Page 13 of The Onyx Covenant (The Lunaterra Chronicles #2)

LYRA

Cold. So fucking cold it burns. The impact slams into me like a thousand blades, stealing my breath and shocking my system. The current tears me away from Theron instantly.

Something primal kicks in, and I surrender to the shift, letting my wolf form melt away. The transformation is swift, bones and muscles re-forming as my human body emerges. In water, I’ve always been stronger as a human—my mother made sure of that, forcing me to swim in icy rivers since before I could walk.

My head breaks the surface, and I gasp, lungs burning as they fill with precious air. The roar of the waterfall crashes behind me as the current drags me downstream. My bag clings to my back somehow, the weight pulling at my shoulders.

“Lyra!” Aria’s voice carries over the rushing water. Thank the moon she’s all right.

“Here!” I shout back, catching glimpses of bodies farther downstream—Kieran’s dark, reddish hair, Orion’s broad shoulders, Rachel struggling against the current.

The river is carrying them away, but I can’t follow. Something’s wrong. Something’s missing.

“Theron?” I call out, spinning in the water, scanning the dark surface.

Nothing.

Then I see him—face down, unmoving, his human body bobbing lifelessly in the current a dozen yards away. His black hair spreads across the water like spilled ink, blood mixing with it in sickening swirls.

My veins turn to ice.

“No!” The word tears from my throat as panic floods my system.

I dive forward, arms cutting through the freezing water with desperate strength. The current fights me, trying to drag me along the same path as the others, but I battle harder. Every swimming lesson, every hour spent in frigid waters with my mother’s stern voice pushing me to be stronger—it was all for this moment.

“Don’t you dare,” I gasp between strokes. “Don’t you fucking dare.”

Above us, shapes line the cliff edge—the shadow wolves watching, waiting to see if we’ll survive the fall only to drown in the river. They most likely won’t follow us down, not with the cliff so steep, but they’ll wait. They’re patient hunters.

I reach Theron and grab his shoulder, flipping him onto his back. His face is deathly pale in the moonlight, blood smeared across his forehead. His chest doesn’t move. He’s not breathing.

“No, no, no.” I loop my arm across his chest, kicking furiously to keep us both afloat. “Wake up, damn you!”

His head lolls against my shoulder, unresponsive. I spot a rocky bank about fifteen yards downstream and adjust my course, pushing against the current with everything I have. My muscles scream in protest, but I refuse to let go.

“You don’t get to die on me,” I hiss into his ear. “Not like this.”

The shore seems impossibly far away, but I shove forward inch by excruciating inch. The river doesn’t want to give him up, pulling at him like it has a personal vendetta. Maybe it does. The waters of Wolfhaven have always had their own will, their own hunger.

When my feet finally touch stone, relief surges through me so strongly that I almost collapse. But I can’t. Not yet. I drag Theron’s limp body onto the rocky shore, his dead weight nearly impossible to move.

“By the moons, you’re heavy,” I grunt, hooking my arms under his and heaving with the last of my strength. Then I drag his backpack off him so he’s lying flat on the river’s grassy bank. “All that brooding must weigh a ton.”

Once he’s fully out of the water, I collapse beside him, my lungs burning, my arms trembling with fatigue. But there’s no time to rest. He’s still not breathing.

I press my ear to his chest, searching for a heartbeat. There’s nothing there.

“Don’t you fucking leave me,” I whisper, positioning my hands over his chest. “You hear me, Theron? You’re not going to die.”

I push down hard, again and again, the way I was taught in priestess training. Healing is supposed to be our domain, though most of our methods involve herbs and prayers, not this desperate physical struggle against death itself.

“Breathe,” I command, pumping his chest rhythmically. Water trickles from the corner of his mouth, but he doesn’t respond. “Breathe, damn you!”

In the distance, I can hear the others calling to each other, their voices growing fainter as the river carries them away. I should be worried about them, but all I can focus on is the man beneath my hands.

After everything—after he broke my heart, after seeing him with that Umbra bitch he was supposed to mate with, after a year of forcing myself not to think of him—here I am, fighting to keep him alive with a desperation that terrifies me.

“You don’t get to choose me for this ritual and then leave me alone in it.” My voice breaks as tears mix with the river water on my face. “You don’t get to look at me like you did back there, like I’m yours, and then just… just…”

The tears come harder now, blurring my vision as I continue compressions. I’m so focused I almost miss the slight tremble of his chest, the first tentative rise and fall of breath.

