The pull came at dawn.
Theron felt it before he opened his eyes—an ancient pressure behind his ribs, a tide tightening its grip. The moon was already fading from the sky, but its presence lingered in him like an echo that refused to quiet. Power stirred, slow and inexorable, threading through his veins with a familiarity that made his jaw clench.
He lay still, listening.
Aiden slept beside him, curled inward, breathing soft and even. The mark at his shoulder glimmered faintly, not glowing, not burning—listening. Theron reached out without thinking, thumb brushing the edge of it. The bond answered immediately, a low hum that settled the ache in his chest and made it worse all at once.
Mine, the god whispered.
Theron drew his hand back.
He rose quietly and stepped outside the den. The forest greeted him with reverence—leaves stilled, night creatures hushed, the air bending as if it remembered him. The moon had dipped below the treeline, but its path still traced him like a blade of silver laid across his spine.
"You're pulling too hard," he murmured to the sky.
The answer was not a voice.
It was attention.
Theron felt it like eyes on his back—old ones, patient ones. Not wolves. Not humans. Forces that did not need names to be known. He lifted his gaze, scanning the thinning stars.
"So," he said quietly. "You noticed."
A ripple passed through the firmament, subtle as breath across water.
He had hoped—foolishly—that they would leave him be.
For centuries, he had walked the edge: god enough to be watched, bound enough to be tolerated. The Moon had given him dominion, not freedom. And now that he had claimed again—now that the soul bound to him had awakened—balance was shifting.
Aiden was not invisible.
Aiden was loud to those who knew how to listen.
Theron exhaled slowly, grounding himself. "He is under my protection."
A pressure pushed back, cool and sharp.
All things under the Moon are subject to its law.
Theron's lips thinned. "He is not a thing."
Silence answered him—but not dismissal.
He felt it then, unmistakably: a brush of something foreign along the bond. Curious. Measuring. A presence testing the edges without crossing them.
Danger—not immediate, but circling.
Theron turned sharply as footsteps approached behind him.
Aiden stood at the den's edge, barefoot, hair tousled with sleep. His eyes were clear—but too bright. "I felt you leave," he said. Not accusing. Observant.
Theron's shoulders eased a fraction. "I didn't mean to wake you."
"You didn't," Aiden replied. He stepped closer, gaze lifting to the sky. "Something's wrong."
Theron studied him carefully. The way his posture had changed. The way his instincts reached outward now, touching things that had once passed unnoticed. The past lives were surfacing—yes—but so was something else.
Awareness.
"There are eyes on us," Theron said at last. "On you."
Aiden's jaw set. "Evelyn?"
"No." Theron shook his head. "Older."
Aiden frowned. "Like… gods?"
Theron hesitated.
He had always been careful with truth. Not lies—never that—but distance. Boundaries. He had learned the cost of revealing divinity to mortals long ago.
But Aiden was no longer just mortal.
"Yes," Theron said softly. "Like gods."
Aiden absorbed that without flinching. After everything, perhaps this was only another strange truth to lay beside the rest. "Are they hostile?"
"They are curious," Theron answered. "And curiosity, at their scale, can be lethal."
Aiden huffed a breath. "Figures."
Theron allowed himself a faint smile. It faded quickly. "The Moon's pull is stronger now. The bond amplifies it. They feel me moving out of alignment."
"Out of alignment with what?" Aiden asked.
"With solitude," Theron replied.
Aiden glanced at him. "That sounds lonely."
"It was," Theron said. Then, more quietly, "It was safer."
Aiden's fingers curled into Theron's sleeve. Not pleading. Anchoring. "I didn't ask to be safe," he said. "I asked to be here."
The bond warmed at that, bright and fierce. Theron closed his eyes briefly, steadying himself. This—this was why the pull hurt. Why the Moon pressed harder now, demanding he remember his place.
Because he was choosing.
"There may be trials," Theron said. "Subtle ones. Tests of worth. Of balance. They will not attack directly—not yet—but they will watch for weakness."
Aiden lifted his chin. "Let them."
Theron's gaze sharpened. "You don't understand what they can do."
Aiden met his eyes, blue steady as deep water. "I understand this: I've been hunted by humans, wolves, and ghosts of myself. If something's coming, I'd rather face it awake."
For a moment, Theron saw it clearly—the warrior he had lost, the soul he had found again, the one the Moon itself had failed to break.
"Very well," he said.
He placed a hand over Aiden's heart, fingers splayed, power flowing not outward but down, sealing, warding. The mark warmed beneath his palm, responding.
"You are Moonbound," Theron said, voice resonant with old authority. "Not owned. Not offered. Bound by choice and claim."
The forest listened.
