Page 9 of The Onyx Covenant (The Lunaterra Chronicles #2)

THERON

I march toward the training grounds with everyone else already there, fury burning in my veins with every step. The purple bruises on Lyra’s face bloom against her golden skin. Someone thought it was acceptable to hurt her because I selected her as my Omega in the Harvest Ritual.

Someone believed they could touch what’s mine and walk away unscathed.

My gaze sweeps over the gathered members of my Umbra pack, studying their faces as I approach. The way they glare at both me and Lyra tells me everything I need to know. They’re making her pay for my decision, punishing her for my sins. And I’m not fooled to know my father would have a hand in this.

I know I have to bide my time. The Harvest Ritual demands focus, requires control, but seeing Lyra again after a year apart has unleashed something animalistic in me. I’d forgotten how her presence affects me. For twelve long months, I’ve ached for her—for her touch, the sound of her laughter, her voice—and now she’s here, forced to stand at my side once more.

I will make her mine again, even if she pushes me away now, even if she claims to hate me. Some bonds can’t be broken, not completely. And ours… ours was forged in fate and shadows.

The training field stretches at the side of the Onyx Covenant building, an expanse of emerald grass. Beyond it, ancient pines stand, their shadows barely touching the field’s edge. Twenty contestants—ten pairs.

Kieran falls into step beside me, his perpetual smirk firmly in place. “You look ready to commit murder,” he states, nudging my shoulder. “Not the best strategy for winning friends and influence.”

“I don’t need new friends,” I growl. “I need answers.”

“About your priestess’s face?” When I shoot him a dangerous look, he raises his hands in mock surrender. “Relax. Wasn’t me. Though several of our pack mates are discussing it like a trophy.”

My fingers curl into fists. “Names, Kieran.”

“I already grilled the bastards who were running their mouths,” Kieran says, his voice dropping lower. “Said they had no clue.” He spits the last word like it tastes foul. “Let it go for now, or you’ll get disqualified for starting a fight before the event even begins. Once the ritual starts?” He shrugs. “Have at them. No rules against accidents during trials.”

The darkness that’s been growing inside me since discovering my mother’s notebooks in the house rises to the surface, a tide I can barely contain. It would be so easy to let it consume me.

“I’ll find them,” I hiss. “And they’ll beg for death before I’m done.”

Kieran studies my face, his usual humor gone. “You’re starting to sound like him, you know.”

I don’t need to ask who he means. The comparison to my father sits like acid in my stomach.

“Besides,” he adds, nodding toward the center of the field. “Our esteemed teacher has arrived.”

Melian glides across the grass, dressed in flowing black robes that billow around her tall, lithe frame. Despite being in her mid-thirties, she carries herself with the manner of someone far older. Her dark hair is pulled back in intricate plaits interwoven with metal rings that catch the morning light. Her face is striking rather than just pretty—high cheekbones, lips set in a serious line, and eyes so dark they appear almost black in certain light. The Covenant member’s presence silences the murmurs instantly.

“I hope you all slept well,” she announces, her voice carrying effortlessly across the field. “You have a long day ahead. One day of training, of learning the basics. Afterward, you begin in earnest.” Her gaze sweeps over everyone. “These rituals aren’t just about winning for your pack but also discovering if you’ve made the right choice in your partner to serve alongside you in the Onyx Covenant for the next decade… someone to trust implicitly.”

Beside me, Kieran snorts. “Trust. Right. Because nothing says trust like throwing people into deadly trials.”

I turn my attention to Lyra, who stands apart from the others.

She shouldn’t stand out. Not here. Not in the middle of all this chaos.

But she does.

Fuck , does she.

The leather armor clings to her curves, molded to her body like a damn invitation. My gaze drags lower—her full breasts, the dip of her waist, the flare of her hips, the way the tight straps highlight the curve of her ass. I shouldn’t be looking. Not now. Not when I know what it cost her to be here.

