Exiled Wolf, Fated Luna

Chapter 10 – Teeth and Splinters

For a second nothing moves.

The gun is a black hole in the rogue’s hand, sucking all the air out of the ravine. Milo’s fingers fist in my sweater. Neri is a frozen knot on the bank, eyes huge, mouth open on a sound that won’t come out.

Darian steps forward.

Just one step. Wood shudders under his weight, boards whining. He doesn’t shift, but his wolf is right there, pressing against his skin, turning his eyes from dark to almost ink‑black.

“Last chance,” he says.

The rogue grins and pulls the trigger.

The crack is louder than my scream.

Everything jerks sideways. The bridge bucks. Pain lances along the bond—bright, sharp, then swallowed. Darian staggers, shoulder snapping back with the impact, shirt blossoming red.

He doesn’t fall.

His hand shoots out, grabbing a support post to steady himself. The bullet has carved a groove instead of a hole—close, too close. I taste metal at the back of my throat.

“Alpha!” Tharos roars from somewhere behind us, crashing through underbrush.

“No,” Darian growls, eyes locked on the man who just tried to kill him. “He’s mine.”

The rogue’s smug expression cracks, just a little. He hadn’t expected his shot to fail. I see the brief flicker of calculation—can he reload before the Alpha reaches him?

He doesn’t get the chance.

Darian moves.

It isn’t pretty. There’s no cinematic leap, no slow‑motion heroics. One second he’s on the bridge, blood running down his arm; the next he’s exploding off the last intact board, crossing the ravine in a blur of teeth and rage.

He doesn’t shift fully. Bones crack along his jaw, fingers lengthening, nails thickening into claws. Half‑form, half‑man, all violence.

He hits the rogue like a storm.

They go down hard on the far bank, a tangle of limbs and snarling. The gun skitters away into the ferns. The rogue gets one wild punch in, fist connecting with Darian’s cheek. Darian doesn’t seem to notice.

I do.

Every impact lands along the bond like an echo.

“Don’t look,” I tell Milo, dragging him toward the safer end of the bridge, splinters biting my palms. “Neri, back. Now.”

She scrambles, sobbing, grabbing Milo’s arm, helping me haul him up onto solid ground. We collapse in a heap just as Tharos bursts into the clearing, another warrior on his heels.

He takes in the scene in one glance. “Get them back to the house,” he snaps at his second. “Now.”

“I’m not—” I start.

Tharos’ gaze whips to me, hard enough to pin. “You did your part. Don’t make me drag you.”

Across the ravine, Darian drives the rogue into a tree. Bark explodes. The rogue shifts fully now, fur ripping through skin, muzzle twisting into a snarl.

Wolf meets half‑wolf.

Claws rake, teeth flash. Blood scents the air—theirs, not ours. For a horrible second, the rogue gets his jaws around Darian’s forearm, teeth sinking deep. Pain spikes through the bond, white‑hot.

“No,” I whisper, uselessly.

Darian snarls, a sound that vibrates in my bones, and slams his free fist into the rogue’s throat. Once, twice. The grip breaks. He follows through with a brutal knee to the ribs that sends the other wolf sprawling.

“Alpha!” the second warrior calls, halfway between a warning and a plea.

Darian doesn’t answer. He barely seems to hear.

He stalks after the rogue, breathing hard, half‑shifted features feral. One more blow, one more twist, and Helix loses a very expensive toy.

My wolf, small and hoarse, presses against my ribs.

Enough.

I don’t even realize I’ve moved until I’m on my feet at the edge of the bank, voice ripping out of my throat.

“Darian!”

His head snaps toward me.

For a heartbeat he’s all wolf—eyes wild, teeth bared, blood on his skin. The bond thrums with killing intent and something that tastes like fear, and then—

Then I see him see us.

Three shapes on the near side: Neri shaking, Milo clinging to my sleeve, me with torn knees and shaking hands. His pup, his pack, his mate.

His expression doesn’t soften. But something in it… focuses.

The rogue, coughing, tries to lunge for the dropped gun.

Darian moves first.

He’s on him in a blink, one hand crushing the rogue’s wrist to splinters, the other around his throat. This time there’s no hesitation. No speeches. Just a short, sharp twist.

The crack echoes off the ravine walls.

Silence slams down.

For a moment all I can hear is the rush of blood in my ears and Milo’s quiet sobs.

Tharos exhales, a long, controlled breath. “It’s done.”

Darian stands over the body, shoulders heaving. Then, slowly, he releases his grip and steps back.

His half‑shift recedes, bones reshaping with a wet pop. He sways once, catching himself on a tree.

“Alpha?” Tharos calls carefully.

“I’m fine,” Darian says, voice rough as gravel. His gaze finds me again across the gap. “Get them home.”

The bond hums, a tired, jagged line of reassurance aimed squarely at me.

I realize my hands are still reaching toward him, fingers curled around nothing.

I curl them into fists instead.

“Come on,” I tell Neri and Milo, forcing my legs to move. “Let’s go tell the house we’re all still here.”