His Rejected Luna: The Bond That Wouldn’t Die

Chapter 8 – The First Test

The mirror over the mantle doesn’t look like it’s been used for touch‑ups in years. It’s decorative. Ornate. Useless.

I stare into it anyway.

The woman looking back at me could be anyone’s luna. Dark-green dress that falls to the knee, sleeves to the wrist. Modest neckline, nothing for the tabloids to zoom in on. My hair’s pulled back into something that might pass for elegant if you squint.

The only thing I couldn’t convince Corin’s people to hide is the scar around my throat. No necklace. No scarf. Just a pale, uneven ring against my skin.

A reminder.

Behind me in the reflection, Corin fastens his cuffs. Charcoal suit. Open collar. No tie. He looks like a man who could charm a council and break a door off its hinges in the same hour.

“Too much?” I ask, turning slightly. “Too little?”

His gaze tracks from my bare feet—heels dangling from my fingers—up the length of the dress to my face. Heat blooms under my skin, unwanted and immediate.

“You look like yourself,” he says.

“That’s not exactly reassuring.”

“It is to me.”

I swallow, throat tight. “Remember the rules,” I say, because if I let that sit, we’ll both drown in it. “Hand-holding only when necessary. No kissing. No… other things. Especially if there are cameras.”

The corner of his mouth twitches. “Understood.”

“And if Severin tries to prod the bond, we give him nothing.”

“Sylvi.” His voice softens, warning and plea. “We give him less. Not nothing. If we lock down too hard, he’ll call it denial and push until something breaks.”

My fingers curl around the heels.

“I hate that he gets a say in how I breathe,” I mutter.

“Then,” Corin says, stepping close enough that I can feel the steady warmth of him, “breathe with me, not for him.”

Stupid wolf. She preens at that.

The car that takes us to the civic center is smaller than the patrol SUV, sleeker, but it still smells like pack: leather, soap, rain. Varro drives. Elian rides shotgun, tablet in hand, the glow reflected in his restless eyes.

“Talking points,” he says, passing a printed sheet back to me. “If anyone asks about your past with the alpha, we go with ‘we were young, it was complicated, we’ve both moved on.’”

I snort. “That’s vague enough to cover murder.”

“Exactly.”

The civic center is ringed with cameras and people in suits, flanked by a tasteful banner: COMMUNITY DIALOGUE: SAFETY IN A CHANGING CITY.

Inside, it’s all glass and chrome and too-bright lights. We’re ushered to a small stage with three chairs and an ocean of eyes.

A moderator in a navy dress introduces us. Corin’s name gets a low murmur. Mine is followed by a flicker of recognition from a few faces—other social workers, maybe, people from the human side.

“And representing the Department of Supernatural Risk Management,” she adds, “Director Severin Vale.”

Applause, polite and thin.

He steps out with the slow confidence of a man who’s never been told no. Silver hair, impeccable suit, eyes like polished stone. Up close, the lines around his mouth are deeper than I remember. Power ages you differently than fear.

“Alpha Locke,” he says, nodding. “Ms. Ashridge.”

“Director Vale,” Corin replies, voice cool.

We sit. Cameras blink red from the back of the room.

The first twenty minutes are rehearsed.

Corin talks about patrols and de‑escalation training. I talk about community partnerships and how many kids Keane House serves each year. Severin talks about “balancing freedom and safety,” each word smoothed to a perfect pebble.

The questions start tame.

Then the moderator glances at her notes and says, “We’ve had a lot of audience interest in this one, so I’ll just ask it plainly. Alpha Locke, you and Ms. Ashridge were once… connected, yes? How would you describe your bond now?”

The room leans forward.

Corin’s thigh presses lightly against mine. Grounding. Dangerous.

“We were formally mated,” he says. No flinching. No euphemisms. “We went through a rejection ritual years ago under circumstances that are… complicated. Today, we work together where our paths cross. Our bond is no longer active.”

The lie scrapes my skin on the way out of his mouth. The scar at my throat throbs once, sharp.

Severin smiles, small and interested. “No longer active,” he echoes. “And yet our instruments still register elevated readings whenever you’re within close proximity, Alpha.”

He turns that cold gaze on me. “Ms. Ashridge? How does it feel, living with a dead bond?”

There it is. The question he really wanted.

I open my mouth.

Then my phone, tucked in my clutch under the chair, buzzes hard enough to rattle the metal frame.

Mara. Her name flashes on the screen. Three missed calls. A new message pops up on top, notification bar bright and screaming.

FIRE AT KEANE HOUSE.

Kids coughing. Sirens.

WHERE ARE YOU?

For a heartbeat, the words don’t make sense. Then the world lurches sideways.

The air thins. All the oxygen in the civic center rushes out of the room and straight into my lungs as my wolf slams against my ribs, howling.

Somewhere far away, I hear the moderator saying my name. A murmur ripples through the crowd.

“Sylvi?” Corin’s voice is right next to my ear, low and urgent. “What is it?”

I don’t remember standing, but I’m on my feet. My chair skids back, metal screeching across the stage. Every camera in the room whirs to lock on me.

“Keane House,” I choke. “It’s—”

The screen flashes again. A photo this time, blurry and too bright, but unmistakable: orange flames licking up the side of the shelter, black smoke billowing into a sky I was breathing under this morning.

My vision tunnels.

All I can see is fire.

And for the second time in my life, in front of a room full of humans and wolves and the man who wants to dismantle us, my control snaps.