But my body doesn’t give a shit about that.

Her still-damp hair falls halfway down her back. I remember how it felt tangled in my fists. How it spilled across my chest, her pale lavender eyes locked on mine when she stared down at me.

My chest tightens. Don’t go there.

It’s too fucking late.

The bruises on her skin appear darker in the morning light. It twists something savage inside me. But even bruised and battered, Lyra doesn’t shrink. She holds herself like a warrior—head high, eyes sharp.

That’s what gets me.

Not just her beauty. Not just the curves that still haunt my fucking dreams.

It’s the fire inside her. The strength. The way she refuses to break, no matter how much this world tries to crush her.

And fuck me… I crave her.

Even when she’s pushing me away.

“Today’s lesson,” Melian continues, drawing me out of my fantasy, “is all about trust. Later, we’ll conduct a ritual that will reveal more about the truth you hold for your partner.”

I have no idea what that means, but it sounds ominous. Whispers ripple through the gathered contestants.

“What truth?” Kieran mutters. “I’d trust a snake not to bite before I’d trust that whatever trials we have coming up won’t kill us.” He grins smugly as a few around us chuckle.

“Kieran of Umbra,” Melian calls out. “You seem to have a lot to say. Come, let’s do a practice run.”

He grins, stepping forward with that cocky swagger that’s gotten him into trouble more times than I can count. “Always happy to volunteer, Covenant-sister.”

“Excellent.” Melian’s smile is razor-sharp. “Stand here.” She positions him before us, then walks ten paces away, her back to him. “Attack me.”

Kieran glances around, confused. “You want me to… attack you? From behind?”

“If you can,” she says simply.

Kieran shrugs, then charges, silent and quick—I’ll give him that. Before he’s taken three steps, Melian whirls, drops to one knee, and sweeps her leg in a wide arc. Kieran goes down hard, the breath knocked from his lungs as his back hits the grass.

Laughter erupts from the onlookers.

“The first lesson of trust,” Melian says, offering Kieran a hand up, “is to recognize when you can’t trust your own assumptions. I told you to attack me. I never said I wouldn’t be ready.”

“Lesson learned.” Kieran accepts her help, his grin unwavering despite his wounded pride. “Though I maintain its poor form to humiliate your students so early in the morning.”

More laughter, and even Melian’s lips twitch. “Pairs, find an empty spot near the edge of the woods that surround us.”

Kieran brushes grass from his clothes as he rejoins me. “Go find your priestess. And try not to look so murderous. You’re scaring the children.”

I bark a laugh and leave him, making my way toward Lyra, who’s already waiting for me. We head toward the perimeter of the woods.

“So,” she says. “What are we meant to do? Fight each other?” A ghost of a smile touches her lips. “That could be entertaining.”

“I wouldn’t fight you,” I say as we pause by a lofty pine. “That’s unfair.”

She raises an eyebrow. “Because I’m a priestess and?—”

“You should stop talking,” I interrupt. “Before you embarrass yourself more.”

Her shoulders shoot back. “Excuse me?”

“I wouldn’t fight you because you’d lose,” I clarify, enjoying the flash of indignation in her eyes. “And I take no pleasure in easy victories.”

“Is that what you tell yourself about us?” she counters. “That I’m an easy victory?”

“You know I don’t.” I step closer, unable to stop my gaze from trailing over every perfect inch of her body. The leather bodice cinches her small waist. Even bruised and angry, she’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.

“Up here, big boy,” she calls me out, snapping her fingers in front of my face.

I laugh, deep and genuine, just as Melian approaches us.

“Theron. Lyra.” The Covenant member glances between us. “Your task today is simple in concept, difficult in execution.”

“Isn’t everything?” I mutter.

Melian produces two black silk scarves from her robes. “You will be blindfolded.”

Lyra tenses beside me. “Both of us?”

“Yes,” Melian says. “You’ll be connected by this.” She holds up a thin rope the length of my arm. “Wrist to wrist. You must traverse the forest and return with the token hanging from the heart tree.”

