The Banished Shy Luna Chapter 102

The morning hit hard.

The cheap curtains barely kept the sunlight out, stripes of gold cutting across the floorboards and over the rumpled bedsheets where my mates were still sprawled in deep, dreamless sleep. The clock by the bed read 11:24 a.m. I knew Toren was going to be upset once he wakes up, but I know he needed the sleep. They all needed their rest.

We’d been here far too long.

The twins were already up with me—quiet, moving through the room like ghosts as they repacked what little we had unpacked the night before. Shyanne was folding clothes with an energy that said she’d had way too much caffeine, while Marianne methodically double-checked the weapons bag, muttering to herself.

Me? I hadn’t slept a minute. My body was running on fumes and determination.

Shyanne glanced at me over her shoulder. “You sure you’re good? You look like death, no offense.”

“None taken,” I muttered, shoving the last of the toiletries into a duffel. “Just tired.”

Marianne snorted softly. “Tired’s an understatement. You’re about five minutes away from face-planting.”

“Not yet.”

Before either of them could argue, a low growl rumbled behind me.

Toren.

He sat up slowly on the edge of the bed, rubbing a hand over his face before his gaze swept the room. The second his eyes met the clock, his jaw locked.

“Why the hell didn’t anyone wake me?”

Tyson stirred next, stretching with a groan. “Relax, Toren. We’re still alive. That’s a win.”

“Alive?” Toren’s voice was sharp enough to slice the air. “We’ve been here for eight hours. Eight. We should’ve been gone at dawn.”

Talon blinked blearily from where he’d been sprawled across the couch. “What time is it?”

“Almost noon,” Toren snapped. Then his eyes landed on me. “And why didn’t you wake me?”

I froze, my hand still halfway to the zipper on my bag. “Because you needed sleep, Toren.”

His tone hardened. “I needed to keep you safe.”

I clenched my jaw. “And you can’t do that if you’re running on empty.”

He stood, muscles tense, power radiating off him like heat. “You risked the entire pack staying here this long—”

“Enough,” Shyanne said sharply, stepping between us before I could speak.

The room went dead quiet.

Toren’s eyes narrowed. “Excuse me?”

Shyanne didn’t flinch. “You heard me, Alpha. Back off.”

Marianne joined her, crossing her arms. “She stayed up all night for you. For all of you. So maybe start with thank you instead of barking like she’s one of your soldiers.”

Toren’s eyes flashed gold. “Watch your tone.”

Shyanne tilted her head, unimpressed. “Or what? You’ll ground me?”

That earned a snort from Tyson, though he tried to hide it.

Marianne didn’t back down. “She did what she had to do. You’re the Alpha—the only voice the pack will listen to. You had to be rested, alert, ready. She made that call because no one else could.”

Talon straightened, rubbing the back of his neck. “They’ve got a point, Toren.”

But Toren wasn’t done. “You think exhaustion makes her stronger? She’s Luna, not—”

“Not helpless either,” Shyanne cut in again. “She’s doing what you were doing from the start—protecting her mates. Only difference is, she’s not snapping at anyone for it.”

The silence that followed was thick, charged, and awkwardly satisfying.

Finally, Toren’s shoulders dropped. The tension bled out of him slowly.

He looked at me—really looked—and I saw the guilt behind the frustration.

Tyson broke the silence first with a dark, amused chuckle. “Careful, Toren. Keep talking like that and the twins might recruit Kira into their rebellion. Bad influence, that one.”

Shyanne smirked. “Oh, she’s already one of us.”

“Saints help us all,” Toren muttered under his breath, but the edge was gone from his voice.

Talon yawned and stood, stretching. “All right, that’s enough arguing. I’m starving, we’ve got too many miles ahead, and apparently, our Luna’s running the show now. Let’s load up before something actually happens.”

That got everyone moving. Bags were hauled to the cars, weapons double-checked, and the lingering tension faded into a low hum of motion.

The parking lot was mostly empty now, just our convoy of black SUVs lined up under the blazing sun. The smell of asphalt and engine oil burned faintly in the air.

I was halfway through securing one of the packs when I caught sight of movement near the office—the motel wife.

Her head was down, her body language timid, but there was something too deliberate about the way she moved. Sneaky. Cautious.

“Stay here,” I murmured to the twins.

Tyson, of course, was immediately at my back. “Like hell you’re going alone.”

I didn’t argue.

The woman looked up as we approached, her eyes darting nervously toward the main road where our vehicles waited. She glanced once over her shoulder, then whispered harshly, “You need to listen carefully.”

Tyson shifted closer, his presence looming and protective. “If this is about last night—”

“It’s not,” she interrupted, her voice trembling. “You’re being tracked.”

I blinked. “Tracked?”

“Yes. There’s something under your vehicles. I don’t know what, but I saw a man last night after you checked in—he was near your cars. He had a mark.”

Tyson’s voice dropped low, dangerous. “What mark?”

She swallowed hard. “A crescent moon over crossed claws. He… he was one of Lucas’s men.”

My blood ran cold.

The woman’s eyes darted again toward the road. “You need to pull off somewhere safe and check underneath your vehicles. I—I can’t say more. They’ll know I talked to you.”

Before I could ask anything else, she turned and practically ran back toward the office, her sandals slapping against the concrete.

Tyson stared after her, then looked at me. “Well. That’s not ominous at all.”

I exhaled slowly, the pit in my stomach tightening. “No. But it means we’re already out of time.”

And as we turned back toward the cars, the uneasy stillness of the morning felt heavier than before—like the calm before the hunt