His Rejected Luna: The Bond That Wouldn’t Die

Chapter 14 – Fault Lines

They discharge me with a list of instructions as long as my arm and a stack of pamphlets about smoke inhalation. I toss the pamphlets. Keep the instructions. Mostly.

“Light activity,” the doctor says. “Plenty of fluids. No going back into burning buildings.”

His eyes flick to Corin on that last part.

“I’ll do my best,” I rasp.

Outside, the night has gone thin and gray. Dawn is smearing the horizon in pale stripes. The city feels hungover—sirens quieter, streets damp from fire hoses and street sweepers.

The ride back to Locke territory is quiet.

I lean my head against the window, watching the city roll past: brick shells, closed shutters, a couple of early commuters already scrolling news feeds that probably still have my shelter burning on loop. My reflection looks older in the glass. Soot in the corners of my eyes, bruise‑dark circles, white scar.

“I should be with Mara,” I say at last. “With the kids.”

“They’re not going anywhere today,” Corin answers calmly from the driver’s seat. Varro insisted on staying with the crews and the fire marshal; Corin took the wheel himself. “And they have a whole hospital staff. You have Maera.”

“Maera is not licensed in human care.”

“She’s better than licensed,” he says. “She cares whether you stop breathing.”

“Comforting.”

His mouth quirks. “You really are feeling better.”

My chest still aches, each breath a reminder that lungs don’t appreciate being used as charcoal filters. But the bond hums steady, a low, warm presence that anchors more than it hurts.

When we pass through the gates, pack scent hits me like a soft punch. Wolves on the perimeter, tense and restless. Some heads turn as the SUV climbs the drive, nostrils flaring, ears metaphorically pricking.

News travels faster than we do.

Maera meets us on the front steps, hair pulled back, sleeves rolled. There’s ash on her cheek, like she wiped at sweat and forgot it was there.

“Out,” she orders, before the engine’s even fully off.

“Yes, Ma’am,” I mutter, letting Corin help me down. My legs wobble once, then hold.

Maera’s gaze sweeps over me, clinical and maternal at once. Fingers cool on my wrist, then the side of my throat. Her eyes darken when they pass over the scar.

“How bad?” she asks.

“She sucked in too much smoke and pulled a support beam,” Corin says. “She’ll tell you she’s fine.”

“I am—”

“She is not,” they say in unison.

Traitors.

Maera huffs through her nose. “Of course not. You dragged a burning house off my alpha. i***t pup.”

There’s no heat in it. Only worry.

“Come,” she says. “Sit. Breathe. Then you can argue with the politics pack.”

“The what now?” I frown.

“Varro, Elian, Jax, Lysa,” Corin says. “They’ve been circling each other like wet cats since the fire. Waiting to see what I’ll say.”

“About what?”

“About whether this was an attack on you, on the shelter… or on Locke Pack.”

All of the above, my wolf whispers.

Maera ushers us into a side sitting room that smells faintly of herbs and old books. She presses a mug into my hands—something hot and bitter that clears my nose and makes my lungs sting in a good way.

“You’ll rest here,” she says firmly. “And if any of them raise their voices, I’ll dose them with something that makes their tongues itch.”

“What about mine?” I ask.

“You, I’ll tranquilize,” she says sweetly. “Drink.”

By the time the tea is half gone and my chest hurts a little less, the others file in.

Varro first, face grim, soot on his collar. Elian behind him, tablet clutched like a shield, eyes sharper than ever. Jax, jaw set, smelling of wet asphalt and exhaustion.

Lysa last.

Her dress is dark, hair pulled back, expression unreadable. Her gaze touches on me briefly—eyes lingering on the faint reddened band of my cannula marks, the way I’m sitting a little too straight to be truly comfortable—then lifts to Corin.

“We have a problem,” she says without preamble.

“Just one?” Elian murmurs.

“Start with the biggest,” Corin says, taking the arm of the chair opposite mine. He doesn’t sit; he leans, arms folded, presence filling the room.

