Chapter 6 Chapter 6 slit bonding

Sage is waiting in a natural clearing behind the compound, arms crossed, looking like a drill sergeant about to destroy a recruit.

"You're late," she says as I approach.

I glance at my watch. "By two minutes."

"In a fight, two minutes is the difference between life and death. In a hunt, two minutes is the difference between eating and starving. In a challenge, two minutes is how long it takes for someone to bleed out." She gestures to the open space. "Time matters here. Strip."

"Excuse me?"

"Tank top and leggings are fine. Lose the jacket and boots. You need to feel the ground and move naturally. Boots are a crutch—they let you ignore terrain, disconnect from the earth. You can't afford that luxury."

I look around for Hawk. He's not here—probably dealing with alpha business. Part of me is relieved. I don't want him to see me fail.

Once I'm barefoot, the earth is cold against my soles, autumn-damp and unforgiving. Sage circles me with that predatory assessment I'm starting to recognize.

"You're physically fit. Good muscle tone from hiking. Decent cardiovascular health. But you move like a human—heavy, predictable, telegraphing every intention like you're broadcasting on a loudspeaker." She stops in front of me. "Werewolves read body language the way humans read books. We see the story before you even know you're going to tell it. So we start with stillness. Stand there. Don't move. Don't blink. Don't shift your weight. Just... be."

It sounds easy.

It's not.

Thirty seconds in, my nose itches. A minute in, my weight starts shifting unconsciously to compensate for tired muscles. Two minutes in, I'm dying to fidget, to scratch, to do something. My body screams to move, to adjust, to respond to discomfort the way it's been trained to do for twenty-eight years.

"Pathetic," Sage says, but there's something almost satisfied in her tone, like I've confirmed exactly what she expected. "Again."

We do this for an hour. Just standing still while she circles, criticizes, and occasionally pushes me to test my balance. My legs are screaming. My back aches. Sweat runs down my spine despite the cold air. By the end, I'm sweating and frustrated and ready to scream.

"Why does this matter?" I finally snap.

"Because prey moves. Prey fidgets, telegraphs intention, shows fear through tiny movements they don't even realize they're making." Sage stops in front of me, close enough that I can see the silver threading through her white hair, the old scars on her knuckles. "If you want to survive in our world, you need to learn to be stone when necessary. Prey that holds still has a chance. Prey that runs always dies."

The words send ice down my spine.

"Now," she continues, "hit me."

"What?"

"Hit me. Hard as you can."

I hesitate. Sage rolls her eyes.

"I'm a werewolf, human. You literally cannot hurt me. My bones are three times denser than yours. My healing kicks in before you can even pull your fist back. Now stop being polite and hit me."

I throw a punch—a good one, using my hips for power like my dad taught me when I was fifteen and insisted on hiking alone. Sage doesn't even move, just tilts her head slightly, and my fist whooshes past her ear.

"Terrible. Again."

Twenty attempts later, I haven't landed a single hit. She's not even trying hard—just reading my body language and moving fractionally before I commit. It's humiliating.

"See the problem?" Sage asks, not even breathing hard while I'm gasping. "You announce every move. Your shoulder drops before you punch. Your eyes flick to your target. Your breathing changes. Your weight shifts. A werewolf sees all of it in the second before you act. We're reading a book you don't even know you're writing."

"So what do I do?"

"Learn to lie with your body." She demonstrates, standing perfectly still, then moving explosively without any warning tells—one second motionless, the next her fist stops an inch from my face. I feel the air displacement, smell her skin. "But that takes years. Decades, even. For now, we focus on survival. Lesson two: running."

She transforms in that stomach-turning shimmer of reality breaking—bones cracking, fur erupting, humanity folding into wolf like an origami trick done in reverse. Suddenly, a massive white wolf stands before me, easily five feet at the shoulder, with eyes that glow amber in the dappled sunlight.

Run, her voice echoes in my mind, and I realize with shock that I can hear her telepathically. The mate bond to Hawk is letting me access pack communication. Run like I'm hunting you. Because I am.

I run.

The forest blurs past. Branches scratch my arms, drawing blood that feels hot against the cold air. Roots try to trip me. My lungs burn. And behind me, I can hear Sage—not chasing hard, just pacing, letting me feel the terror of being prey. Her breath is hot on my heels. Her paws barely make a sound. She could take me down any second, and we both know it.

When I finally collapse against a tree, gasping, tasting copper, she's standing five feet away in human form. Not even winded. Not a hair out of place.

"Two minutes," she says flatly. "You lasted two minutes before exhaustion. A werewolf can run for hours. Can track you by scent even if you hide. Can hear your heartbeat from a hundred yards away. Can smell your fear from half a mile downwind."

