I don't remember walking to the vehicles.
I remember Jonah's blood on Ronan's hands.
I remember my father's face—ashen, stunned, stripped of authority in a single breath.
I remember my mother reaching for me and stopping herself, her fingers curling into her sleeve as if touching me might somehow make this worse.
And then I'm moving.
Ronan doesn't grab me. He doesn't drag me. He doesn't even look back to make sure I'm following.
He doesn't need to.
The bond pulls tight around my ribs, no longer a dull ache but a living thing, stretching and recoiling with every step Jonah takes ahead of me. Each stagger he makes sends a spike of pain through my chest. Each shallow breath he draws feels like my own lungs are failing.
I've never felt power like this.
Not Alpha dominance.
Not command.
Claim.
The vehicles loom ahead, black and impenetrable. Ronan opens the door himself, guiding Jonah inside with a gentleness that feels like a blade to the throat.
I hesitate.
"Get in," Ronan says without turning.
My father finds his voice at last. "You cannot take her."
Ronan turns slowly.
The temperature drops.
"I'm not taking her," Ronan replies. "I'm retrieving what was mishandled."
My father bristles. "She is my daughter. My Luna-in-waiting."
Ronan's gaze sharpens, something lethal flickering beneath the surface. "Then you should have protected her."
Silence crashes down.
I step forward before my father can say something unforgivable. My legs tremble, but I lift my chin, forcing myself to meet Ronan's eyes.
"I'll go," I say quietly.
Mother's breath catches.
Ronan studies me for a long moment. Not like a prize. Not like a pawn.
Like a problem he didn't anticipate.
"Good," he says finally. "Because this doesn't end here."
*
The ride is suffocating.
Jonah sits beside Ronan in the back seat, shoulders hunched, hands clenched tightly in his lap. A medic works silently on his injuries, cleaning blood and setting bones with efficient precision.
I sit opposite them.
Every time Jonah winces, my chest tightens. Every time his eyes flick up and accidentally meet mine, guilt floods so violently it nearly drowns me.
He doesn't speak to me.
He doesn't reject me.
That somehow feels worse.
Ronan watches everything.
Not intrusively. Not obviously.
But nothing escapes him.
"What happened?" he asks Jonah at last, his voice low and controlled.
Jonah hesitates, then answers quietly. "After the party… I was reassigned. Hard labor. No pack quarters. When I tried to leave the territory, they said I was stealing."
My hands curl into fists.
Ronan exhales slowly through his nose. "Who ordered it?"
Jonah shakes his head. "Orders come down the chain. We don't see the source."
Ronan nods once, committing every word to memory.
His gaze shifts to me.
"What happened in the gardens?" he asks.
My throat closes.
"I—I didn't know what else to do," I say, my voice trembling despite my effort to control it. "If my parents had known… they would have destroyed him. I thought rejection would free him."
Jonah flinches.
Ronan's jaw tightens. "Rejection doesn't free," he says coldly. "It exposes."
The words lodge deep in my chest.
"I didn't know he was yours," I whisper.
Ronan's eyes flash. "Neither did I."
The admission hangs between us, heavy and dangerous.
*
We cross into Blackthorn territory just after sunset.
The land feels different immediately—wilder, less manicured, power woven into the soil rather than stamped onto it. Wolves emerge from the tree line as we pass, bowing their heads not in fear, but in acknowledgment.
This is a pack that chooses loyalty.
The vehicles stop before a fortress of dark stone and iron.
Ronan steps out first, then helps Jonah down with careful hands. The sight twists something sharp and unfamiliar inside me—jealousy, shame, longing, all tangled together.
I climb out last.
The moment my feet touch the ground, the territory reacts.
The air hums.
The bond tightens.
A ripple of awareness spreads through the pack, whispers darting through the link faster than sound.
Mates.
Three.
Impossible.
Ronan places a hand briefly at Jonah's back, steadying him, then turns to face me fully.
"This is my pack," he says. "My rules."
I nod.
"You will not leave without permission."
I nod again.
"You will not reject the bond again."
My breath stutters. "I won't."
His gaze sharpens, as if weighing the truth of that promise.
"Good," he says. "Because whether you want it or not, the Moon has bound us."
He turns and strides toward the packhouse, Jonah beside him.
I follow.
I don't know what I am here—prisoner, Luna, liability.
I only know this:
I crossed a line tonight.
And there is no going back.