But nothing happens after that. His chest remains still, his face pale and lifeless.

“Gods,” I sob, a new wave of panic washing over me. “Please, no.”

Then I remember—the moondust. My mother pressed the small sachet into my hand before I left for the ritual, her eyes grave as she warned me to use it only in the direst need.

It can bring someone back from the threshold of death , she’d once said. But it must be mixed with the blood of one who cares for them truly.

I scramble for my backpack, yanking it open with shaking hands. Water streams from everything inside, but I find the small leather pouch tucked into the pocket of my pants where I’d put it when we changed clothes before dinner. Something I planned to carry with me, along with the blade. When I open it, my heart sinks. The white powder is soaked through, clumping at the bottom of the bag.

“Fuck, no,” I whisper, digging my fingers in to scrape out what I can. There’s powder there, wet and paste-like but present. It will have to do.

I find my small blade. With a quick motion, I slice my thumb, barely feeling the sting as blood wells up.

“Blood calls to blood,” I murmur, the priestess’s words coming automatically as I squeeze my thumb over the moondust, watching as crimson drops mix with white. “Life calls to life.”

I add a splash of river water from my soaked shirt, stirring the mixture with my bleeding thumb until it forms a thin paste. The moondust begins to glow faintly—a good sign. Even wet, its power remains.

Kneeling beside Theron again, I cradle his head with one hand, lifting the small pouch to his lips with the other.

“Drink this,” I plead, tipping the mixture into his mouth. “Please, Theron. I don’t know if it will work, but you have to try.”

When the paste disappears between his lips, I work my fingers on his throat, encouraging him to swallow. Then I resume compressions, putting all my remaining strength into each push.

“Come back,” I whisper. “Please.”

For several agonizing heartbeats, nothing happens. The night seems to hold its breath around us, the river’s angry cry the only sound besides my ragged breathing.

Then Theron convulses suddenly, his body jerking beneath my hands. He coughs violently, and I quickly roll him onto his side as water pours from his mouth. His eyes fly open, wide and disoriented, as he gasps desperately for air.

After a small moment, he quiets down.

“Thank the moons,” I whisper. “Welcome back from the dead.” Relief leaves me lightheaded.

He blinks rapidly, coughing up more water, struggling to focus on my face. “What…?”

“You died,” I tell him, unable to keep the tremor from my voice. “Fuck, I would have been so pissed if you died.”

A surprised laugh escapes him, followed by more coughing. He reaches up to touch the wound on his head, wincing when his fingers come away bloody.

“ You would have been pissed?” he asks, voice raspy.

“Don’t you dare ever die on me, understand?” I snap, the fear I felt still too raw, too close.

His gaze softens as he focuses on my face. “See? I knew you loved me.”

I look away, unwilling to let him see how true his words might be. “You’re delirious from nearly drowning.”

Theron tries to sit up, grimacing with the effort. “Something feels gritty in my throat.” He makes a smacking sound with his mouth, running his tongue over his teeth. “Tastes like… what the hell did you give me?”

“Moondust,” I admit. “Mixed with my blood.”

His eyes widen. “What the…?”

“Hey, it worked, didn’t it?” I shoot back defensively.

“You gave me blood magic?” There’s no disgust in his voice.

“It’s not blood magic,” I correct him. “It’s an ancient healing remedy. Moondust is made from rare plants that grow only in the Valley of Mists, combined with powdered moonstone and… yes, fine, some animal bone dust. My mother gave it to me before the ritual.”

His expression softens, and he reaches for my hand. “Where are the others?”

“The river took them downstream. I saw them briefly, but they were already far ahead when I got you out.” I squeeze his hand, then release it, suddenly aware of our naked state. “We need to rest and patch up that head wound. You got hit hard.”

Only then does Theron’s gaze drift over my nakedness, a familiar heat igniting in them despite his weakened state.

“Even on your deathbed?” I state, arching an eyebrow.

“Well, deathbank, I suppose.” His mouth quirks in that half smile that always made my heart skip. “Not the most dignified place to die and come back.”

I roll my eyes but can’t stop my own smile. “Can you stand? We need to find shelter.”

