked.

She met his gaze, then Cassian’s. Felt the steady, stubborn beat of their bond under the bruised place Silas had grabbed.

“No,” she said. “They touched the door. They didn’t get the key.”

Silas straightened on the far side. Even at this distance, his fury burned.

“This isn’t over,” he called, voice riding the last scraps of magic. “Hide behind that bastardized pack as long as you like, girl. The Council won’t shield you forever.”

Cassian stepped forward just enough to be seen.

“Good thing she doesn’t need the Council,” he said, calm as a blade. “She has us.”

Silas’s mouth curved in a humorless smile. “We’ll see how long that lasts.”

His presence snapped back like a retreating tide. The pressure vanished, leaving only the sour echo of his scent.

Lyra realized her fists were still twisted in Cassian’s jacket. Slowly, she let go.

“You okay?” he asked, voice softer.

“No,” she said honestly. “But I’m not theirs.”

Atlas exhaled. “They know where we are. Now we know how far they’ll reach.”

Lyra looked at the wards, at the place her past had slammed into her present and bounced.

“Then we stop waiting for tests,” she said. “We start planning for the next hit.”

Cassian’s hand brushed hers, brief and sure.

“Together,” he said.

Her wolf settled—not calm, but steady.

Next time they came for her, she wouldn’t be the girl alone in their circle.

She’d be the woman in this one, with teeth of her own.