Nameless Luna

“James is back.” Bonny’s voice was barely a whisper, yet the words struck me like a thunderclap. She spoke quickly, nervously, her eyes darting in every direction as though the darkness itself might betray us. None of us possessed the luxury of feeling safe. Not here. Not ever. If the men heard us talking— If they merely saw us standing where we weren’t supposed to be— If we were lucky, we would be cursed at. If we were not… we would be beaten. And if we dared to make a sound while enduring it—a cry, a whimper, even a gasp—the punishment would only worsen. Pain here was not enough. They required silence to accompany it. I felt my pulse quicken. James is back. After seven years. Death had never been a rare spectacle in Anderstone Pack. A woman collapsing beneath fists. A woman dragged away, never returning. A woman discarded like spoiled meat. No one questioned it. No one reacted. Female suffering was as ordinary as the changing seasons. Whatever history had shaped this pack into what it was, its hatred for women had long since calcified into tradition. Here, women were not individuals. Not beings. Not even wolves. We were resources. Used. Consumed. Disposed. As breeders, we existed to maintain numbers. If a woman bore a son, she was temporarily elevated—allowed into the pack house, fed, clothed, treated as something almost resembling human. But the privilege never lasted. Once the boy was weaned, once he no longer needed her body… She was thrown back out. Returned to filth. Returned to us. Returned to nothing. As playthings, our worth was measured by desire. If a member found one of us attractive—or simply felt the need to satisfy an urge—we would be taken. One woman. Sometimes more. We would be permitted to clean ourselves first, as though hygiene could disguise the degradation waiting for us. Then, once they were finished… We would be discarded again. Like objects returned to storage. As punching bags, we served a different function. Stress relief. Entertainment. Cruelty required no justification. I had seen women crippled. Broken. Killed. All without consequence. We were not even granted a proper shelter. No rooms. No beds. No protection from rain or cold. The closest thing to safety was a cramped corner behind the horse stables—a space that reeked of hay, damp wood, and animal musk. To them, it was fitting. To them, we were no better than livestock. Disposable lowly creatures. But James… James had never been like them. I was very young when I first understood the difference. Hunger had consumed me so completely that I could no longer move. My small body lay half-submerged in mud, rain pouring relentlessly from a merciless sky. Every breath had been shallow, every heartbeat fading. I remembered the cold most vividly. Cold that seeped into bone. Cold that whispered of ending. I was the youngest among the women, too small, too weak, too insignificant even for cruelty. During the rainy season, the older females were often taken away—used to warm the beds of shifted wolves. I had been left alone. Alone… and dying. I could still recall the scent of it. That strange, metallic stillness of approaching death. No one witnessed James finding me. No one saw him lift my frail, mud-covered body into his arms. He carried me to the stables, rainwater dripping from his clothes, his movements urgent yet strangely gentle. Without hesitation, he washed the mud from my skin with trembling hands. He said nothing. He only acted. Moments later, he tossed a bundle of worn, oversized clothing toward me—spare garments meant for shifted wolves. They hung awkwardly from my tiny frame, but they were warm. More warmth than I had felt in days. Then he placed several pieces of bread beside me. Food. Real food. To my starving body, it felt like a miracle. After that night, James began visiting me in secret. He was only a few years older, yet impossibly different from every male I had ever known. When no one was watching, when shadows hid his presence, he would sit beside me. He taught me to read. To count. To think. Sometimes he brought food. Sometimes he brought nothing but quiet companionship. Both were equally precious. Until Alpha Marlon found out. I still remembered the terror. The Alpha’s fury had been monstrous, primal, devoid of reason. He accused me—a ten-year-old child—of trying to seduce his son. Seduce. The absurdity of the word had meant nothing beneath the storm of violence that followed. He hurled my body against the stable walls and floor again and again. My bones felt as though they might splinter. The horses screamed and thrashed, their distress echoing through the night. No one intervened. No one dared. To challenge an Alpha’s rage was to invite death. James had been there. I remembered that too. His jaw clenched. His entire body rigid with restrained fury. But he did nothing. He could do nothing. And through the haze of agony, through the taste of blood flooding my mouth, I found I did not blame him. Pain leaves little room for judgment. Somehow, impossibly… I survived. Bonny, Curly, and Ginger nursed me back from the brink as best they could. Days blurred into nights of fever and aching bones. My body became something foreign, fragile, barely functional. But alive. Still alive. Several nights later, beneath the full moon, the men departed for their midnight run. That was when James came. He was 13 then. Old enough to carry the weight of guilt that was written plainly across his face. For once, he did not hide. For once, he did not care who saw. He knelt beside me, his voice shaking, his eyes filled with something I had never seen in this pack. Remorse. “Father sent me away for my education,” he whispered. “For a few years.” His hand trembled as it touched my hair. “I will come back for you.” Then, softer— “Hold on, Ira.” Ira. The name he had given me. The only name that had ever belonged to me. Long ago, Dawn—the woman who had given birth and nursed James—used to bring me along when she secretly visited him. She was the closest thing I had ever known to kindness. Until she vanished. Gone without explanation. Gone like so many others. I once overheard Bonny and Curly speaking in hushed, horrified tones. They believed Marlon had killed her after discovering those visits. In Anderstone Pack, such endings were unsurprising. That night, James placed a heavy bag on the ground. Food. Enough to feed every starving woman gathered there. None of us spoke. None of us dared. We only stared, gratitude burning silently in our chests. He stroked my head one last time. Then he left. And hope left with him. Until now. Until again, Bonny’s trembling whisper shattered seven years of waiting. “Dear, do you hear me? James is back.”