With considerable effort, I help Theron to his feet. He sways dangerously, and I slip under his arm, taking his weight. We move slowly along the river’s edge, searching for better shelter than the exposed bank.

The wolves are visible on the cliff above, their stares gleaming in the darkness as they pace restlessly. I want to get out of their sight as quickly as possible in case they are waiting to see where we settle before they attack.

“Shadow beasts,” Theron mutters, following my gaze upward. “That’s what my father calls them. Says they’re not true wolves, that they’re tainted by old magic from before the packs formed.”

“The priestesses call them moonshades,” I reply. “They say they refused to choose between Umbra and Elios, so both moons cursed them to never shift, to remain forever in one form.”

“Poetic,” he says with a weak chuckle. “But right now, I’m just glad they can’t climb down that cliff.”

“Not for lack of wanting to,” I observe as one particularly large beast snaps its jaws in frustration.

After I grab his backpack, we start a long walk of slow progress. I spot a dark opening in the rock face near a wall of stone close to the water’s edge.

“There,” I say, adjusting my grip on Theron. “That might be a cave.”

We make our way toward it. The entrance is narrow but tall enough to enter without stooping. I pause at the entrance, sniffing carefully.

“No recent scents,” I announce after a moment. “Nothing’s been living here.”

Theron nods, leaning heavily against the stone wall. “Good. We can rest and regroup. My head’s spinning.”

The cave opens into a small chamber, dry and protected from the wind. Moonlight filters in through the entrance, casting everything in silver and shadow. I guide Theron to a relatively flat spot inside the cave and ease him to sit against the stone floor.

“Let me check what we have left.” I open my bag, searching its contents beneath my wet clothes. The firerod survived, protected in its waxed case. The thin emergency blanket is protected in a waterproof case as well. There’s a small waterskin and some other survival items.

“We should count ourselves lucky,” I say, holding up the firerod. “At least we can have warmth. And we have two blankets,” I note. “Let me spread yours out on the ground. You need to lie down before you fall over.”

“I can help,” he insists, stumbling to his feet.

“You can barely stand,” I counter, rushing to steady him as he sways.

Once I lay both blankets next to each other, easily offering a double-sized bed in seating, I help Theron get off his feet. He’s heavier than he looks. By the time he’s settled, I’m already thinking about what else needs to be done.

“We need water,” I murmur, grabbing both waterskins and heading back outside. The cool night air brushes against my skin, carrying the distant scent of damp earth and pine.

The mountains loom closer than I expected, their twin peaks silhouetted against the night sky. The Darkbone Valley lies directly between them, our intended destination. From here, I can see why it has its name. The peaks look like massive dark bones jutting from the earth, sharp and unyielding. I frown, tilting my head as a chill creeps down my spine. Did we take a shortcut? The mountains feel too close.

Shaking the unease from my mind, I glance up at Elios’s moon, her veiled face just visible through a thin layer of mist.

“Guide us safely through the darkness,” I whisper, the prayer coming automatically. “Light our path with your hidden wisdom.”

Then I make my way toward the stream, kneeling at the edge and dipping the waterskins into the cool, crystal-clear water. As I wait for the skins to fill, something catches my eye—a cluster of bright green leaves with deep purple buds just on the shore.

My brows lift in surprise. Sweetclover. Small delicate herbs that help with dizziness. Their sweetness lingers, making them a favorite for keeping breath fresh, too, and Theron said he tasted the powder I gave him to drink.

I pluck a handful, cradling them gently in my palm as I head back to the cave with the water.

When I return, he’s sitting up, looking marginally more alert but still dangerously pale. He’s completely naked, with his bag on the stone floor in front of him as he paws through it, his jaw tight with frustration.

“No food in the bags,” he mutters. His head tilts back against the stone wall. “I’d kill for some jerky right now.”

“I brought you something else,” I say softly, stepping inside and holding out the handful of sweetclover leaves.

He lifts a brow, his expression flat and unimpressed.

“Grass?” he deadpans, lips curling slightly. “You brought me grass?”

I kneel beside him. “They’re sweetclover,” I correct, nudging his hand until he takes them. “They’ll help with the dizziness… and take that dusty taste out of your mouth.” A small smile tugs at the corner of my lips. “They’re used to freshen breath, too, did you know?”

