Loving Luna

The Things He Forgot

“And when you laugh…” Darius said quietly, his thumb brushing slowly across Luna’s cheek, “I forget things.”

Luna’s breath caught, the words landing somewhere deeper than sound, as if they had slipped past her ears and settled directly into her chest.

Moonlight spilled through the tall gallery windows, turning the marble floor into a river of pale silver. It traced the sharp lines of Darius’s face, softening them just enough to make him look almost human—almost reachable.

“What things?” she asked, though she wasn’t sure she wanted the answer.

Darius’s gaze stayed on hers, steady in a way that made it impossible to look away.

“Things I thought I would carry forever.”

Luna’s fingers tightened in the fabric of his shirt without her realizing it, as if anchoring herself to something real.

“What do you carry?”

“Too much.”

“That’s not an answer.”

“It’s the only one I’ve got tonight.”

There was something in his voice that made her stop pushing. Not weakness. Not avoidance. Just exhaustion worn so deep it had become part of him.

Luna studied him for a long moment, then let it go.

“Alright,” she said softly.

Darius looked almost surprised, like he had expected resistance, argument, something sharper.

“You’re not going to argue?”

“I can, if that would make you feel better.”

A faint smile touched his mouth, brief and unguarded.

“There you are.”

Luna raised an eyebrow.

“Did you think one emotional conversation changed my entire personality?”

“I was hoping.”

She laughed, and the sound echoed lightly through the quiet hall.

Darius closed his eyes briefly, and she felt it through the bond—tension loosening, something coiled inside him finally exhaling. When he opened them again, something unguarded remained, like a door not fully shut.

“Your laugh,” he said.

“What about it?”

“It makes me forget how lonely this place can be.”

The admission settled between them, heavier than silence.

“You’re surrounded by people,” she said.

“That isn’t the same as being known.”

Her chest tightened at that, an ache she didn’t have a name for.

“And you think I know you?”

“No.”

“But you keep trying.”

Luna smiled faintly, softer now.

“You make it difficult.”

“I know.”

“Do you do that on purpose?”

“Usually.”

“Why?”

“People use what they know.”

“Against you?”

“Eventually.”

The word carried history in it. Not theory. Experience.

“Did someone do that?”

“Yes.”

She didn’t ask who. Something in his expression told her the name wasn’t the point—the damage was.

Instead, she reached up and placed her hand over the faint scar beneath his eyebrow.

Darius went still, like even breathing had become optional.

“Then I’ll prove I’m not everyone,” Luna said.

“You shouldn’t promise what you can’t control.”

“I can control whether I betray you.”

“You don’t know what choices you’ll face.”

“Neither do you.”

“Exactly.”

“That doesn’t mean trust is impossible.”

“No. It just makes it expensive.”

“Then let me earn it.”

The bond between them warmed—not desire, not hunger, but something steadier. Hope, fragile and unfamiliar.

Darius lifted her hand and pressed a slow kiss to her knuckles, as if testing whether she would disappear.

“You keep doing that,” she whispered.

“Like what?”

“Making it hard to be careful.”

“You should still be careful.”

“I know.”

“I have enemies.”

“I’ve met a few.”

“My life isn’t peaceful.”

“You own weapons that kill immortals. I figured that part out.”

A faint exhale left him, almost a laugh.

“And you still want this?”

“I want to know what this could be.”

“That’s not the same as wanting me.”

“No.”

A pause.

“But I do want you.”

The gold in his eyes returned, faint but undeniable.

“I just don’t know what it will cost.”

“Safety. Privacy. Peace.”

“And you?”

“Control.”

“That sounds dramatic.”

“It isn’t.”

He studied her for a long moment, as if weighing whether she understood the shape of what she was asking for.

“When you walked into the clearing, I knew you were safe before I saw you,” he said quietly. “When the arrow hit me, my last thought was you.”

Luna’s breath caught.

“And when you kissed me,” he continued, “my wolf stopped asking if you belonged to us.”

Her pulse stuttered.

“What did it ask instead?”

“How long I planned to keep pretending I didn’t belong to you.”

The words hit like fire and silence at the same time.

“You said I belong to myself,” she said.

“You do.”

“And you?”

“I’ve belonged to duty for a century.”

The weight of that number pressed into the air between them.

“I don’t know how to belong to a person,” he admitted.

“Good.”

“Good?”

“I don’t want ownership.”

“Neither do I.”

“I want partnership.”

“That might be harder.”

“I like hard things.”

Something in his expression softened at that—approval, maybe, or recognition.

Darius kissed her again, slower this time. No urgency. No fracture of restraint. Just presence. Just choice.

When he finally pulled back, he said, “We should stop.”

“Why?”

“You’re exhausted.”

“I’m awake.”

“You nearly collapsed earlier.”

“Are you rejecting me?”

“No.”

“Then what?”

“Trying to be someone you won’t regret trusting.”

Her irritation flickered, then faded into something quieter.

“You think I kissed you out of fear?”

“Fear makes people reach for comfort.”

“What if you’re my comfort?”

The question seemed to unsettle him more than any argument.

“I want to deserve that,” he said.

Silence stretched, not empty but full of everything neither of them knew how to name yet.

“Then I stay,” he said when she didn’t speak.

“One choice at a time,” she replied.

A small girl appeared in the corridor, clutching a stuffed wolf almost as big as her arm.

“Alpha?”

Darius softened instantly, the shift so complete it was like watching a different person step forward.

“What happened, Nora?”

“I had a bad dream.”

He crouched to her level, voice gentler than Luna had ever heard it.

“Where is your mother?”

“At the clinic.”

The girl ran into his arms without hesitation.

“Is the bad man coming back?”

“No,” he said firmly. “Not tonight.”

“Promise?”

He hesitated just long enough for honesty to show through.

Luna stepped forward. “Want us to check your room?”

Nora nodded quickly, trusting them both without question.

Darius checked the room with quiet, serious focus, scanning corners, shadows, even the space beneath the bed as if danger might be hiding in patience.

“No Shadow King,” he said finally.

Nora yawned, already half asleep. “Can you stay?”

They sat on either side of her small bed, the room dim and warm.

“Are you his mate?” she asked Luna suddenly.

Luna choked on air.

“We’re getting to know each other,” Darius said smoothly.

“That’s not what I asked.”

Luna let out a helpless laugh, covering her face.

Nora fell asleep quickly after that, as if the answer had satisfied something important.

In the hallway, Darius spoke quietly.

“Who keeps the Alpha safe?”

Luna looked at him.

“You do,” he said.

Her breath caught at the certainty in his voice.

“And who keeps you safe?” she asked.

“You do.”

The answer settled between them like something newly forged.

Later, in her room, Darius lay beside her, careful to leave space between them as if proximity itself required permission.

“This is better,” Luna said, shifting closer anyway.

“Yes.”

After a while, she asked, “Did you mean it? That you don’t know if it’s love?”

“Yes.”

“I don’t know either.”

“But?”

“But it doesn’t feel halfway.”

“No,” he agreed quietly.

Sleep came easier after that, like something inside them had finally stopped resisting rest.

Just before she drifted off, a whisper slipped into her dreams.

He has forgotten before.

She stood in fire and smoke. The world around her burned in slow motion, ash falling like snow. A woman who looked like her held a bloodied sword, her hands steady despite the tremor in the air.

Behind her, a man with Darius’s face lay still.

“He will love you,” the woman said, voice breaking through the flames. “And that’s why you must leave him before he remembers who killed him.”

Luna woke screaming.

Darius was already there, as if he had never left.

“What did you see?”

Her voice broke completely.

“You.”