Varro clears his throat. “Fire marshal says ‘under investigation,’ but unofficially?” He glances at me. “Accelerant. Multiple points of origin. No evidence of a gas leak.”

“So, arson,” I say. My voice shakes less this time.

“Elian pulled feeds from nearby street cams,” Varro continues. “Two figures in hoodies in the alley fifteen minutes before the first 911 call. One keeps watch, one works along the wall. Both with backpacks. They knew exactly where your blind spots were.”

My stomach clenches. “Those blind spots exist because the Department wouldn’t let us put cameras facing the street. ‘Privacy concerns.’”

“They used every rule they wrote,” Elian says quietly, “as a weapon.”

Jax shifts, arms folding tighter. “Our patrols have seen those same faces at a couple of anti‑shifter rallies. They’re not just bored kids. Someone’s organizing them. Funding them.”

“Severin?” I ask.

“Directly?” Elian shrugs. “Hard to prove. But his pet ‘community watch groups’ love plausible deniability.”

Lysa steps closer to the window, arms wrapped around herself like she’s cold.

“The pack is angry,” she says. “Scared. They saw their alpha and their… luna walk into that fire. They smell your burns on the air. They want blood.”

Something twists in my chest at the way she trips on the word luna, then forces it out.

“They’re not wrong,” Jax mutters. “Somebody lit a match under our future.”

Corin’s gaze moves from face to face. “We are not giving Severin an excuse to call us terrorists,” he says. “No raids. No attacks on humans. Not unless we have absolute proof and a strategy that doesn’t end with our pups in cages.”

Lysa’s jaw tightens. “And what do we do while they torch everything connected to us? Smile for cameras and hope the laws catch up before they burn down the rest?”

Her eyes flick to me, something sharp and bitter in them. “We brought her back to sell a picture of stability. This is what we got instead.”

The words land like a slap because they’re not entirely wrong.

I straighten. Maera’s tea sloshes dangerously near the rim.

“You think not bringing me back would’ve kept them from aiming at the kids?” I ask, voice quiet but hard. “You think they set that fire because of my dress and a press conference? They’ve been waiting for a match since the first wolf kid walked through our doors.”

Lysa turns, eyes flashing. “I think your presence makes an excellent excuse.”

“Then let’s make sure they choke on it,” I say.

The room stills.

“Go on,” Elian says softly.

I set the mug down, hands steadier than they feel.

“They came at the humans because they thought that was the weak link,” I say. “Thought they could hurt you without technically ‘hurting the pack.’ They’re wrong. The kids at Keane, Mara, Theo—they’re ours. Whether the Department recognizes it or not.”

Jax’s eyes soften a fraction. Varro’s mouth twitches, like he’s hiding approval.

“They want us to lash out,” I continue. “Give them footage of wolves tearing through their nice clean lines of authority. We don’t. We save that for when it counts.”

“And what counts, in your view?” Lysa asks, chin lifted.

“Evidence,” I say. “Names. Money trails. Orders. You’ve got patrols and claws; I’ve got case files and terrified parents who’ll talk off the record. Theo has a platform. Between us, we can build a case that doesn’t just make them look bad—it makes their own laws turn on them.”

Elian’s eyes light, sharp and hungry. “Use their paper against them.”

“Exactly.”

Silence stretches. Then Corin speaks.

“We do both,” he says. “We protect our people in the streets and in the courts. We don’t let a single cub out there think they were set on fire and forgotten.”

His gaze finds mine. The bond hums in quiet agreement.

“And in the meantime?” Lysa asks.

“In the meantime,” he says, voice like stone settling into place, “we make one thing very clear—to the pack and to the city.”

He looks at each of them in turn. At me, last.

“Anyone who comes for what’s ours,” he says, “will find there’s more than one way for a wolf to bite.”

My wolf lifts her head at that, teeth bared in a silent snarl.

Ashes or not, I think, as the room breathes that in, this is where I stand.

With them.