Their Forgotten Luna

Training Ground Showdown

Cierra:

The first thing I noticed when I woke was the silence. No shouts, no clash of steel, no scrape of wolves against stone. Just the steady hush of morning wind and the ache in my chest that hadn't eased since the night before.

I pushed upright, hair sticking to the back of my neck. Sleep hadn't softened the memory of Dane's mouth on mine, or Dominic's fury after I pushed Dane away. Every time I closed my eyes, I saw it again—the desperation in one, the devotion in the other. Two claims were pulling at me until I didn't know where I stood.

But I was sure of one thing… Coffee. That would help.

The kitchen smelled faintly of roasted beans. I filled a mug and wrapped my hands around it, letting the steam burn against my palms. A sip scalded my tongue, bitter but grounding. I tried to focus on that simple pain instead of the storm in my head.

But Dane's words clung: You were mine first. And Dominic's steadier echo: She chose me. She doesn't need memories to know where she belongs.

I drained the mug, set it down harder than I meant to, and stood. I couldn't think myself free of this. I had to move.

When I slipped inside, the training ground was calm and empty. The morning sun filtered through the canopy, painting the dirt in patches of gold. I grabbed a wooden staff, heavier than it looked, from the rack, and planted my feet.

Strike. Block. Step back. Again.

Sweat broke quickly across my shoulders, soaking the thin fabric of my sports bra. My lungs burned, but I didn't stop—strike, block, twist. The rhythm numbed me and dulled the sharp edges of my thoughts until all that existed was the sting in my muscles and the ache in my arms.

I pushed harder. Spun. Struck again. The staff slammed against the practice dummy, splintering the wood at its shoulder. My breath rasped, my hands slipped on sweat-slick grips, but I couldn't stop. Couldn't rest.

If I rested, I'd feel everything I couldn't reach. Those memories I couldn't touch, the ones that felt like staring through painted plastic wrap. So I kept moving.

By the time my knees shook, I was barely holding upright. My vision blurred with heat, my chest heaving ragged. The staff clattered to the ground, and I bent forward, palms braced on my thighs, dragging in air that didn't feel like enough.

That was when I heard them.

Boots on dirt. The murmur of voices that quieted the instant they saw me.

I straightened, pushing damp hair out of my eyes just as Dominic stepped into the circle—and behind him, Dane.

The air thickened instantly, charged like the moment before lightning strikes. Wolves shifted at the edges of the grounds, drawn by the scent of a storm brewing.

Dominic's gaze swept over me, catching on the sweat plastered to my skin, the tremor in my legs. His brow furrowed. "You're pushing too hard." His voice wasn't scolding, just firm, as it always was when he tried to anchor me.

Before I could answer, Dane's eyes cut across the space, burning straight through me. He didn't speak—but he didn't need to. His look said everything: This is what I meant. You don't belong with him. You belong with me.

I swallowed, my throat raw. I should have left. I should have walked off the field before the air turned electric. But my legs rooted me in place, unable to move or turn away.

And then, without a word, Dominic stepped into the circle. Dane mirrored him instantly.

Then the spar began.

They circled each other, the tension so thick I could taste it. Dominic moved with calm precision, and each shift of weight was controlled and measured. Dane was looser and reckless, his fury bleeding through every motion.

The first clash cracked the air—shoulder to chest, fist to block, the ring of bodies colliding. The crowd hushed, sensing this wasn't training. This was something much deeper, much hungrier than a simple training session.

Sweat slid down my spine as I watched, pulse hammering.

Dane struck first, fast and brutal. Dominic absorbed the hit, twisting to counter, shoving him back. Their movements blurred—strike, block, kick, slam—until dust rose around them like smoke.

"You were mine first," Dane rasped, low but loud enough to reach me.

The words sliced through me. My knees nearly buckled with their weight because part of me knew he was right. My body remembered him in ways my mind refused to.

Dominic's gaze flicked toward me, only for a second, but it rooted me steadier than any wall. His devotion didn't need words—it was written in how he fought, never for glory, always for me. I'm here. You don't have to doubt.

Dane lunged again, landing a blow that made Dominic stagger. His voice carried, raw and cracked. "She remembers me—I know she does."

Gasps rippled through the crowd. Whispers hissed. My hands shook; my fingernails bit into my palms. Flashes shivered through me—hands catching mine in laughter, a voice promising forever, warmth pressed to my back in the dark, small fragments, tiny pieces. Not enough, but not nothing.

Dominic's counterstrike drove Dane down hard into the dirt. He didn't gloat. Didn't even look at him. His golden eyes stayed fixed on me as he spoke, voice low but cutting: "She doesn't need to remember to know where she belongs."

The words burned—comfort and chained, both at once.

The spar escalated and was too sharp to be called practice anymore. Blood streaked across Dane's jaw, sweat drenched Dominic's shirt, and still they fought like the world itself depended on the outcome.

On me.

I couldn't move. Couldn't breathe. My instincts clawed one way, my heart tugged another, and exhaustion blurred the line between them until I felt hollow.

When wolves finally rushed in to drag them apart, both men stood panting, dust and blood painting them in shades of war. But neither looked at their opponent. Both looked at me.

Dane's gaze begged. Dominic's gaze promised.

And I—barely able to stand, sweat-soaked and trembling—I wanted both.