The watchers recoiled—just a little.
Aiden's breath caught, not in pain, but recognition. "That felt… different."
Theron nodded. "Because it was."
The pull eased—not gone, but answered.
Above them, the last star winked out as morning claimed the sky.
The world had noticed.
And somewhere beyond the veil of wolves and gods alike, something smiled—patient, calculating—already planning the next move.
Theron learned, painfully, that being a god was easier than being a mate.
A god was distance. Law. Gravity without apology.A mate was choice—and fear, and restraint, and the constant risk of hurting what you loved most.
He stood at the edge of the stone ring, the place where moon-rites used to be performed before he had forbidden anyone from speaking his name aloud. The air was tight tonight, humming with power he did not invite but could not deny. Silver bled faintly through the clouds, the Moon tugging at him like an old wound reopening.
Behind him, Aiden watched.
Theron could feel his gaze like heat between his shoulders. Not submissive. Not fearful. Just there—steady, present, refusing to look away.
"You shouldn't be here," Theron said at last.
Aiden crossed his arms. "You keep saying that."
Theron turned. His eyes were already faintly luminous, gold threaded with something older. "What's coming isn't pack business. It isn't even wolf business. It's—"
"God business," Aiden finished. "Yeah. I got that part."
Theron's jaw tightened. "Then listen to me. When gods watch, mortals get hurt. Even strong ones."
Aiden stepped closer, boots crunching against frost-kissed stone. "You think I don't know that?"
Theron opened his mouth—then stopped.
Because Aiden wasn't trembling. His scent wasn't sharp with fear. His wolf wasn't curled inward or seeking shelter.
If anything, his presence was… anchored.
"I was fragile once," Aiden continued, voice low. "When I didn't know what I was. When my instincts were screaming and I thought they were lies. When everyone told me I was wrong just for existing."
The bond stirred, restless.
"But I survived that," Aiden said. "I survived Evelyn. I survived the false heat. I survived finding out my whole life was built on missing truths."
He lifted his chin. "Don't you dare reduce me to something that needs to be hidden now."
Theron exhaled slowly. "You're an omega."
"Yes," Aiden said. No hesitation. No flinch. "And?"
Theron's voice roughened. "And the Moon has rules about omegas. About fertility. About power vessels and—"
Aiden laughed, sharp and humorless. "So that's it. The great Moon God is scared because his mate doesn't fit the script."
That hit.
Theron's eyes flashed. "I am scared because gods take what they want."
Aiden stepped into his space. Not challenging. Claiming ground.
"Then let them see this," he said. "Let them see I'm not something you protect by locking away. I'm something that stands."
Theron searched his face—and saw it. Not bravado. Not denial.
Resolve.
"You think standing beside me won't paint a target on your back?" Theron asked quietly.
Aiden's mouth curved, fierce and familiar. "I've had targets on my back since the day I was born into the wrong role."
The Moon surged.
The stone ring flared faintly under Theron's feet, ancient runes stirring, responding to his divided state. God-instinct urged him to push Aiden away, to shield him by force if necessary.
Mate-instinct wanted to pull him close and trust him.
Theron clenched his fists.
"You don't understand what I am when I stop holding back," he said. "I bend fate. I break cycles. I end things."
Aiden's voice softened—but did not yield. "And you don't understand what I am when I refuse to kneel."
For a heartbeat, the world held its breath.
Then Aiden shifted.
Not fully. Not in panic. Just enough.
Wolf-ears surfaced, black and alert. His eyes darkened, river-blue edged with something deeper. His scent changed—not submissive sweetness, but steel threaded with heat and resolve.
An omega.
Unbowed.
Theron felt it then—the shock ripple outward. The watchers recoiled again, more sharply this time.
Because this was not what they expected.
An omega who did not fold.A mate who chose to stand in godlight.
Theron swallowed. "You could get hurt."
Aiden reached out and pressed his palm over Theron's chest, right above his heart. "So could you. And yet here you are."
The bond flared—warm, grounding, equal.
Slowly, deliberately, Theron covered Aiden's hand with his own.
"All right," he said, voice low and resonant. "But understand this: if they move against you—"
Aiden's lips quirked. "You'll burn the sky?"
Theron huffed despite himself. "Something like that."
Aiden smiled then—not cocky, not defiant. Just sure.
"Good," he said. "Then stop trying to leave me behind."
Above them, the Moon dimmed—just a fraction.
Not approval.
But acknowledgment.
And for the first time since the bond had sealed, Theron realized something profound and terrifying:
He wasn't choosing between being a god or a mate.
He was being forced to redefine what a god was—
Because this omega would not be fragile.
And the world would have to adjust.