His Reluctant Luna

Chapter 2: The Name on the Grave

I didn't sleep that night.

The room they gave me was more than I deserved — a four-poster bed draped in deep gray silk, a fireplace already burning, windows that looked out over the dark forest. It smelled of cedar and old stone. Clean. Cold.

I sat on the edge of the bed, still wearing the dress I'd traveled in, replaying his words.

"The woman I wanted never came."

Not Selene. He'd been waiting for someone else. Someone who never showed up.

I should have felt relieved. If he wanted someone else, he wouldn't touch me. Three months of playing pretend in a castle, and then I'd walk away with enough gold to never need anyone again.

So why did I feel a knot tightening in my chest?

I shook my head and stood. The castle was quiet, save for the crackling fire and the distant howl of wind through stone corridors. I needed air. I needed to think.

I opened the door and stepped into the hallway.

The keep at night was a different world. Daylight had softened its edges — candlelight made them sharp. Long shadows stretched across the stone floors. Tapestries loomed on the walls, their woven wolves seeming to move in the flickering light.

I walked without direction, my bare feet silent on the cold stone. Past closed doors, past empty halls, past windows that showed nothing but black forest and a sliver of moon.

That's when I heard it.

A voice. Low. Male. Coming from somewhere ahead.

I stopped.

The voice paused. Then continued — a murmur, too soft to make out words. I followed it around a corner, down a narrow staircase, into a part of the castle I hadn't seen before.

The voice was clearer now.

I recognized it.

Damon.

I found myself at the edge of a small courtyard. Open to the sky, overgrown with ivy, forgotten by time. In the center stood a single gravestone.

And before it, on one knee, was the Wolf King.

He didn't hear me approach. His head was bowed, his dark hair falling forward, hiding his face. One hand rested on the stone, fingers tracing the carved letters.

I should have left. This was private. This was none of my business.

I stayed.

"What are you doing here?"

His voice cut through the night, quiet but sharp. He didn't turn around.

I froze. "I couldn't sleep. I heard you."

A long silence. Then he rose, slow and deliberate, and turned to face me.

His eyes glowed in the dark. But there was no anger in them — only a tiredness that made him look older than his three hundred years.

"I'm sorry," I said. "I didn't mean to intrude."

"You didn't." He looked down at the gravestone. "She's been dead for a long time. I don't think she minds the company."

I stepped closer. Close enough to read the name carved into the weathered stone.

Elena Blackthorn

Beloved daughter. Never forgotten.

"Elena," I said. "The woman you were waiting for."

He didn't answer. But he didn't have to.

"She was your mate."

It wasn't a question. I'd read enough about wolves to know. The way he looked at that grave — it was the same way the old stories described a wolf mourning his fated one.

"She died," he said. "Three hundred years ago. On the night of our binding ceremony."

"How?"

"Killed." The word came out flat. "By a hunter's silver blade. Meant for me."

I felt the weight of those words settle between us. He'd watched his mate die — on the night they were supposed to be bonded forever. And he'd never moved on.

"That's why you asked for a Blackwood bride," I said slowly. "Elena was a Blackwood."

"Your great-aunt." He finally looked at me. "She had your eyes. The same color. The same stubborn tilt to your chin."

I didn't know what to say. He wasn't marrying me because he wanted a wife. He was marrying me because I reminded him of a ghost.

"I'm not her," I said.

"I know."

"Then why—"

"Because the prophecy said the Bloodmoon line would fall if I didn't bind myself to a Blackwood before the century turned." His voice was grim. "I don't care about the prophecy. But my pack does. And a pack without an Alpha heir is a pack that gets torn apart."

I stared at him. "You're doing this for your pack."

"My people need stability. A symbolic union. A bloodline secured." He met my eyes, and for the first time, I saw something raw beneath the cold surface. "I don't expect you to understand. I don't expect you to care. But I need you to stay alive for three months. That's all."

"Who would try to kill me?"

"Anyone who wants the Bloodmoon Pack to fall."

The next morning, I woke to a tray of food on my bedside table and a note in sharp, slanted handwriting.

Breakfast at dawn. Don't be late. — D.

I ate quickly, dressed in one of Selene's old dresses — too loose in the waist, too short in the hem — and made my way to the great hall.

Damon was already there, seated at the head of a long oak table. Kael stood behind him, arms crossed. A few other wolves I didn't recognize sat along the sides — all watching me.

I took the seat across from Damon.

"You're wearing that?" he asked.

"It's all I have."

He frowned, then glanced at Kael. "Have clothes made for her. Proper ones. By tonight."

Kael nodded. "Yes, Alpha."

I blinked. "You don't have to—"

"I'm not doing it for you." Damon picked up his tea. "If you're going to be the Alpha's intended, you need to look the part. My wolves need to see strength, not a girl in a borrowed dress."

The words stung. But he wasn't wrong.

I picked up my fork. "Fine. But I'm paying you back."

"With what?"

"I'll think of something."

The corner of his mouth moved — that ghost of a smile I'd seen once before. "I look forward to seeing you try."