His Rejected Luna: The Bond That Wouldn’t Die

Chapter 4 – The Ultimatum

They put Rian in the med wing and me in a chair.

It’s an expensive chair, at least. Soft leather, deep enough that I could curl up and sleep if my nerves weren’t doing laps around the room. The office around it is what glossy magazines would call “tastefully modern”: dark wood, clean lines, floor-to-ceiling windows looking out over trees and city lights.

Alpha Locke’s office. Corin’s.

There’s a faint ring in the carpet where a heavy desk must have sat for decades. The new one is sleek and black, pushed a few inches off-center like he couldn’t stand being in exactly the same place as the old alpha used to sit.

I rub my thumb over the scar at my throat. The skin there feels too tight.

The door handle clicks.

I expect Corin. Instead, a woman in a charcoal suit steps in. Human. Expensive haircut, sensible heels, tablet in one hand.

“Ms. Ashridge.” Her smile is practiced and quick, like pressing a stamp. “I’m Claire Novak. I work with the city’s Office of Supernatural Relations. We met once before, I think. At a community forum.”

We did. She shook my hand, thanked me for “the important work you do with at-risk youth.” She did not mention that half those kids smell like wolf.

“Right,” I say. “Hi.”

She crosses to the window, glances out, and then returns her gaze to me. Her eyes are clear gray, cool and appraising.

“Are you hurt?” she asks. “Do you need medical attention?”

“No.”

Her gaze drops to the faint red line on my arm where the bat grazed me. She doesn’t argue. Just makes a note on her tablet.

“What happened tonight,” she says, “is exactly the kind of incident the Department warned us about, Ms. Ashridge. Unregistered juvenile shifter, escalation into violence, humans involved. In a neighborhood we’ve designated as ‘sensitive.’”

The word Department lands in the room like a bad smell. “He was being beaten,” I say. “By three grown men with a bat.”

“I saw the footage,” she replies. “The Department already has it. They flagged it as a potential trigger event.”

My mouth goes dry. “Already?”

“Scanners in that area pinged a partial shift.” Claire’s gaze doesn’t waver. “You understand how this looks, yes? A boy from Locke Pack losing control right behind your shelter. You intervening. Pack enforcers arriving.”

“Saving his life,” I snap. “Is there a box for that on your form?”

Something shifts in her expression. Not guilt, exactly. More like a flicker of discomfort she doesn’t know where to file.

“Alpha Locke is doing everything he can to keep his people within the boundaries the Department has set,” she says. “Incidents like this give them leverage to argue he’s failing.”

“Maybe,” I say, “the problem is with the boundaries, not the people trying to breathe inside them.”

Her lips press together for a heartbeat. Then the door opens again.

Power hits before he does. It rolls into the room in a low, steady wave, like pressure before a storm. My lungs remember how to contract around it from long ago, muscle memory and instinct locking together.

Corin walks in, dark shirt rolled to his forearms, hair damp from a quick shower, a new white bandage on one hand. He looks like he’s held this office for years and like he hasn’t slept in days.

“Ms. Novak,” he says. His voice is cool in a way that used to be warm. “I thought you were waiting downstairs.”

“I was eager to get a sense of the situation.” She turns slightly toward him, all professional poise. “Rian is stable?”

“For now.” His gaze brushes over me, quick and sharp, then fixes back on her. “What does the Department want.”

No please. No pretense.

Claire glances at her tablet. “Officially? A report. Unofficially…” She exhales. “Severin is… concerned. The vote on the new legislation is close. He can’t afford another public incident involving your pack.”

My scar throbs at the name. Severin Vale. The man who signs off on which wolves are allowed to exist in the city. The one whose policies nearly killed me.

Claire continues, “He believes a strong demonstration of stability would help.”

“Stability,” Corin repeats, flat.

“A united leadership structure,” she says. “A clear family model. The optics of a settled alpha and luna can go a long way to reassure both the council and the public.”

I stare at her. Then at him.

“You have Lysa,” I say before I can stop myself. “Isn’t she the one they’ve been grooming for that photo op?”

Corin’s jaw tightens. Claire’s gaze flicks between us, interest sharpening.

“Lysa Corven is a valued member of this pack,” Corin says slowly. “She is not my mate.”

The word lands in the air, heavy and electric.

Claire clears her throat. “Be that as it may, Alpha, Severin is… particular about appearances. He’s also aware of your history.” Her eyes slide to my throat, to the scar. “And of Ms. Ashridge.”

All the blood in my body seems to rush to my ears.

“I left,” I say. “Seven years ago. You people made sure of it.”

“Ms. Ashridge,” Claire says carefully, “your… situation is part of the record. An alpha who once rejected his true mate and now leads a pack that just produced a violent juvenile incident? The Department reads that as instability.”

Rage flares, bright and pointless. “He didn’t reject me because he wanted to,” I spit. “He did it because your people threatened—”

“Sylvi.” Corin’s voice is low, warning, but his eyes are on Claire, not me.

She watches us both like she’s cataloguing every nuance.

“Severin’s position is simple,” she says at last. “You have three months until the city summit. If, by then, you can present Locke Pack as a model of stability—with a luna the Department can accept, a bond they deem ‘under control,’ and no further incidents—he will support renewing your legal status.”

“And if we don’t?” Corin asks.

Her answer is quiet. “Then Locke Pack loses recognition. Your territory becomes open to reassignment. Your people become… subject to relocation programs.”

Camps. Centers. Pretty words for cages.

My fingers dig into the arms of the chair.

“Severin specifically asked,” Claire adds, “whether your past bond with Ms. Ashridge is truly resolved. He will want public confirmation.”

Corin’s gaze finds mine at last, fully, no glancing away.

Three months. A “model” luna. A dead bond, displayed like a pinned butterfly.

My scar burns.

“Then we’d better decide,” he says, voice like iron wrapped in velvet, “exactly what story we’re going to tell him.”

And for the first time, I understand: whatever choice he makes next will break something. The question is only whether it’s the pack, the city, or what’s left of us.