The Human Luna

Chapter Eight – Finally Some Answers

"Thomas, control your wolf."

My father’s voice was calm, but the word wolf… it lodged itself in my chest like a shard of glass. Wolf? What wolf? My eyes darted around the room, half-expecting some snarling animal to step out of the shadows. But there was nothing—just Thomas.

Only… not just Thomas. His eyes. I could swear they had been pure black a second ago, like pits of midnight. Now, as I blinked, that darkness melted away, replaced by those deep brown eyes I remembered. My stomach twisted. What the hell had I just seen?

"We agreed, Shannon would choose her own path," my father continued, steady as stone. "Not us."

Choose my own path? Choose between what? My pulse thundered in my ears as I stared at them both, waiting for someone to just spit it out already.

"Well?" My voice snapped sharper than I intended. "Are you going to tell me? Why would he have a wolf? What does that even mean?"

This time Thomas moved, slow and careful, like he thought I might bolt. He perched on the edge of the bed and reached for my hand. His warmth seeped into my skin, steady and grounding, even as his voice dropped soft enough to almost break me.

"Angel… your dad and I—we’re werewolves."

I froze. The words didn’t compute. And then laughter—sharp, hysterical—burst out of me. Werewolves. Actual bloody werewolves.

"You’ve got to be kidding me," I laughed, clutching my ribs even though every shake of laughter sent pain spearing through me. "Werewolves? Really? That’s what you’re going with? What’s actually going on here—huh? Did you two cook up this little fairy tale while I was out cold? Is this some elaborate plan to pack me off to my aunts?"

But the laughter died in my throat when I saw their faces. No trace of humour. No smile. Not even a twitch. Just two sets of deadly serious eyes locked on me.

The humour drained out of me, leaving only heat—anger sparking up my spine. "You’re actually serious? You expect me to believe this crap? What, you think I’m that gullible?"

My dad stepped forward then, and for the first time I saw it—that same look of authority Thomas carried. Something older. He rested his hand on the bedframe, his voice low but unshakable.

"Hunny… Thomas is telling the truth. We are all werewolves. The girls. Me. Thomas. Even Nurse Hilary. Thomas is our Alpha—the head wolf of our pack, so to speak."

He paused, giving me time to process. My head was spinning.

I mean… I could almost believe Thomas was a wolf. The way his eyes kept shifting between that impossible black and his warm brown. The way people bowed their heads when he entered a room, calling him Alpha like he was some kind of king. His anger—sharp, feral, barely controlled sometimes. And of course, the obvious—he was a damn giant. Everything about him screamed predator.

I studied him more closely now, lingering on the heat of his hand around mine. That warmth seeped into me like fire in winter, chasing away the chill that had settled in my bones since the night of the storm. Maybe this was what Dad meant. Maybe this was why Thomas’s touch always felt… different. Calming. Electric.

But then another thought hit me like ice water.

If my dad was a werewolf… and my sisters too… then why wasn’t I?

Thomas’s voice broke through my thoughts.

"The men that came after you the night of the storm," he began carefully, his eyes never leaving mine, "they were what we call rogues. Rogue werewolves. Ones without a pack, without law. They went after you to get to me. They tried to kill me, to storm my pack. And when that didn’t work…" his jaw clenched, his voice roughened, "they went after the one thing they knew would destroy me. You."

His grip tightened slightly, not painful, but enough that I felt the tremor in his hand—the way saying those words rattled him. His eyes burned with something raw.

But… me?

I swallowed hard. My mind ran circles, trying to connect the dots, trying to understand. Why me? We’d only met twice—once when I was a scared eleven-year-old in the woods, and then just the other day in town. Two brief encounters in a lifetime. What made me so important?

"Why me?" I whispered, needing—no, demanding—answers. My voice cracked with the weight of it, my heart hammering against my ribs.

Because none of this made sense. They had no reason to lie, and yet the word werewolf still tasted like madness on my tongue.

"Because, Shannon," Thomas said softly, his thumb brushing circles over the back of my hand, "Angel… you’re my mate. You were created by the Moon Goddess to be with me. To be my Luna for as long as we both live, to rule side by side as one. Since the day I first saw you in the woods—"

I cut him off before I could stop myself, my voice rising with the memory. "When you found us and carried Clara home?"

His lips curved, but it wasn’t quite a smile. "Actually… no. I met you earlier that day. In my wolf form."

The room seemed to tilt.

"I followed your scent through the trees," he continued, his voice low, as if confessing a secret he’d carried for years. "I found the girls playing. They were covered in your scent—strong, because you were their main carer back then. We didn’t know it was you. We assumed Clara was my mate, which is why we chased her. But when you came into the meadow…" His eyes darkened, flickering that strange black again. "That was when I realised. It was you. It’s always been you."

I sat frozen, my eyes wide, words stuck in my throat. He… he was the wolf. The massive black wolf that had haunted my dreams every single night since I was a child. The creature I had feared and longed for without even knowing why.

He wasn’t just the man of my dreams. He was literally the wolf of them too.

The truth crashed over me like a wave, leaving me gasping for air. It made sense—far too much sense. That was how Thomas knew exactly where to find us that night; he hadn’t just been wandering randomly. He had already been there. Already been watching. Already been waiting.

That was why he helped us. That was why he wanted to know my name.

And now… he was saying I was his. That I was destined for him, designed by some goddess I wasn’t even sure I believed in, tied to him forever. To rule. To lead. To belong.

My stomach twisted, but not entirely with fear. Still… one thought gnawed at me.

If my dad was a werewolf, and so were my sisters… then why wasn’t I? Shouldn’t I be like them?

I tore my gaze from Thomas and looked at my father. He had been silent this whole time, his eyes fixed on me with such intensity it hurt to look back at him. His expression shifted—guilt, grief, something deep and raw that I didn’t understand.

"If you and the girls are werewolves," I asked slowly, my voice trembling, "then why… why aren’t I?"

The silence stretched, heavy and suffocating. My dad’s lips parted, but for a long moment no sound came out. When he finally spoke, his voice was thick, cracked with emotion.

"Hunny…" My dad’s voice wavered, and he swallowed hard, like the words burned on his tongue. "I’m not your biological father."