Chapter 8 Luna

•Freya•

I didn’t sleep. Not really.  After bed time stories with Sophie ended, sleeping next to Chase was the next sport.

It turns out that sharing a mattress with a six-foot-two alpha pitcher who smells like a wolfsbane and is actively fighting a pre-full-moon rut is not conducive to a peaceful eight hours. 

Chase had stayed on his side of the bed, a solid three feet of boundary-respecting space between us, but his body heat radiated across the sheets like a radiator on high. Every time he shifted, the mattress groaned, and my wolf flared its nostrils, drinking in the scent of him. Several times during the night, I caught a low, gravelly vibration in his chest—an involuntary rut-growl that he choked back the second it slipped out. 

“I’m fine,” he’d muttered around three in the morning, his voice raw enough to sand wood when he caught me staring at the ceiling. 

“Go to sleep, Hart. My wolf is just being dramatic.”

“Right,” I’d whispered back into the dark, clutching my pillow like a body shield. “And I’m the Queen of England. Go to sleep, Bennett.”

But now it was six in the morning, the damp Seattle dawn was graying the windows, and the devil had officially come to collect his souls.

“They’re at the perimeter wards,” Jax’s voice murmured through the baby monitor on Chase’s nightstand. His tone was clipped, stripped of any bestfriend warmth. “Elder Thorne’s vehicle just crossed the bridge. Maria’s got Sophie in the kitchen. Get down here.”

The mattress shifted as Chase swung his legs over the side. He was already dressed in a dark grey crewneck and jeans, but his hair was a chaotic, slept-in mess that made him look less like an MLB superstar and more like a predator that had just crawled out of a cave. He rubbed a hand over his face, his jaw dark with a night's worth of stubble. 

“You ready?” he asked, turning his head to look at me. The gold in his eyes was brighter this morning, a metallic sheen that warned his wolf was sitting right behind his pupils. 

I sat up, pulling my Coldplay hoodie tighter around myself. I felt like I’d been run over by a team bus, but my journalistic instincts—the part of me that had faced down corrupt sports executives and angry linebackers—slid into place like armor. 

“Ready to lie to a supernatural judge? Absolutely. It’s practically on my resume.”

Chase’s mouth twitched, a faint shadow of his usual smirk returning. 

“Good. Because Thorne makes the media look like a welcoming committee. If he senses you’re terrified, he’ll tear this contract to pieces.”

He stood, waiting for me. As I slid out of bed, my foot caught on the hem of my sweatpants, and I stumbled. 

Before I could hit the hardwood, Chase’s hand shot out. His fingers wrapped around my forearm, solid and scorching hot. The contact was instant static. A jolt of pure, unadulterated lightning bolted up my arm, making my sleeping beast howl behind my ribs. He froze, his grip tightening for a fraction of a second, his nostrils flaring as he inhaled the sudden spike in my scent. 

We stood there, locked in the space between the bed and the door, the air so thick I could have carved my name into it. The rules—no touching—were currently screaming in protest. 

“Rule one,” I whispered, though my voice lacked any real bite. 

Chase slowly let go, his fingers dragging against my skin before dropping to his side. His chest rose and fell in a heavy, controlled breath. “My bad. My wolf’s reflex time is… heightened today.”

“Sure. Let’s go with that.” I rubbed my arm, the skin still tingling where he’d touched me. “Come on. Let’s go play happy family.”

Downstairs, the pack house smelled like freshly brewed coffee and Maria’s cinnamon rolls, a deliberate domestic camouflage. Sophie was seated at the kitchen island, her small hands clutching a mug of cocoa, her dark eyes wide. When she saw us walk down the stairs together, a bright, genuine smile broke across her face. 

“Luna!” she chirped. 

“Morning, kiddo,” I said, offering her a soft smile. But before I could walk over to her, the heavy timber front door rumbled. 

The wards parted. 

Elder Thorne stepped into the foyer, and the temperature in the room instantly dropped ten degrees. 

He was a man who looked like he’d been carved out of granite and old-blood tradition. Dressed in a tailored charcoal suit that cost more than my car, his silver hair was slicked back, and his eyes were a cold, calculating grey. Two younger, burly Council enforcers flanked him, their hands clasped behind their backs. Thorne didn’t look like a wolf; he looked like the law. 

“Mr. Bennett,” Thorne said, his voice a dry, aristocratic rasp that echoed in the high-ceilinged foyer. “And Miss Hart. I see the tabloids weren’t entirely exaggerating.”

Chase stepped forward, his posture shifting instantly. The cocky, untouchable MLB star was gone, replaced by a dominant alpha protecting his den. He didn't growl—that would be a sign of weakness—but his presence expanded, filling the room until the enforcers subtly shifted their weight. 

“Elder Thorne,” Chase said, offering a tight, polite nod. “We expected you at dawn. Maria, take Sophie to the sunroom, please.”

Maria didn't hesitate. She ushered a quiet, gold-eyed Sophie out the back door, leaving the heavy silence of the foyer to settle over us. 

Thorne’s grey eyes slid past Chase, landing directly on me. He walked forward, his footsteps silent on the rug, and stopped a mere three feet away. He leaned in slightly, his chest expanding as he openly scented the air. 

My breath hitched. I forced myself to stand perfectly still, keeping my chin parallel to the floor. I’d interviewed murderers and corrupt politicians; I was not going to let a glorified werewolf judge see me sweat. 

“Interesting,” Thorne murmured, his eyes narrowing. “The strawberry is dominant, but the lightning is sharp. A latent beast. Yet… there is a resonance here. An awakening.” He looked at Chase, his brow arching. “The claiming bite has not been administered.”