The Alpha’s Outlaw Luna

Chapter 15 – No Going Back

We don’t walk Jared out of the basement so much as smuggle him.

By the time Mara and Selene finish dismantling enough of the binding to move him, his skin is grey with sweat and my own head feels like someone took a rasp to the inside of my skull. The circle on the floor lies dull and lifeless, its sigils scraped through just enough to keep them from flaring again, not enough to erase what they were.

Evidence, not ashes.

Kael takes Jared’s left side, I take his right. His legs work, barely. Each step wobbles like he’s learning his body new.

“Steady,” I say.

“Sorry, sir,” he mutters automatically.

Mara, walking backward in front of him, bares her teeth. “Stop apologizing for surviving.”

He blinks at her, dazed. “I… I don’t understand what—”

“You’re not supposed to,” she says. “That’s the point.”

The stairwell feels narrower on the way up. The bond web under my ribs still hums, but the worst of Crescent’s itch has receded, leaving only a bitter aftertaste. My wolf presses against the inside of my skin, furious and restless, but no longer yanked by an outside hand.

One problem at a time.

On the ground floor, Moontrace security is a tight, bristling ring; behind them, human responders wave scanners and paperwork, increasingly frustrated at the lack of access. Aric is not here yet. Neither is Ronan.

Small mercies.

Lyra’s ambulance has already gone, Calder en route to the tower. Good. One less variable in this mess.

A flash of movement to my left catches my eye—an unmarked sedan nosing into the lot, two men in suits stepping out. The smell hits a second later:

Crescent.

I feel Mara stiffen beside me without even looking.

“Kael,” I say, not lowering my voice. “No one from Crescent passes that tape.”

He follows my gaze, lips peeling back from his teeth.

“With pleasure.”

He peels away with two of his wolves, intercepting the suits before they’ve taken five steps. I watch just long enough to see Kael flash his badge and very pointedly gesture them back toward their car, then turn my attention to the bigger problem:

The woman in the navy city‑regulator coat striding across the lot like she owns it.

Elena Ward. Human oversight. The one department even Ronan pretends to respect.

“Mr. Varyn,” she calls, eyes flicking over Jared, then to Mara with surgical precision. “Care to explain why my office just got a dozen panicked calls about explosions, magic, and unlicensed medical activity at a site bearing your crest?”

Selene steps smoothly into her line of sight, a political shield in heels. “Ms. Ward, this incident falls under internal—”

“With all due respect,” Ward cuts in, “anything that shakes my city, lights up half our scryers, and involves a partner we already had concerns about”—her gaze slices toward the Crescent car—“is not just your internal matter.”

Mara’s fingers brush my sleeve, subtle as a threat.

“She’s not wrong,” Mara murmurs. “You hide this now, you become exactly what you’re fighting.”

As if I needed the reminder.

I look at Jared—badge crooked, burns peeking from under his ruined shirt, eyes blown wide with the effort of staying upright and obedient.

“We had two active ritual constructs fail under Crescent supervision,” I say, loud enough for Ward and half the lot to hear. “One on an external recruit, one on a Moontrace trainee. Both under protocols I did not approve and would not have allowed if I’d seen the full design. My people and an independent healer contained the damage. No fatalities. Yet.”

Ward’s eyebrows climb. “That’s… refreshingly direct.”

“Don’t get used to it,” Mara says dryly.

I ignore her.

“Effective immediately,” I continue, “Moontrace is suspending all joint operations with Crescent Dynamics in Larkhaven and surrounding ports. We will cooperate with any investigation your office deems necessary. And we will be filing our own charges for unauthorized use of proprietary bond architectures.”

Selene’s head tilts, a fraction. It’s as close as she gets to a public double‑take.

Ward studies me for a beat, then glances at Mara.

“And you are?” she asks.

“Outlaw Luna,” Mara says before I can answer. “Unofficial title. Makes for good rumors.”

Ward’s mouth twitches. “Unofficials are often the only ones who tell me the truth. I’ll want your statement.”

“Get in line,” Mara says, but there’s no real heat behind it.

I feel the ground shift under my feet—not physically, but in the way the air changes when a storm finally decides which way it’s going to break.

No more pretending this is a glitch.

No more blaming everything on Crescent while ignoring the circles carved in our own floors.

Behind me, Kael raises his voice, just enough to carry.

“You heard the Alpha,” he calls to the gathered wolves. “Crescent’s out. Anyone who signed off on their toys answers for it. Starting now.”

The words hang there, heavy.

Alpha.

No “future.” No “acting.” Just the title, spoken like fact.

Mara’s gaze slides to me, unreadable.

“You realize,” she says quietly, “there’s no version of this where you get to go back to being your father’s good soldier.”

I meet her eyes.

“There was never a version of this where I should have been,” I answer.

For the first time since the basement, something in her face eases—not forgiveness, not yet, but the tiniest crack in the armor.

“Good,” she says. “Because I’m really tired of cleaning up after Alpha Units who think ethics is a PR department.”

We move then—Lyra’s people taking Jared, Ward’s staff taking notes, Crescent’s car reluctantly backing out under Kael’s glare. Selene peels off to handle the legal fallout. Mara lingers just long enough for our shoulders to almost brush before she turns toward the smoke‑stained building again.

“Where are you going?” I ask.

“Back in,” she says. “There are still sigils to scrub and kids to warn before they sign up for round two.”

“You could come up to the tower,” I say before I can overthink it. “Meet Calder. See the ward setup. Talk to Lyra. We could… coordinate.”

She smiles, small and sharp.

“Relax, Varyn,” she says. “You’ve just declared war on half your own suppliers in front of a regulator and an outlaw. That’s enough character development for one night.”

She takes three steps away, then glances back over her shoulder.

“Tomorrow,” she adds. “You want me in your glass box, you send Lyra. And food. I don’t work for free anymore.”

Then she’s gone, swallowed by the broken doorway and the ghosts of our shared mistakes.

Overhead, the first stars fight through the city glare.

Inside my chest, the old, choking weight of the ritual bond feels… different. Not gone. Not yet.

But for the first time, it’s pulling in a direction I chose.