The Banished Shy Luna Chapter 96

The diner’s hum had returned, faint but uneasy, as if the humans knew they were walking a tightrope between safety and disaster. The waiter returned about twenty minutes later, a tray balanced on his shoulder, his expression as sour as the coffee he carried.

He set the plates down hard in front of the Alphas—each dish landing with a loud clack.

“Careful,” Tyson said in a warning growl, eyes flicking up.

The waiter smirked, unbothered. “My bad. Slippery tray.”

Then, as if to prove he could change his tune, he shifted his attention to the three of us females. His tone softened, his movements deliberate, almost rehearsed. “And for the ladies,” he said, lowering the plates gently in front of us. He even wiped an invisible speck from Shyanne’s napkin and smiled. “Wouldn’t want to bruise anything pretty.”

Shyanne’s eyes narrowed. “Wow,” she said flatly.

He chuckled, unashamed. “What? Just being polite.”

“Try again,” Marianne muttered under her breath as he set down her food in front of her.

He ignored her. Instead, he pulled a small plate from the tray, then another—and another. Three slices of pie, each topped with a perfect swirl of whipped cream, sliding them across the table toward me and the twins.

“For dessert,” he said with a wink. “Compliments of me.”

Toren’s fork froze midair. Tyson’s hand twitched around his coffee mug. Talon stared down at his food, wide-eyed like he had just heard the most obscure thing ever.

The waiter leaned on the table, eyes dragging down the front of my shirt before smirking. “Figured ladies like you prefer something sweet after a good meal—something you can wrap your lips around and really savor.”

The table went dead silent.

I blinked, stunned by the audacity of it. Around us, the tension was suffocating. Shyanne’s jaw dropped, Marianne’s eyes went wide, and Tyson’s growl rumbled deep enough to rattle the silverware.

Before I could speak, the waiter laughed again, low and dismissive, like the kind of man who’d never once been told no and actually believed he didn’t need to listen when he was.

“What?” he said lightly, feigning innocence. “Just having some fun. No harm in looking, right?”

His eyes raked over me again, slow and deliberate—starting at my face, pausing at my chest, and lingering far too long at my thighs before dragging back up. He smirked, like he enjoyed the way every muscle in the booth tightened in warning.

“You’ve already got all my attention anyway,” he continued, tone dripping with sleaze. “I mean, damn—look at you. You come in here with these tough guys, all quiet and sweet, like you’re pretending you don’t know exactly what you’re doing to a man.”

Shyanne shifted beside me, the air around us going thick with tension. Marianne’s nails tapped an uneven rhythm against her glass—she was trying not to leap across the table.

The waiter leaned closer, his breath warm and sour. “Though I gotta wonder…” His voice dropped to a whisper meant only for me but loud enough for every shifter in the room to hear.

“How much would it cost to have you for a night? ’Cause whatever they’re paying—” he nodded toward my Alphas with a smirk “—I’d double it if it meant hearing you moan my name instead.”

The words hit like a slap.

Every shifter in the diner went still. The air thickened—rage, dominance, restraint—all fighting for control.

Tyson’s claws had already extended, gold flashing in his eyes as he started to rise.

I moved faster.

My hand shot out, gripping his wrist. “Tyson.”

He didn’t stop. His chest heaved, his wolf pushing through. “He dies.”

“Tyson.” I yanked harder, forcing him to look at me.

The bond snapped taut between us—heat, anger, fear. I felt it all. Then, before he could say another word, I leaned across the small gap between us and kissed him.

Not a soft kiss. Not gentle.

It was fierce, full of heat and purpose, claiming him completely.

Every head in the diner turned. The humans froze mid-motion; even the pack members held their breath. When I finally pulled back, Tyson was staring at me, stunned—his breathing ragged, his eyes still glowing faintly gold.

“He isn’t worth it,” I whispered. “He’s a human who doesn’t know any better. A human who means nothing to me. And because of that—” I brushed my thumb over his cheek, “—you will ignore him.”

For a moment, no one moved. Then Tyson exhaled slowly, his shoulders dropping, and gave a single stiff nod. “You’re lucky she said that,” he muttered toward the waiter’s retreating form.

The man didn’t hear. He’d already scurried away, pretending not to notice the tension he’d just barely survived.

Silence settled over our table after that. No one spoke. We just ate.

The steaks were good—bloody and tender—but I barely tasted them. The twins didn’t touch the pie, and neither did I. It sat there between us, the whipped cream melting slowly, the scent turning sickly sweet.

Eating it felt wrong. Like accepting something tainted.

Finally, I cleared my throat, searching for something—anything—to shift the mood. My gaze drifted to Tyson. “So,” I began carefully, “tell me more about the cub training program.”

Tyson blinked, caught off guard. “The cubs?”

I nodded. “You’re the one who oversees their defense training, right? Elder Thora said I’ll be working with the female trainees soon. I want to understand how that fits together.”

Toren glanced up from his plate, clearly approving of the shift in topic.

Tyson leaned back, his voice softening a little. “Yeah. I run their drills every morning. It’s not just about fighting—it’s about instinct. Teaching them control before their first shift so they don’t hurt themselves or anyone else.”

Marianne tilted her head. “And we’ll be doing that too?”

“Not quite,” Tyson replied. “The females you’ll train are older—warrior apprentices, trackers, scouts. You’ll focus on discipline, formation work, stealth. The stuff most males never bother learning.”

I smiled faintly. “So I get to be their nightmare instructor?”

Tyson’s grin returned, a spark of amusement finally breaking through. “Exactly. You’ll scare them into shape.”

Shyanne laughed softly. “Oh, they’re not ready.”

“They will be,” I said, smiling despite myself.

The air had eased by the time we finished eating. Conversation drifted again—quiet, steady. The storm from earlier had dulled to something almost manageable.

As we pushed our plates away, Toren wiped his mouth with a napkin and stood, slipping a few bills from his pocket. “I’ll pay,” he said simply. “Meet me outside.”

He shot one last glare toward the counter—where the waiter was pretending to clean menus—and his expression promised violence if another word was said.

Then he turned, shoulders squared, and disappeared toward the register.

I exhaled slowly, my pulse finally settling. But deep down, I knew the calm wouldn’t last.

Something about that moment—the human’s words, the Alphas’ restraint, the simmering power between us—felt like the quiet before another storm.

And storms, in our world, always came with blood.