His Rejected Luna: The Bond That Wouldn’t Die

Chapter 3 – Back to the Wolves

The last time I left Locke territory, I did it on a stretcher.

This time, I’m in the back seat of a black SUV that smells like leather, coffee, and wolf. Not better. Just different.

Rian’s wedged between me and the door, hoodie streaked with blood and soot. Someone shoved a blanket around his shoulders. It keeps slipping. He keeps pretending he doesn’t need it.

Up front, Varro drives in grim, economical silence. Elian’s in the passenger seat, typing something on a tablet, the glow washing his face in cold blue.

Corin is behind us, in the third row, close enough that I can feel his gaze like a hand between my shoulder blades even when he’s not touching me.

The city blurs past, all sodium-orange and neon. I watch the lights so I don’t have to look at the reflection of my own face in the window. Wide eyes. Tight jaw. Pale scar.

“This isn’t a kidnapping,” I say finally, because the silence feels like it might climb down my throat and nest there.

Rian snorts weakly. “Feels like one.”

“You’re welcome,” I shoot back.

He shrugs one shoulder under the blanket. “I had it under control.”

“He was on the ground wheezing,” Elian says without looking up. “Very controlled.”

Rian mutters something rude under his breath.

Varro glances at me in the rearview mirror. “We’ll drop him at the med wing first. You’ll have a chance to wash the blood off before we talk.”

“Talk,” I repeat. “That sounds ominous.”

“It usually is,” Elian murmurs. “In our line of work.”

My line of work involves snack schedules and grant applications and talking traumatized ten-year-olds out of hiding in closets. Their line involves claws and teeth and diplomatic meetings with people who want them registered as weapons.

The car turns off the main road, down streets I don’t recognize. The city thins: fewer storefronts, more trees. My wolf perks up, ears pricked to scents that don’t exist in downtown air—soil, pine, damp stone, distant bonfire smoke.

My pulse does a weird, traitorous skip.

The moment we pass the first invisible threshold, it hits.

Pack.

Not faint, like on Rian. Not memory-thin. Saturating the air. Dozens of wolves. Hundreds, maybe. Life thrumming under the asphalt, through the trunks of the trees lining the private road.

My eyes sting. I tell myself it’s just the change in humidity.

Gates loom ahead, tall and dark, flanked by stone pillars etched with symbols even humans would read as “keep out.” Cameras swivel as we approach. A pair of guards in black step forward, sniff the air, then nod as the gate slides open.

The SUV rolls through.

Beyond the wall, Locke territory stretches out under the night sky. Houses and low buildings cluster around a central complex—stone and glass and wood, modern lines softened by ivy and warm light. Shapes move along paths and in open yards: people, some laughing, some training, some carrying sleeping children.

Home, my wolf whispers again. Louder this time.

I press my nails into my palms until the word bleeds away.

We pull up in front of the main house. It’s bigger than I remember, or maybe I was just shorter the last time I stood here. Wide steps, double doors, the faint shimmer of wards prickling over my skin as the engine cuts.

Varro kills the headlights. Silence drops, except for the tick of cooling metal and the low murmur of voices from inside.

Elian twists in his seat to look at me properly. His eyes are sharper than I remember, fine lines at the corners that weren’t there when we were kids.

“You don’t have to be afraid,” he says.

“I’m not,” I lie.

One dark brow arches. “You’re on pack land with an unregistered bond scar and blood on your clothes. Being afraid would be the only sensible reaction.”

“Your bedside manner got worse.”

“Ah,” he says softly. “There she is.”

The rear door opens before I can respond. Cold air knifes in, carrying more scents: woodsmoke, rain-wet stone, cooking meat, fur, coffee. Voices. Laughter.

And under it all, a familiar thread that makes my stomach flip.

Corin.

He steps close enough that his shadow falls over us, blocking the porch lights. Rian blinks up at him, stubborn chin already tilting like he’s going to argue about being carried.

“Out,” Varro orders, opening Rian’s door. “Slowly. Don’t pass out on the nice gravel, kid.”

“I’m not—” Rian begins, then winces as he swings his legs out.

I slide out after him, one hand hovering near his shoulder in case he topples. My boots crunch on the drive. The air is colder out here, sharp enough to bite my lungs.

The main doors open.

Light spills down the steps, warm and golden. Silhouettes crowd the threshold—faces I know and don’t, shapes of wolves and humans in comfortable clothes, a small figure peeking from behind a taller one.

“Is that him?” a girl’s voice whispers, barely contained excitement. “Is that the alpha? And— and her?”

“Inside, Nia,” a woman murmurs. “Give them space.”

The girl ignores her, darting out into full view. She’s maybe eleven, freckles scattered across her nose, dark curls in a messy braid. Her bare feet slap the stone as she hops down two steps, eyes huge as she stares at Rian. Then at me.

“Hi,” she says, like this is the most normal thing in the world. “I’m Nia. You got in a fight.”

Rian manages a crooked grin. “You should see the other guys.”

“We prefer not to,” Varro mutters.

Nia’s gaze flicks back to me, curious and unfiltered. “And you’re…”

“Sylvi,” I say, because denying it would be pointless with this many noses around.

Her eyes light up like I handed her a present. “Right. Okay. Come on.”

She grabs my hand before I can stop her, small fingers surprisingly strong, and tugs me toward the open doors.

Behind me, I feel Corin fall into step.

Every instinct I have screams to pull away, to run. Seven years ago, crossing this threshold cost me everything.

Tonight, with a wolf pup’s hand in mine and my rejected mate’s presence brushing the back of my neck like a phantom touch, I step into Locke House anyway.

And the pack’s scent closes around me like a too-familiar embrace.