The tavern stank of sweat, fermented wolf blood, and cheap perfume. Not that Nyra gave a damn. She was already halfway through her second bottle of lunar wine, lips stained red, one leg slung lazily over the velvet armrest of her stolen throne—because yes, she'd killed the previous owner for calling her "little girl."
She hated being called little anything. Especially when she could snap your neck between her thighs.
A lycan brute was draped across her feet like a damned rug, unconscious—or dead, she hadn't checked. Her silver hair was unbraided, wild, pouring down her bare shoulders like molten moonlight, catching the firelight of the tavern hearth. Her eyes—otherworldly things, pale blue rimmed with eclipse black—glittered with mischief and madness. And self-loathing. That one was always there.
"Another!" she barked, slamming her goblet down.
The barkeep flinched and hurried, almost dropping the cask.
If only they knew.
If they knew who she really was—if they knew the Moon Goddess Selene's divine daughter was here, in this half-broken tavern, sipping wine with blood on her lips and a dagger between her thighs—they'd either worship her, or burn her alive.
Honestly, she wasn't sure which was worse.
Nyra tilted her head back, letting the wine burn down her throat, trying to forget the things she'd seen last night. And the night before that. And the one before that. Every time she closed her eyes, she saw her mother weeping under the stars, naked in a palace of moonstone, sobbing for a man who'd chosen an Omega with wide hips and zero divine blood over a goddess.
Her father. Ares.
Well, fuck him.
No, actually, fuck everything. That had become her motto since the day she learned what she was: Moonborn—not quite divine, not quite mortal. She was supposed to be erased. The gods had forbidden conception during the Blood Eclipse. Selene had broken that law for love, and been shattered for it.
Nyra was the living sin that followed.
Her power? Unstable.
Her urges? Ferocious.
Her destiny? Probably to burn this whole shitty realm down.
But tonight, she just wanted to drink until her thighs stopped aching from last night's revenge fuck and forget the dreams whispering of ancient beasts in chains.
"Nyra," a voice crooned behind her. Familiar. Sleazy. Desperate. "He's here."
She didn't look up. Just sipped.
"Who?"
"The Priest of Lunaris. He's come looking for… her." The whisper was laced with dread. "Says he has a vision."
Nyra sighed and finally opened her eyes, her lashes curling like smoke.
"Fuck's sake. I told them I'm not a priestess. I'm not a goddess. I'm just a drunk whore with a really good knife and zero regard for celestial politics."
The tavern doors creaked open then, and silence swallowed the room.
A man stepped inside—cloaked, robed, glowing faintly with divine aura. The tavern knew the look of trouble. Even the drunken Lycans stopped mid-grope and stared.
Nyra rose slowly, licking her lips. She moved like water laced with poison.
"Speak fast, priest," she purred, voice like broken silk. "I'm in the mood for blood, and you smell very stab-able."
The priest bowed low. "Nyra of the Moonblood. I am Eramon, seer of the East. I have seen the signs. The stars have shifted. The Moonborn must rise."
Nyra rolled her eyes. "So dramatic. Can't a girl drink in peace without being dragged into a prophecy?"
"You were born under the Blood Eclipse," he said solemnly. "Your blood calls to the ancient things. To the chained beasts buried beneath the earth. Your womb—"
"Finish that sentence," she growled, "and I'll gut you with the heel of my boot."
He swallowed. "The gods are hunting you. The Lycans want to breed you. The Vampires want your blood. And if you don't leave this city by nightfall, they'll all find you."
A pulse of silence followed.
Nyra set her goblet down, suddenly very, very sober.
"You're serious."
"Deadly."
"How did they find me?"
"Ares."
Her eyes darkened.
Of course he did. Daddy dearest. The man who fucked her mother, abandoned them, and now suddenly wanted his divine bastard back in a golden cage? To keep her safe, they'd say. To protect Olympus. To keep her docile.
Not. A. Fucking. Chance.
Before she could answer, the tavern doors slammed open again—this time not with hesitation, but with violence.
A tall, shadow-drenched figure stepped inside, dripping wet from the rain, reeking of blood and war. Every Lycan in the room went still. The scent in the air changed—from fear to submission.
Nyra stood, her heartbeat slowing to a crawl.
She knew that aura.
Ares.
But not in robes. Not in golden armor. He wore black leathers, battle-worn and tight over thick muscle. A dark wolf pelt slung over one shoulder. He looked like war. Like sin carved into flesh. Hair wet and wild. Eyes burning red.
"Nyra," he said simply.
Her mouth went dry.
God of War. Her father.
The man who'd abandoned her. The man whose blood burned in her veins.
The man who was not supposed to be this fucking hot.
"Wrong tavern, War God," she said, cocking her hip. "Unless you're here to try the wine. Or beg for forgiveness."
Ares smirked, slow and dangerous. "Neither."
He walked forward, each step like a thunderclap.
"I'm here to claim what's mine."
Gasps erupted.
She laughed. Hard. It was sharp, savage, utterly joyless.
"Oh, so now I'm yours? Not when you left my mother sobbing under a dying moon? Not when Olympus ordered my death and you let them? But now that I've got a womb that can shake the heavens and a bloodline that can restart the divine order—now you care?"
Ares didn't flinch. "I didn't come to beg. Or to explain. I came to stop what's coming."
She stepped down from the throne, her dagger already sliding into her hand. "You think I need you?"
"No," he said. "But I need you."
For a heartbeat, the world stopped.
The room was electric. Even the rain outside seemed to pause.
"Why?" she whispered.
"Because your darkness… matches mine."
He was close now. So close her breath caught fire. His hand lifted—just a ghost of a touch—and brushed her jaw.
And fuck, she hated it. Hated the way her knees trembled. The way her core clenched. The way her instincts screamed: Mine.
The Moonborn in her roared.
She slapped him.
The sound cracked like thunder.
"Touch me again," she hissed, "and I'll carve your cock off and feed it to the wolves."
Ares grinned.
She hated that smile.
She loved that smile.
Behind them, someone gasped. Another hissed, "That's the Moonborn. The cursed one."
"She's supposed to be a goddess," someone else muttered.
Nyra turned slowly, arms wide.
"Do I look like a goddess to you?" she spat. "I drink. I fuck. I fight. I bleed. I kill. I'm not some light-wrapped saint with a glowing tiara and a choir of doves. I'm the bitch they buried and prayed never woke up."
And then she smiled—sharp and gleaming.
"Well, guess what? I'm awake. And I'm starving."
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