Aria's POV
***TWO WEEKS LATER***
The rain came down in sheets that morning, turning the training grounds into a slick, muddy battlefield. Water dripped from the trees, pooling in every dip of the earth.
Ivan didn't cancel, as much as I thought he would.
"Rainy days are the best for training," he'd said when I asked him. "The hardship toughens you. When you can win the in the mud and downpour, you'll dominate on a clear day."
He took off his shirt.
"Endurance sparring today," he called over the roar of the storm. "No stopping until one of us yields. Ready?"
I nodded, wiping rain from my eyes. "Ready."
We circled each other, the mud sucking at our boots. The air was thick with moisture. Ivan moved first—a quick lunge, testing. I dodged, slipping slightly but catching myself.
We closed in.
Holds and escapes: that was the drill. Grappling in the rain meant bodies pressed close, slick skin against slick skin, breaths mingling in the downpour. His arm wrapped around my waist in a lock; I twisted, using leverage to break free. My shoulder pressed into his chest, his hand on my hip for balance.
Our eyes met—rain streaming down our faces.
He pulled me back in, a reversal. His breath was hot against my neck as I escaped again, my hands sliding over his arms.
We went on like that—holds tightening, escapes sharper—until we were both breathing hard, mud-streaked and soaked.
Finally, Ivan yielded with a laugh, raising his hands. "Enough. You win."
I bent over, hands on my knees, rain pouring off me. "That was brutal."
"But good," he said, stepping closer. "You did good today."
After, we retreated to the edge of the woods, under a thick canopy that offered a little shelter. Ivan pulled a towel from his pack and handed it to me, but when I fumbled with my dripping hair, he took it gently from my hands.
"Let me," he murmured.
I stood still as he stepped behind me, the towel soft against my neck. His fingers brushed my skin as he dried my shoulders, then moved to my hair—slow, careful. The intimacy of it sent warmth spreading through me, chasing away the chill.
"You're shivering," he said softly, his breath warm on my ear.
I turned slightly, facing him. "Not from the cold."
He paused, towel still in his hands. "Aria…"
There was a beat of silence.
"I feel… alive again," he said quietly. "With you. Like the world's not just survival anymore."
I swallowed, heart racing. "Me too."
For days, I had been fighting this feeling.
Every time Ivan's hand brushed mine during training, every time his eyes lingered a second too long, every time his laugh wrapped around me like warmth in the cold—I'd pushed it away. Told myself it was just gratitude. Friendship. The kindness I'd been starved of for so long.
But it wasn't nothing.
It was a slow burn that had started as a spark by the riverbank and grown with every session, every late-night conversation, every moment he looked at me like I was more than the rejected girl who'd arrived broken at Nightshade's gates.
I was tired of fighting it.
Maybe it was time to stop.
Ivan's eyes searched mine, dark and intense, raindrops clinging to his lashes.
The space between us was barely there now—just inches.
He leaned in slowly, deliberately, giving me every chance to pull back.
I didn't.
My eyes fluttered half-closed. I felt the warmth of his breath brush my lips, the faint scent of rain and him filling my senses.
We were so close I could almost taste the kiss—soft at first, then deeper.
His head tilted, lips parting just a fraction.
Mine did the same.
One more breath, one more heartbeat, and we would have crossed the line we'd been dancing around for days.
But we didn't.
A distant horn echoed through the trees, interrupting us. The patrol signal.
Ivan froze, cursing under his breath.
"I have to go," he said, regret thick in his voice. "Border duty. They're calling."
I nodded, stepping back, the moment broken but lingering like smoke.
"Be safe," I whispered.
He squeezed my hand once. "Always."
Then he was gone, jogging through the rain.
I stood there, rain still dripping from my lashes, touching my lips where his almost had been.
My fingers trembled against my mouth, as if I could still feel the warmth that had hovered so close. The cold rain slid down my skin, but inside I was burning—heart racing, breath shallow, a wild flutter low in my stomach that I hadn't felt in years.
I was terrified, yet thrilled at the same time.
***
The rain hadn't let up by midday.
After the interrupted moment with Ivan, I threw myself into Luna duties to shake off the lingering heat in my veins. Cara had mentioned the southern border patrol needed resupplying—extra blankets, dried meat, healing salves. I headed to the storehouse, organizing crates with a few pack members, my clothes still damp from the morning's training.
By the time I finished stacking the last bundle, I was soaked through again, the thin tunic clinging uncomfortably.
A young scout approached as I wiped my hands.
"The Alpha wants to see you, Luna. In his study. For the Luna reports."
I nodded, stomach tightening. Of course he did.
Raine's study was in the west wing—quiet, dimly lit, shelves lined with maps and ledgers. He sat behind the heavy desk, quill in hand, silver eyes lifting as I entered.
"Close the door," he said curtly.
I did, standing before the desk.
"The reports," he said, not looking up fully. "Pack morale. Supplies. The storytelling night. Summarize."
Professional. Always professional.
I began—steady voice, detailing the improved spirits after the gathering, the successful mediation, the resupply efforts.
His gaze flicked up.
And stayed.
I felt it then—the way his eyes traced over me. My tunic was wet, plastered to my skin from the rain. The cold had made everything… visible. My nipples pressed against the fabric, unmistakable.
Heat flooded my cheeks, but I kept talking, pretending not to notice.
Raine's quill stopped moving.
His jaw tightened.
"Get out," he snapped suddenly, voice sharp.
I blinked. "What?"
"Go change," he growled, eyes averted now, fixed on the desk. "Before we continue. I won't have you standing there like that."
Humiliation burned through me.
I turned without a word and left, the door closing harder than I intended.
Grudgingly, I stormed to my chambers, stripping off the wet clothes and changing into a dry blouse and skirt. My hands shook with anger.
As if I'd done it on purpose.
The words looped in my head, hot and bitter. I hadn't chosen to stand there soaked and shivering—it was the rain, the training, the endless duties he expected me to perform without complaint. And yet he'd snapped at me like I was some careless girl flaunting herself.
But that wasn't even up to half of what annoyed me.
It was the way he'd dismissed me. Like my presence was an inconvenience. Like everything I'd done—the mediation, the storytelling night, the supplies, the way the pack was finally starting to look to me—meant nothing. He didn't speak to me with respect. Not once. Not a "please," not a "thank you," not even basic acknowledgment that I was trying. Just cold commands and sharp words.
I yanked the laces of my blouse tighter than necessary, my breath coming fast.
I couldn't wait to be done with those reports.
I couldn't wait to stop standing in the same room as him, breathing the same air, feeling my energy drain away with every clipped syllable he uttered.
It was exhausting.
I sat on the edge of the bed, forcing myself to breathe slowly. In through the nose, out through the mouth. Again. Again.
The anger was still there, simmering, but I pushed it down. I wouldn't give him the satisfaction of seeing me rattled.
I smoothed my skirt, straightened my shoulders, and looked at myself in the mirror.
Calm.
Composed.
I was Luna of Nightshade.
And I would act like it.
When I returned, drier and composed, Raine was standing by the window, arms crossed.
He glanced at me once—brief, unreadable—then nodded toward the reports.
"Continue."
I did, voice cooler now.
He listened, asking short questions about supply levels and patrol readiness.
When I finished organizing the crates later that afternoon, Raine appeared at the storehouse door unexpectedly.
He inspected the work: crates neatly labeled, bundles tied securely.
"Efficient," he said shortly. "Good."
Approval. Short, clipped.
Then he was gone.
I stood among the supplies, frustration simmering.
Short approval.
That was all I ever got from him.
And it was starting to get on my nerves.