“While blindfolded and chained together,” I clarify. “Anything else? Maybe set the forest on fire for ambience?”

“The forest has its own challenges,” Melian says cryptically. “You’ll need to communicate. To trust each other’s instincts. And most importantly”—her gaze locks with mine—“protect each other. Not all dangers will be physical.”

With that, she binds the rope to my left wrist, then to Lyra’s right, leaving about a hand’s length of rope between us.

“Each pair must find their own path. You’ll know when you’ve found yours.”

“That’s helpfully vague,” Lyra mutters.

Melian’s lips curve. “The ritual doesn’t reward those who need everything explained. Last year, three pairs never returned.”

“What happened to them?” I ask, though I suspect I know the answer.

“They weren’t worthy of the Covenant.” She ties the blindfold around my eyes, plunging me into darkness, then presumably does the same for Lyra. “May the moons guide you.”

She takes our bound hands and guides us several steps, then turns us.

“You’re now facing the woods. Go north and stay true on that path until you scent the mountain moss. Follow it to the heart tree, which will offer you a token. Find yourself on a pebbly stone floor, and you have veered in the wrong direction. Coming back, you must remain blindfolded. And remember, trust is also in being honest in the test without cheating… you will be watched.” She releases us, and her receding footsteps soften.

I breathe in the scent of damp earth and pine trees.

“Well,” Lyra says after a moment. “This should be interesting.”

I feel her shift, the rope pulling slightly against my wrist.

“North,” I say, and I tilt my head back, orienting myself by the warmth of the sun on my face and the sounds of the forest.

“Slightly to your right,” Lyra says just as the words are about to leave my lips. Clever girl.

I take a step, then pause when she doesn’t move with me. “You need to?—”

“I know how to walk, Theron,” she says tartly. “Contrary to what you might think, I didn’t spend the last year sitting around weeping over you.”

I laugh it off. “Good to know the claws are still sharp.”

She’s finally moving forward with me.

We take the first steps together, awkwardly at first, then find a tentative rhythm. I take hold of her hand, and the sudden contact with her skin sends electricity up my arm.

“What are you doing?” she demands.

“Making it easier to walk,” I say innocently. “Worried you might like being so close to me?”

“In your dreams.”

“Every night,” I admit, the truth slipping out.

Her breath catches, and we both fall silent.

Then the air changes—cooler, damper. We’ve reached the deep forest’s edge.

“Woods will be denser, bigger, more broken branches on the ground and shrubbery,” Lyra says, her shoulder brushing mine, sending another current of awareness through me.

“So now we trust each other,” I say, surprising myself with how easily the words come.

We move forward when my foot hits a root jutting across the path. I stumble, regaining my balance before I fall over.

“Step up,” I warn, reaching back with my free hand to guide her. “Root across the path.”

Her fingers brush against my arm as she navigates the obstacle. “Yep, got that from you lurching.”

We continue, my arm stretching outward as my navigation to ensure I don’t walk into anything. I assume she’s doing the same, as I feel her swaying as if reaching around her. Her scent fills my nostrils—night-blooming jasmine and fresh rain—stronger than I remember, more intoxicating. My inner wolf stirs, restless and hungry in a way that has nothing to do with food.

“You still smell the same,” I murmur.

“And you’re still inappropriate,” she snaps, but her quickening pulse betrays her. “Focus on the task.”

“I am focused,” I state. “Just not on what you think.”

She makes a sound, half frustration, half something else entirely. “You’re impossible.”

“Yet you’re bound to me anyway.”

“Not by choice,” she reminds me.

“Are you sure about that?” I can’t resist pushing. “You could have refused the pairing.”

She doesn’t answer immediately. When she does, her voice is quiet. “So could you.”

The ground becomes uneven, sloping upward. I sense Lyra tense beside me as small rocks shift beneath our feet.

