The Luna Comeback

Chapter One: The Woman He Still Wanted

Rhea’s POV

I was straddling Leon, my thighs tight around his hips as my body rose and fell in a rhythm I had learned through repetition rather than instinct, my palms pressed flat against his chest while the bed creaked beneath us with every movement, sounding far too loud in the quiet room. My hair spilled down my back, damp with sweat, clinging to my skin as I rolled my hips forward, then back, searching for a response I could feel rather than one I had to imagine.

He filled me completely, the stretch of him familiar, intimate in a way that should have felt grounding, comforting, like coming home after a long absence, yet something about it felt practiced rather than present, as though his body knew what to do even when his mind was elsewhere.

“God, Rhea,” he breathed.

The words should have sent warmth flooding through me, but they stopped short of his eyes, which drifted past my shoulder instead of holding mine, unfocused and distant, as if he were staring at something only he could see.

I tightened my grip on his shoulders and leaned down, forcing closeness, forcing intimacy where it felt like it was slipping away. “Look at me,” I said, my voice sharper than I intended as I tilted his face back toward mine.

His lips curved automatically, the smile easy, practiced, the same one he used in pack meetings when he needed people to believe in him. “You’re incredible.”

I nodded, even though the words felt thin, hollow in a way I couldn’t explain without admitting something I wasn’t ready to face. I moved faster, harder, letting urgency disguise itself as desire, letting my body do what my heart was struggling to keep up with, chasing sensation because sensation was easier than thought.

Every drag of him through me was wet and deep, my nerves lighting up despite the growing unease coiling low in my stomach, yet no matter how much I tried to pull him back to me, his attention slipped away again, like I was anchoring someone who didn’t want to stay.

Without warning, he shifted, flipping us so my back hit the mattress as he pinned my wrists above my head, his weight pressing me down as his thrusts turned sharper, more demanding, as if intensity could replace intention. I locked my legs around him instinctively, nails digging into his skin as my breath broke apart.

“Don’t stop,” I gasped, the plea slipping out before pride could stop it. “Please, harder.”

He obeyed immediately, his movements efficient, controlled, and the pressure built fast, too fast, coiling tight in my lower belly until my body responded even as my thoughts scattered, until I was clinging to him because letting go felt unbearable.

“I’m close,” I whispered, my voice barely holding together.

“Yeah,” he muttered. “Me too.”

There was no warmth in it, no shared anticipation, just timing.

As the crest of it surged through me, pleasure tearing through my body in sharp, uncontrollable waves, I said the words I had been carrying for months, the ones that always hovered on my tongue and never quite found their way free.

“Claim me,” I breathed. “Make it official. I want your mark.”

He froze.

The pause was brief, barely more than a heartbeat, but it landed with devastating weight as he stayed buried inside me, heat still there, motion gone, his breath suddenly careful.

“Rhea,” he said slowly, choosing his words the way he did when he wanted to sound reasonable, “we’ve talked about this.”

My body screamed in protest as disappointment washed through me, cold and heavy. “I don’t care about ceremonies,” I said quickly, already softening, already retreating. “I don’t need anything big. I just want to belong to you.”

“You already do,” he replied immediately, too easily. “I want it done right. A real ceremony. Something worthy of you.”

I nodded because nodding was easier than arguing, because hope hurt less than truth when truth meant admitting I was waiting alone.

When he finally moved again, the release came fast, almost abrupt, pleasure ripping through me as my body clenched around him, my mind dissolving even as something inside me quietly fractured, unnoticed, unattended.

Later, I lay curled against his side while he traced idle patterns through my hair, his touch gentle, absentminded, the kind reserved for things that were familiar rather than cherished. His gaze remained fixed on the ceiling, distant, calculating, as though he were already planning the next thing that didn’t include me.

“What’s on your mind?” I asked softly.

“Nothing,” he said. “Just work.”

“You’ve been distracted lately,” I continued, careful not to sound accusing. “Maybe we should take a break. A trip. Just us.”

“Maybe,” he replied.

That was all.

Sleep tugged at me eventually, but memories surfaced instead, heavy and unwelcome.

Three years earlier, I had been Rhea Vale, daughter of Alpha Magnus Vale of the Ironclaw Pack, raised among hierarchy and expectation, groomed for alliances I never asked for. My father had tried to bind my future to the Lycan Sovereign, Rowan Nightfall, calling it duty, calling it balance, calling it something noble. I had called it a cage.

We had fought. I had run.

Moonfall City became my refuge, my hiding place, the place where I learned how to make myself smaller, quieter, less noticeable. That was where I met Leon Ashcroft, Alpha of the Silverpine Pack, where the bond snapped into place so quickly it felt like fate itself had intervened.

For three years, I believed in that bond. I believed in his promises, in his excuses, in his insistence that waiting was proof of respect rather than avoidance.

When he rose to shower, I decided to do something small, something loving, something that might anchor us again. I pulled on one of his shirts and went downstairs, prepared his food the way he liked it, warmed the milk to the exact temperature he preferred, telling myself that domestic gestures mattered, that this was what commitment looked like before ceremony.

Carrying the tray upstairs, my elbow brushed his desk.

The laptop screen lit up.

A message thread was open.

A name I didn’t recognize immediately, though something in my chest tightened before my mind caught up.

Elara. I remember that name, his first love.

My hands went numb as the words filled the screen, line after line unraveling the life I thought I had.

“I’m flying in tonight. I land at 2:30. Will you be there?”

“I never stopped thinking about you. Leaving you was the biggest mistake of my life.”

“I tried to move on, but no one ever touched me the way you did.”

“I need you to forgive me. I need you to take me like before.”

“I’m not wearing anything under this dress. I want you the second we’re alone.”

My vision narrowed, the room tilting as his reply appeared beneath hers, sent moments ago, while steam still fogged the bathroom upstairs.

“Do you still love me?”

My stomach dropped.

I've never seen him reply to someone's message so quickly. I always have to wait a long time, and he always has various reasons, like being in a meeting or being too busy to remember. But right now, even while he's taking a shower, he can reply to someone else so quickly.

Her response came almost immediately. “I never loved anyone but you.”

Then his final message appeared, sealing everything.

“I’ll pick you up.”

I minimized the screen with shaking fingers and stumbled back downstairs, the tray still in my hands, my chest burning so badly breathing felt like punishment.

I set the food on the counter and stared at it, at the effort I had made, at the care he hadn’t noticed.

I ate it anyway, every bite, drinking the milk down to the last drop as tears slid into my mouth, salty and humiliating, each swallow reinforcing the truth I hadn’t wanted to accept.

The room tilted. I minimized the screen with shaking fingers and stumbled back down the stairs, tray still in my hands.

My chest burned. Breathing hurt. Everything hurt.

I set the food on the counter and stared at it. The effort. The care. The illusion.

I ate it anyway. Every bite. Drank the milk down to the last drop. Tears slid into my mouth, salty and humiliating. Each swallow felt like punishment I deserved.

How could I have been this blind?

The way she wrote to him, like he already belonged to her, like I was just occupying space until she came back to reclaim what she never stopped owning.