"Then what's the point?" I wheeze between gasps. "If I can't fight and can't run—"

"You survive by being smart. By using terrain, by making unexpected choices, by lasting long enough for help to arrive. By understanding that werewolves are predators, and predators have patterns." She crouches beside me, and for the first time, her expression isn't hostile—just tired. Ancient-tired. "And by learning when to submit."

"Submit?"

"Werewolves are pack animals. We have hierarchy, dominance, and rules written in blood and bone. If a wolf is attacking you and you can't fight or flee, sometimes your only option is to bare your throat—to submit completely, offer vulnerability. Most wolves will stop short of killing if you submit properly. It goes against instinct to kill someone who's surrendered. Something in our DNA rebels against it."

The idea of offering my throat to a predator makes my skin crawl. "That's insane."

"That's survival." Sage stands, offering her hand. I take it, and she pulls me up with casual strength that reminds me exactly how fragile I am here. "You have good instincts, Luna Pierce. You ran smart—stayed near thick brush, changed direction unexpectedly, tried to mask your trail in the creek. But instincts aren't enough. Come back tomorrow. And the day after. We'll train until your body learns what your mind can't process fast enough."

"How long will that take?"

"For a human? Years. But we have weeks, maybe days, before Viktor forces a confrontation." Her jaw tightens. "So we work with what we've got."

Hawk appears from the trees—I hadn't even known he was watching. The mate bond sings with recognition, with relief, and I feel phantom touches where his emotions brush against mine.

"Enough," he says, but he's looking at Sage. There's a whole conversation happening between them in glances and micro-expressions. Finally, Sage nods and leaves.

Once we're alone, Hawk pulls me close. I should probably maintain some dignity, but I'm exhausted and sore and I just melt into him.

"You did well," he murmurs against my hair.

"I lasted two minutes running. I didn't land a single punch. I'm pretty sure Sage thinks I'm hopeless."

"Sage thinks you're tougher than you look. That's high praise from her." His hands run soothingly down my back, and everywhere he touches, the ache eases slightly—not disappearing, but dulling. "The mate bond is starting to work both ways. Your body's learning to respond to mine. You'll heal faster now—not werewolf-fast, but faster than a normal human."

"That's going to be hard to explain if I show up to work tomorrow."

"Maybe it's time to stop explaining. To choose." His voice is careful, neutral, but through the bond, I feel his desperate hope, sharp as a knife.

I pull back to look at him. "Choose? Between my human life and this?"

"I'm not asking you to give up everything. But Luna, you can't maintain both worlds indefinitely. Eventually, something gives. And I'd rather you choose on your terms than have the choice forced on you by circumstance or violence."

He's right. I know he's right. But the thought of walking away from everything I've built—my career, my reputation, my identity as a ranger, the person I've spent years becoming—feels like losing myself.

"I need time," I whisper.

"I know. I'm just..." He cups my face gently. "I'm terrified I'll lose you. Either to Viktor, or to the human world, or to the impossibility of being torn between two lives. And I don't know how to protect you from all of those things."

Through the bond, I feel the depth of his fear. Two hundred and thirty-seven years of loneliness, of watching humans he cared about age and die while he remained unchanged, of never finding someone who completed him. And now that he has, he's watching me struggle to accept it.

"I'm not going anywhere," I say, and mean it. "We'll figure this out—together. Just... give me space to grieve what I'm losing, okay?"

"Okay."

He kisses my forehead—soft, reverent, full of promise. Not a claiming kiss, not yet. But a commitment.

As he walks me back to the cabin, the sun setting in brilliant oranges and purples that paint the forest gold, I realize something important: I haven't thought about my human life in hours. Haven't checked my phone. Haven't worried about reports or patrols or Warden Blackwood's disappointment.

For the first time in years, I feel like I'm exactly where I'm supposed to be.

Even if it might kill me.

River appears at dinner—a communal affair in the main lodge where twenty wolves in human form gather, talking and laughing. The room smells like roasted meat and pine and something wild I can't identify. When I enter with Hawk, conversations don't die this time. Some wolves nod in greeting. Others study me with curiosity rather than hostility.

Progress.

"Sit with me!" River bounces up, pulling me toward a spot between her and a man I assume is Thomas—dark hair, kind eyes, and the way he looks at River makes the mate bond concept suddenly make perfect sense. "I want to hear everything about human dating. Thomas says it's hilariously complicated."

As I settle in, Hawk's hand finds mine under the table. Through the bond, I feel his satisfaction, his hope blooming like spring.

Maybe, just maybe, I can make this work.