“Careful,” she murmurs, her grip tightening. “Ground’s unstable here.”

Suddenly, Lyra stops.

“Wait. Do you hear that?”

I go still, focusing beyond the forest sounds. There—a low growl, coming from our left.

“Something’s watching us,” I whisper.

The growl intensifies, and I catch its scent on the breeze—predator, territorial, agitated.

“Mountain lion,” Lyra breathes, her pulse quickening. I can practically taste her fear in the air.

“Don’t move,” I say, positioning myself slightly in front of her.

The growl comes closer from our right. Without thinking, I drop into a crouch, pulling Lyra down with me. My own growl rises from deep in my chest, louder and more terrifying than any natural predator. I feel the change ripple through me—not a full shift, but enough that my senses sharpen to painful clarity, my canines lengthening in my mouth. My growl becomes a roar that echoes through the trees, primal and possessive.

Silence follows, then the sound of retreating paws.

“That was…”

“Necessary,” I finish for her, straightening. My partial shift recedes, leaving me slightly breathless.

“I was going to say terrifying,” she admits, and I can smell the adrenaline coursing through her. “Sometimes I forget how scary you can be in your wolf form. Anyway, we should keep moving.”

We press on, the forest growing denser, both of us going slower, bumping into trees. Suddenly, something whips across my face—a low-hanging branch. I duck too late, feeling it scrape across my forehead.

“Damn it,” I mutter.

“What?” Lyra asks, concern breaking through her controlled tone.

“Branch. Watch your?—”

She makes a small sound of pain as the branch must have caught her, too. She stumbles into me. I catch her instinctively, my arm wrapping around her middle as she collides with my chest. My back hits a tree, bracing us both.

For a moment, we’re frozen, her body pressed against mine, our faces inches apart. Her breath dances on my lips. She’s softer than I remember, yet stronger, too—the curve of her waist, the firmness of muscle beneath, the cushion of her breasts against my chest.

“Your heart is racing,” I whisper, unable to resist. I inhale deeply, drawing in her scent. “Gods, I’ve missed how you smell. Like midnight and magic and everything I’ve ever wanted.”

Her pulse jumps. “Let go of me,” she says but makes no move to pull away.

“Why?” I ask, my lips almost brushing her ear. “You’re fighting so hard to resist me. Why bother when we both know how this ends?”

“I still hate you, if you’ve forgotten,” she whispers.

I laugh softly. “No, you don’t. You wish you did. It would be easier, wouldn’t it? But hate doesn’t make your body react like this.” I run a hand lightly up her spine, feeling her shiver. “Hate doesn’t dilate your pupils or quicken your breath.”

“You can’t see my eyes,” she points out, a hint of her usual sharpness returning.

“I don’t need to see to know,” I murmur. “I remember every detail of you, Lyra. Every. Single. One.”

She pushes against my chest with one flat palm, and I release her, though our bound hands remain locked together.

“For someone who wants to win this competition, you’re not taking it very seriously.”

“It’s just training,” I say, grinning, though she can’t see it. “We have time for more.”

“More what?”

“Truths,” I suggest, my voice dropping. “More confessions. More of whatever this is between us that refuses to die.”

“You’re delusional,” she murmurs.

“Am I? Then why can I still sense your desire from here? Why can I?—”

“There’s something blocking the path,” she interrupts, clearly desperate to change the subject. “Feels like fallen trees. Two of them crossed over each other.”

I reach out, my fingers finding rough bark—massive and immovable. “Too high to climb over while blindfolded and bound.”

“We need to find another way around,” she says.

“Wait,” I say, inhaling deeply. The scent hits me like a memory, damp, earthy, ancient. “Wintermoss.” I recognize what Melian described. “That mossy ground she mentioned—our destination.”

“I smell it, too,” Lyra breathes, her voice dropping to something almost intimate. I hear her inhaling deeply, sniffing the air. “To the right. It’s stronger there.”