His Rejected Luna: The Bond That Wouldn’t Die

Chapter 7 – Moving In

By the time Varro brings me back up the long drive that evening, the sky is bruised purple and gold. The house glows warm against the encroaching dark, windows like watchful eyes.

“Last chance to bail,” Theo had joked at lunchtime when I told him I’d be “staying closer to work for a bit.” If he knew where “closer” actually was, he’d stage an intervention.

The SUV stops in front of Locke House. I sit there for a heartbeat too long, fingers clenched in my tote strap.

Varro watches me in the mirror. “You planning on sleeping in the car?”

“Tempting,” I say.

He snorts. “The mattress inside is better.”

I force my hand to the door handle.

The air outside is cooler than in the city, threaded with pine and woodsmoke. Voices drift from somewhere around the side of the house—laughter, a barked order, the squeal of a kid. The scent of pack wraps around me, thick and heady.

Nia barrels out the front door before I’ve taken three steps.

“You came back,” she says, like this was in question. Her bare feet slap the stone as she bounces down two stairs. “Maera said you might, but Lysa said—”

“Nia.” Maera’s voice cuts gently from the doorway. “We don’t repeat everything Lysa says, remember?”

Maera steps out behind her, wiping her hands on a towel. She looks exactly as I remember and not at all: the same dark braid and kind eyes, more silver at her temples, new lines around her mouth.

“Sylvi.” Her smile is soft and tired and something in my chest loosens. “You look… older.”

“So do you,” I say. “In the good way. Like a tree.”

She laughs. “I’ll take that.”

Behind them, more figures gather—curious faces in the hall, a couple of teenagers pretending not to stare, someone I recognize as Jax leaning against the banister, arms folded.

And Lysa.

She stands a step back from the rest, in a simple black dress that manages to look like armor. Dark hair braided neatly, posture perfect, mouth neutral. Her gaze skims over me, cool as winter water, then lands on the overnighter bag in my hand.

“You’re staying,” she says. Not a question.

“For a while,” I answer.

Silence hums for half a second.

Maera steps in smoothly. “We’ve put you in the east guest room,” she says. “Good light in the morning, close to the stairs. If you need anything, you ask. If anyone gives you trouble, you definitely ask.”

Her eyes flick, just once, toward where Lysa stands. I pretend not to notice.

“Come on,” Nia says, grabbing my hand like she’s claimed it. “I’ll show you. I put flowers in it.”

“You what?” Jax says, sounding vaguely horrified.

“They’re in a jar, not on the floor,” she huffs. “It’s fine.”

The room they give me used to be a storage space, if the faint outline of shelves in the paint is anything to go by. Now it’s a simple, clean guest room: bed, dresser, small desk, big window overlooking the trees. A mason jar of slightly wilted wildflowers sits on the nightstand.

“It’s perfect,” I tell Nia, and mean it more than I expect.

She beams. “Dinner’s in an hour. You’re sitting at the front.”

“At the—”

“With Corin,” she clarifies, like that should be obvious. “Because you’re the luna. Temporary or not,” she adds, as if quoting someone.

My throat tightens. “We’ll see.”

Maera lingers after Nia darts out to “help” in the kitchen.

“I know none of this is easy,” she says quietly. “If I could have kept you out of it…”

“You couldn’t,” I cut in. “This was always coming. With or without me.”

Her gaze drops briefly to my scar. “Maybe. But having you here changes how we weather it.”

There’s no accusation in it. Just fact.

I set my bag on the bed. “You agree with this?” I ask before I can stop myself. “The whole luna-for-three-months show?”

“I agree that Severin would love a divided pack and a broken alpha,” she says. “If your presence makes it harder for him to get either, then yes. I agree.”

Simple. Brutal. Very Maera.

Footsteps sound in the hall. A knock, soft but firm.

“Come in,” Maera calls.

Corin fills the doorway.

He’s changed into a dark henley and jeans, sleeves pushed up, throat bare. No tie, no suit, no trappings of politics. Just a man standing at the threshold of the room they’ve given to the woman he once sent out of this house half-dead.

For a moment, none of us speaks.

Then he looks at Maera. “We’ll be in the dining room in fifteen.”

“Yes, Alpha,” she says. “I’ll make sure she’s not late.”

When she slips past him, she squeezes his forearm once, a brief, grounding touch.

That leaves just us.

His gaze moves over the room—flowers, bag, window—then returns to me. “Is it acceptable?”

“It’s not a cell,” I say. “So we’re already doing better than the Department’s design plans.”

One corner of his mouth twitches. “High standards, as always.”

He steps inside, just far enough that the wards in the doorway don’t hum between us.

“Nia,” he says, “has already informed half the pack that you’re here. Word will spread the rest of the way over dinner. There’ll be questions.”

“Good,” I say. “I have questions too.”

His eyes catch the light, silver sparking. “You’ll get answers. Some of them.”

He hesitates, then adds, quieter, “You can still change your mind. Walk away. I won’t drag you into that room.”

I think of Mara, bandages where her future should be. Of kids sleeping three to a bunk because there’s nowhere else. Of scanners and cameras and cages.

I shake my head. “We passed ‘too late’ last night in that alley.”

He watches me a moment longer, something heavy and unreadable moving behind his eyes.

“Then,” he says, “let’s go introduce you to your pack.”

My pack, my wolf sighs, utterly shameless.

I straighten my shoulders, smooth an imaginary wrinkle from my shirt, and follow him out.

Downstairs, the murmur of voices swells as we approach the dining hall. The scent of roasted meat and fresh bread thickens the air. At the threshold, Corin pauses, hand resting lightly at the small of my back—not quite touching, close enough that my skin sparks.

“Last chance to run,” he murmurs, too low for anyone else to hear.

“Ladies first,” I whisper back.

And together, we step into the room, every head turning, every gaze weighing the lie we’re about to tell and the truth neither of us can quite bury.