To Break a Wolf

Chapter 30: In Her Hands

The staff had more heft to it than she expected.

Not in weight, but in presence.

It leaned against the wall near her desk as though it belonged there and had always belonged to her. The silver etchings caught the light when she glanced its way, and she couldn’t stop looking at it. Couldn’t stop the pull in her gut that said this is yours now.

She’d gripped it again earlier, testing its balance, letting the weight settle through her arms. Her hands had remembered the feel of it before her mind did. It wasn’t just a weapon. It was a connection—something old, something hers.

And still, she kept seeing his hands. The way they’d moved with focus and care when he unwrapped it. How his fingers had hovered near hers when he gave it to her. She could still feel them, like a phantom touch that lingered beneath her skin, low and sparking and completely inappropriate.

Tension electrified that moment. Not with fear. Not even with desire, though that had certainly been there. It was something else. Recognition. Of what, Mira wasn’t ready to name, but the staff—that she could face. It was real, solid, powerful, and old.”

She stepped toward it again, drawn in like the air was richer near it, her bones taking in information her brain hadn’t processed yet. Her fingers brushed the silver crescent accent near the top. The wood was dark and smooth, warm beneath her touch. She traced the etchings slowly, and for the first time, she realized they weren’t just decorative.

What she mistook as vines and patterns were symbols and writing.

Mira sat cross-legged, laying the staff across her thighs. She traced her fingers along the carved markings, their grooves worn but still sharp, as if time hadn’t dared erode their meaning.

She didn’t recognize the language. Not English, not French. Not even the Latin she’d studied in old literature texts. The writing was older. Ancient. It should’ve meant nothing, but somehow, it did.

It stirred something inside her, a murmur just beneath the surface of her skin. Shapes that shouldn’t make sense, yet felt familiar. A memory not from her life, but from somewhere deep in her bones.

She stood, frowning hard now, and crossed to the stack of books on her desk.

She grabbed another one she hadn’t opened yet, The Legacy of the Moon-Blessed, and flipped through it, muttering chapter titles to herself until one caught her eye near the back: The Huntress and Her Staff.

Her heart jumped.

She sat, flipping open to the first line, breath already caught halfway in her chest.

They said that the goddess of the hunt once walked the mortal world, not as divine royalty, but as a guardian of the wilds. She bore no crown, but a weapon carved of moonwood blessed under the first full moon. Her chosen warrior, mortal by birth, but blood-marked by fate, carried it after her: The first Luna.

Mira’s breath hitched.

She looked at the staff again. The carved moon. The balance of the weapon. It seemed to hum at the edge of her awareness. Could it be—

She turned the page and read on.

When the rightful bearer takes the staff into battle, the runes will awaken. The mark of the Moon will recognize its own. Until then, the weapon remains dormant. Waiting.

A chill traced down her spine in anticipation, without fear or apprehension.

She hadn’t told Bastian about the staff warming in her hands when she’d first touched it. The way her muscle memory had kicked in with a boost and transfer of more knowledge and training than she had ever achieved. Had Bastian known or guessed?

Or had he simply believed in her more than she believed in herself?

She leaned back in the chair, the book slack in her lap, her mind unraveling in a thousand directions. If this staff had once belonged to the first Luna, if it had passed from goddess to warrior, then what the hell did that make her?

She wasn’t a wolf, unlike the others. She didn’t shift, grow claws, or hear things beyond the range of human perception. Yet the staff had called to her, and her body had answered.

Not with a spark, more a memory, as if coming home.

Her eyes flicked to the brace again, the smooth leather and silver buckles. Her hands twitched. She wanted to strap it back on, to feel the comfort of its weight across her spine again, grounding and anchoring her. But that thought sent her stomach spinning because she wasn’t ready for a legacy. Nor for a prophecy, and certainly not for whatever the hell was unfolding between her and Bastian.

The staff waited, quiet and patient, as the book said. As though it had all the time in the world.

She needed answers. ASAP. She needed to know what this meant, what she meant—and there was only one person who might have those answers. Even if she wasn’t sure she could handle seeing him again.

Especially if he was shirtless, as he seemed to enjoy being.

She stood abruptly, snapping the book shut with a brisk clap. Her hand was already on the doorknob before her mind caught up to her body.

She flung it open and froze.

Bastian was halfway down the hallway. Freshly showered. Dripping wet.

A towel hung dangerously low on his hips, and another was raked through his dark hair, sending beads of water trickling down his chest, tracing hard muscle and smooth skin in some cruel mirage. Mira’s brain short-circuited, and f**k, there was a V. An actual, honest-to-goddess V cutting down his hips like the universe wanted her dead.

Bastian glanced up, mid-rub, and stilled when he saw her.

“Mira,” he said, as if he wasn’t nearly naked and her frontal cortex hadn’t just imploded.

She opened her mouth. Closed it. Words. She definitely used to have those.

He raised a brow. “Something wrong?”

Yes. You. That. All of that.

“I… I had a question,” she managed.

He lifted the towel again and ran it over his hair, biceps flexing because, of course, they did. “Yeah?”

Her gaze snapped up to his eyes—danger zone. Abort mission. “It can wait.”

His lips quirked, just slightly. “You sure?”

“Positive,” she squeaked, spun around, and slammed the door with a thud that echoed through the cabin. She stood there, back pressed to the wood, staring at the ceiling as if it had personally betrayed her.

“I hate him,” she whispered, more to herself than anyone.

The staff, leaning innocently against the wall, glinted in the light as though it was trying very hard not to laugh.