Kiara's POV
The battlefield fades into a blur. The screams, the clash of claws, the rain still hanging in the air like glass beads. I hear them but I cannot focus. My body is too heavy. My chest feels split open, and every breath tastes like ash.
Grey carries me out of the mud. His arm is firm around me, his steps steady despite the chaos behind us. He does not ask if I can walk. He does not even look at me at first. His attention is fixed ahead, his wolf burning beneath his skin.
I can feel him. His wolf is pacing, restless, furious. Not at me, not exactly, but at everything. The bond between us hums stronger now, sharp and demanding, like it is no longer content to simply exist.
When he finally looks down, his eyes are still glowing silver. The storm inside them makes my stomach twist.
"You fought her," he says. His voice is rough, low, almost disbelieving.
"I had to." My throat is raw. "If I let her win, I'm gone."
Grey's jaw tightens. His grip on me changes, less about dragging me and more about holding me. His claws retract, his touch softening in a way that surprises me.
"Selene," he mutters, almost like a prayer. His gaze drifts over my face, searching, conflicted. His wolf rumbles low in his chest, the sound vibrating against me. It is not a growl of threat. It is something else. Possessive. Claiming.
"I am not her," I snap, my voice sharper than I intend.
The sound silences him. For a long moment, neither of us speaks. The air between us hums, heavy with the bond, with the truth neither of us wants to face.
His eyes darken, not from anger but from something deeper. Hunger. His wolf pushes forward, brushing against mine, testing, probing. The contact sends a shiver down my spine. My own wolf stirs, confused and unwilling, but she does not pull away.
That scares me more than anything.
I force myself to look away, focusing on the bloodied ground instead of the man holding me. "Put me down. I can walk."
"You can barely stand," he says, his tone clipped, but he does not release me. "Your body is shaking."
"I do not need you carrying me like I am a child."
His wolf growls at that, low and warning. My skin prickles in response. It is not just a sound. It is dominance, sharp and instinctive, meant to remind me where I stand. My own wolf bristles inside me, but I bite my tongue, refusing to let her rise.
Grey notices. His lips curve, but it is not a smile. More like recognition. "Your wolf is strong," he says quietly. "She wants to meet mine."
"She wants freedom," I answer. My voice cracks. "Not you."
His grip tightens again, almost like the words cut him. But he does not argue. He only keeps walking, carrying me toward the ridge where the smoke clears enough to reveal the broken valley.
The silence between us should be suffocating. Instead, it is heavy, charged. Every step is a reminder of what I felt when Selene rose inside me. The way her presence clung to him, the way his soul reached for hers through me.
It was not me he wanted. It was her.
The thought tastes bitter.
By the time he lowers me onto a rock, my legs are trembling too badly to stand anyway. My chest aches. My skin still glows faintly, as if the fire has not completely left me. Grey crouches in front of me, his body close, his eyes never leaving mine.
"Look at me," he says softly.
I shake my head. "Stop commanding me."
His wolf does not like that. The growl is back, rougher this time, making the hairs on my arms rise. My own wolf pushes against me, restless, answering him without my permission. My breath catches.
He leans closer, his scent wrapping around me, pine and storm and smoke. "Then do not make me beg."
The words scrape something inside me raw. My wolf pushes harder, drawn to him, drawn to the mate bond I do not want. Heat pools under my skin, and I hate that I feel it.
I force myself to meet his eyes. "Do not call me Selene again. I am not her."
His gaze softens, just barely. "You are mine," he says, and there is no hesitation in his voice. No apology. "Whether you carry her spirit or not, you are mine."
The bond thrums, hard and undeniable. My wolf whines inside me, not in protest but in response. My stomach twists with a mix of dread and something dangerously close to longing.
"You do not get to decide that," I whisper.
His hand lifts, slow, cautious. His claws are gone, his palm warm as he brushes a strand of wet hair from my face. The touch is too gentle for the monster I know he can be. It steals my breath.
"You think this is a choice," he murmurs. His thumb grazes my jaw. "It is not. The bond chose. Our wolves chose. The moon chose."
I want to scream at him. I want to shove him back. Instead, I sit frozen, every nerve alive where his skin touches mine. My wolf leans into it, and I hate her for it.
My heart races. "I am not your Luna."
"You will be," he answers, his voice steady, unshaken. "You can fight me, fight her, fight yourself. But you will be."
The certainty in his tone rattles me. He believes it. Every piece of him believes it.
I cannot breathe. I cannot think. I shove his hand away, my body trembling. "No," I snap, forcing strength into my voice. "I belong to no one."
For a moment, I think I see something flicker in his eyes. Not anger. Not dominance. Something else. Maybe hurt. Maybe understanding. It is gone before I can name it.
He rises to his feet, towering over me, his shadow stretching long in the fading stormlight. His wolf paces just beneath his skin, restless and hungry. He tilts his head, watching me with those silver eyes that see too much.
"You can deny me all you want," he says, voice low, dangerous. "But your wolf knows the truth."
My wolf whines again, traitorous and soft.
I turn my face away, refusing to let him see the cracks in my resolve. "Then I will silence her too."
The words hang heavy between us.
Grey does not reply. He only studies me, as if weighing whether I mean it. Then he steps back, his wolf rumbling like thunder. He turns his gaze toward the battlefield below where Kaine and Xander are still locked in their war. His jaw tightens, his body tense.
For a moment, I think he will leave me there. But then his hand brushes mine again, brief and fleeting, like a promise or a warning.
The bond thrums in answer, and my chest aches with a truth I do not want to admit.
I am his.
And I hate it.