POV: Adeline
The training grounds were empty when I arrived.
I had come here to work through the restless energy that still hummed beneath my skin three days after Ronan's appearance. Sleep remained elusive; my wolf refused to settle. The only thing that helped was movement—the burn of muscles pushed past comfort, the focus required to keep my balance, the simple animal satisfaction of feeling my body respond to command.
The practice dummies stood in a row at the clearing's edge, battered from years of use. I chose the one farthest from the path and began to work through forms I hadn't practiced since Ash Hollow—gamma training, meant for wolves who stood between their pack and danger.
Strike. Block. Pivot. Strike again.
The movements came back slower than they should have, rusty from disuse. But they came. Each repetition smoothed another rough edge, unlocked another muscle memory. By the time the sun had climbed above the treeline, I was breathing hard and dripping sweat, but something in my chest had finally unknotted.
"Your footwork's sloppy."
I spun, hands coming up instinctively.
Luca stood at the edge of the clearing, arms crossed, watching me with an expression I couldn't quite read. He was dressed for training—loose shirt, sturdy boots, the casual readiness of a warrior who was never fully off-duty.
"It's been a while," I said, lowering my hands. "I'm working on it."
"I can see that." He moved closer, his gaze assessing. Not hostile—the open contempt he'd worn in the early days had faded into something more complicated. "You were good. At the border."
The acknowledgment caught me off guard. "What?"
"When Ronan came." Luca stopped a few paces away, his jaw tight. "You were shaking. I could see it from where I stood. But you didn't run. Didn't hide behind Aiden. You stepped forward and looked that monster in the eye and told him no."
I didn't know what to say. Luca had never offered me anything close to a compliment before.
"I was terrified," I admitted.
"I know. We all were." His mouth twisted. "But terror didn't stop you. That's..." He paused, seeming to wrestle with the words. "That's not nothing."
Silence stretched between us. The morning birds had resumed their songs, filling the air with sounds that felt too peaceful for this conversation.
"There was a moment," Luca said finally. "Weeks ago, before the spy. You were out near the eastern perimeter, alone. Three Ironclaw scouts had crossed the border—probably testing our response times. I saw them circling toward your position."
My heart stuttered. I remembered that day—the prickle of wrongness along my spine, the sense of being watched. But the scouts had never appeared. I'd attributed it to paranoia.
"I hesitated."
The words came out flat. Confession stripped of excuses.
"I saw them moving toward you, and I hesitated. Part of me—" Luca's jaw clenched. "Part of me thought maybe it would be easier. If they took you. If the problem solved itself without any of us having to make a hard choice."
The admission should have hurt. It didn't. I had suspected as much, in those early days when his suspicion had been sharpest.
"What changed?" I asked.
"They got closer. And I realized I couldn't do it." He met my eyes, and I saw something raw there—not apology, but acknowledgment. "I couldn't stand by and let them take you. Not because of the Alpha, not because of duty. Because you were one of us. Even then. Even when I didn't trust you."
He stepped closer.
"I won't hesitate again."
The words carried weight—a vow wrapped in the blunt honesty that was purely Luca. I searched his face for mockery, for hidden conditions, for any sign that this was less than it appeared.
I found nothing but sincerity.
"Why are you telling me this?" I asked.
"Because you need to know where you stand." Luca's expression hardened into something that looked almost like protectiveness. "After the border, after what I saw—you're pack now. For real. Not a guest, not a refugee, not a problem we're managing. Pack."
Something cracked open in my chest. I had heard variations of these words before—from Aiden, from Freya—but hearing them from Luca, who had doubted me longest and hardest, made them land differently. More solid. More real.
"Which means," Luca continued, his voice sharpening, "if you lie to us again, I'll be the one dealing with it. Not Aiden, not the council. Me. Understand?"
The threat was genuine. So was the promise beneath it—that he would be invested enough to care if I broke trust again.
"Understood," I said.
"Good." He gave a sharp nod. Then, unexpectedly, his mouth twitched—not quite a smile, but the closest I'd ever seen from him. It transformed his face for just a moment, softening the hard edges, hinting at the man beneath the Beta's armor. "Now, about that footwork. You're leaving your left side open on the pivot. An enemy would gut you before you finished the turn."
The shift from emotional declaration to practical criticism was so abrupt I almost laughed. But that was Luca—uncomfortable with sentiment, more fluent in action than words. This was how he showed he cared: by making sure I could survive what was coming.
"Show me," I said.
"Gladly." He moved to face me, settling into a ready stance. "Attack me. Let's see how rusty you really are."
I attacked.
He blocked easily, redirected my momentum, and had me on my back in the dirt within seconds. But when he offered his hand to pull me up, there was no condescension in the gesture. Just the patience of a teacher who intended to actually teach.
"Again," he said.
I got up. We went again.
Over the next hour, Luca corrected my form, pointed out weaknesses I hadn't noticed, and worked me through drills that left my muscles burning and my lungs aching. He was demanding, critical, and utterly unsparing in his assessment of my skills.
He was also, I realized gradually, treating me exactly the way he treated the other warriors he trained. No special handling. No careful distance. Just the honest brutality of someone who expected excellence and wouldn't accept excuses.
It felt like belonging.
When we finally stopped, both of us breathing hard, Luca grabbed two water skins from his pack and tossed one to me.
"You're not bad," he said. "With practice, you might actually be useful in a fight."
"High praise."
"Don't let it go to your head." But there was warmth beneath the gruffness now—the kind of warmth that lived between packmates who had fought together, bled together, chosen each other.
We drank in companionable silence. The morning had mellowed into something warm and golden, and the training grounds felt less like a place of work and more like a place where something important had shifted.
"Luca," I said finally. "Thank you."
"For what? Pointing out that your form is terrible?"
"For telling me the truth. About the scouts. About hesitating." I met his eyes. "You didn't have to admit that."
He held my gaze for a long moment. Then he shrugged—a sharp, uncomfortable motion.
"You told your truth at the pack meeting. Figured I owed you mine." He stood, brushing dirt from his clothes. "Same time tomorrow. We have two weeks before the new moon, and I won't have you getting anyone killed because you forgot how to fight."
He walked away without waiting for a response.
I watched him go, feeling something settle into place in my chest. Not quite warmth—Luca wasn't the warm type. But something solid. Reliable. The kind of bond forged through honesty rather than sentiment.
It felt like having a brother again.
I hadn't had that since Caleb died. Since Ronan became a monster and burned away any possibility of family.
But maybe—slowly, imperfectly—I was building a new one.
I gathered my things and headed back to the compound, already planning tomorrow's training session.
There was work to do.
And for the first time in a long time, I had people worth doing it for.