He stares at me for a moment, then lets out a low grunt. “Huh.”

But he doesn’t argue. Instead, he pops a few leaves into his mouth, chewing slowly. After a beat, his expression softens just a fraction as the sweetness kicks in.

“Not bad,” he murmurs.

I hand him one of the full waterskins, watching as he takes a long, grateful drink. Some color returns to his cheeks, but the exhaustion on his face remains.

“I’ll be right back,” I say, standing and brushing the dirt from my hands. “I need to gather some sticks and dry leaves for the fire.”

He doesn’t respond, too focused on chewing through the rest of the sweetclover.

When I return, arms full of kindling, I stop short, eyeing the empty palm of his hand.

“You ate them all?” I ask, a touch of amusement in my voice.

Theron lifts a shoulder in a lazy shrug, his lips quirking at the corners. “What? You said they were good for me.”

I laugh at him, arranging the kindling in a small circle of stones I’d gathered from around the cave, then use the firerod to strike sparks. It takes several attempts before the dried twigs catch, a tiny flame fluttering to life. I blow on it, nurturing it carefully, adding more wood gradually until we have a small but steady fire.

The cave fills with warm light, pushing back the shadows and taking the edge off the cold. I rummage through my backpack again, finding the sticky bandages and salve. Using a strip of fabric torn from my soaked shirt, I shuffle over to Theron’s side.

“Hold still,” I instruct, kneeling beside him. “This might sting.”

“I think I can handle it after apparently dying,” he says dryly.

I reach over and pat the wound carefully, wiping away blood to reveal a deep gash across his forehead. “You did die. Trust me, I was about to lose my mind.”

He winces as I apply pressure. “I like that you worried about me.”

I shrug and try to be gentler, acutely aware of his gaze on me as I work. Our naked state suddenly feels more significant with the firelight playing across our skin. I notice his gaze lowering down my body.

“So, you just died, and you’re checking me out,” I say, trying to lighten the mood and distract myself from the fire within me, sparking alight for him.

“Hard not to when you’re in front of me nursing me while naked,” he replies. “No man could resist this.”

I apply the salve to his wound, leaning closer to make sure I cover it completely. His breath warms my skin, his gaze never leaving me.

“You’re still staring,” I murmur.

“You’re beautiful,” he answers simply.

I reach for a semi-wet bandage with edges that are sticky for adhering, determined to finish my task without giving in to the fire burning between us.

“Hold this in place,” I instruct, positioning the bandage over his wound.

As he raises his hand to hold the bandage, his fingers brush mine, and the contact sends jolts of desire through my body. Our gazes lock.

Without warning, Theron’s hand moves to the back of my neck, drawing me toward him until our lips meet. The kiss is unexpected, urgent, a claiming rather than a request. And Goddess help me, I respond instantly, as if my body has been waiting for this since the day I walked away.

The familiar sensation of the poison from dinner rises through my blood again, a liquid fire that shouldn’t still be there but undeniably is. Or maybe it’s just Theron—the taste of him, the scent of him, the feel of his skin against mine—that’s the real intoxicant.

His lips are soft despite the urgency behind them, his tongue tracing the seam of my mouth in a plea for entry. I grant it without hesitation, a small sound escaping my throat as the kiss deepens. I’ve dreamed about it more often than I care to admit.

“Lyra,” he exhales the word against my mouth, his hand sliding into my damp hair. The tenderness in the gesture nearly undoes me.

I shouldn’t want this. Shouldn’t want him, not after everything—the heartbreak, the betrayal, the year of forcing myself to hate him—but my body remembers his. My skin recalls the exact pressure of his fingers, the precise heat of his mouth. Muscle memory takes over as I press closer, my hands finding their way to his shoulders, feeling the coiled strength there.

Theron draws back just enough to look into my eyes, his pupils dilated with desire. “I need to feel you against me,” he murmurs, his voice a rough caress. “Need your skin on mine.”

“Not sure we should do this,” I manage to say.

His lips find the sensitive spot just below my ear that he somehow still remembers. “Why?”

I open my mouth to list them all—our packs, our families, his father, who would kill me without hesitation—but his lips drag across my neck, and every rational thought disintegrates.

“Can’t think of any, can you?” he murmurs, a smile in his voice as his hands slide down my sides.

I gasp as his mouth moves to my collarbone.