Moonbound Sins

Three

Lyra’s POV

If there’s one thing I didn’t expect after coming back to the pack, it was homework.

Not the human kind, no essays, no algebra, thank the goddess but still, homework. And my teacher? Damian. Which was about as fun as having a drill sergeant who also happened to look like sin sculpted into a man and whose every word felt like both an insult and a dare.

“You slouch,” he said the next morning, circling me like I was prey.

I blinked, straightening. “Excuse me?”

“Your posture. It reads as weak. In this pack, weakness is a death sentence.” His voice was calm, low, smooth enough to almost disguise the sharpness of his words. Almost.

I planted my hands on my hips. “I’ll have you know this slouch is casual chic. It’s a choice.”

He didn’t even blink. “It’s sloppy.”

My wolf stirred, restless under his gaze, and I hated that part of me thrilled at his attention leven when it came in the form of critique. My skin tingled where his eyes lingered, as though my body was keeping score of every time he looked at me.

“Fine,” I muttered, forcing my shoulders back, chin up, spine straight. I probably looked like a deranged ballerina. “Better?”

Damian moved closer, so close I could feel the heat radiating from him. His hand lifted hesitated for a fraction of a second then pressed lightly against the center of my back. The touch was firm, impersonal. At least, it was supposed to be. But my entire body betrayed me, goosebumps racing across my skin, wolf perking like a pup hearing a whistle.

“Now you look like you belong,” he said, voice softer, lower.

I swallowed hard. “Great. I’ll just walk around like a coat rack for the rest of my life.”

One corner of his mouth almost, almost twitched upward. Then it was gone, replaced by that cool, unreadable mask he wore like armor.

Training went on like that for hours. Every correction felt like a cut. Every word he said was designed to strip away something careless or human about me and replace it with steel.

“Don’t fidget.”

“Hold their eyes when they speak to you.”

“Never bare your throat unless you intend to yield.”

“Smile less. It makes you look naive.”

By midday, my jaw ached from clenching it. My legs burned from the endless pacing he forced me through, “to practice command in every step.” My brain swirled with rules and warnings, each one stacking on top of the other until I felt like I was suffocating under the weight of them.

And yet beneath the exhaustion, beneath the sting of his sharp words was something else. Something hotter, wilder. Every time he touched me to adjust my stance, my wolf leaned toward him. Every time his voice dropped low and firm in my ear, my pulse quickened.

It was infuriating. And addictive.

At one point, he stopped behind me, his hands settling briefly on my shoulders to square them. My breath caught. His fingers were warm, steady, and my wolf surged so suddenly I almost gasped aloud.

“Again,” he ordered, voice at my ear.

I obeyed before I even thought about it. Which was the scariest part.

Hours later, when he finally dismissed me, I collapsed onto my bed like I’d just run a marathon. My muscles screamed. My pride was in tatters. And yet, the ghost of his touch lingered everywhere, refusing to fade.

I hated him for it. I hated myself more for wanting it.

The next day was worse.

Damian didn’t ease up; if anything, he pushed harder. He corrected me for the way I stood, the way I spoke, even the way I breathed in a room full of wolves.

“You’re too soft,” he said after one disastrous attempt at greeting an elder.

I glared at him, chest heaving. “I was polite.”

“Politeness gets you killed.” His eyes locked on mine, unflinching. “Strength earns survival.”

My wolf bristled, but not against him—against me. She wanted me to listen. She wanted me to obey.

And maybe… so did I.

Which was insane. Absolutely insane.

Later, when he showed me how to walk into a room “like you own it,” he made me repeat the entry twenty times, until my legs ached and sweat dampened the back of my neck. On the twenty-first try, he finally nodded.

“That,” he said, and for the first time, approval flickered in his voice.

The tiny spark of pride that flared in me was ridiculous. Childish. Dangerous. And yet, I clung to it like oxygen.

Evenings became the worst. Because evenings meant practice in closer quarters.

“Control your wolf,” Damian murmured one night as I stood before him, shaking with the effort of keeping her from lunging toward him.

“I’m trying,” I ground out.

“Trying isn’t enough.” He stepped closer. Too close. My pulse thundered. His scent—smoke, pine, something darker wrapped around me, dizzying. “Feel her. Don’t let her control you. You command her. Always.”

His words brushed against me like heat, like temptation. And the way his gaze locked on mine steady, unyielding, searing made it impossible to look away.

“I can’t”

“Yes, you can.” His voice dropped, dangerous and soft. “Say it.”

“I… I can.”

“Again.”

“I can.”

My wolf growled inside me, not in rebellion, but in fierce, hungry agreement.

Damian’s eyes darkened, his jaw tense, as though he fought some war of his own. Then he stepped back, leaving me gasping like I’d been held underwater.

“Better,” was all he said.

But I knew. He felt it too.

Days bled together. Lessons, corrections, tension so thick I could cut it with a blade. Damian pushed. I stumbled. He pushed harder. And with every harsh word, every brief touch, every moment his voice dropped low enough to wrap around me, the bond between us pulled tighter.

Forbidden. Dangerous. Unavoidable.

One night, after hours of grueling drills, I snapped. “Why are you doing this to me?”

His expression didn’t change, but his eyes burned hotter than fire. “Because if I don’t, you’ll die.”

The silence after that was deafening.

He left before I could reply.

But long after he was gone, lying in the dark, my wolf curled against me, whispering what I didn’t want to admit:

That part of me believed him.

And part of me wanted more.