Moon-Marked Luna

Chapter 3

DAWN

Four years later...

Four years is enough time for a marriage to change without anyone noticing the exact moment it started.

Callum didn’t become distant overnight. It was gradual — like watching a candle burn down.

A little less warmth each day.

A little more silence.

A little more space between us in bed.

After Eve left the kingdom, he threw himself into work. At first, I thought it was grief. Then responsibility. Then habit. Eventually, I stopped trying to label it.

He came home late more often than not. Some nights, I’d hear the front door open long after midnight, followed by the soft thud of his boots and the quiet sigh he always made when he thought I was asleep.

Sometimes I pretended to be.

Other times, I lay awake, staring at the ceiling, listening to him shower, dress for bed, and slip under the covers without touching me.

We argued in the beginning.

Once or twice a month.

“You’re working too much.”

“I’m doing what needs to be done.”

“You’re never home.”

“I’m doing this for the kingdom.”

“You’re shutting me out.”

“I’m tired, Dawn. Can we not do this tonight?”

Then one day, I realized I was tired too.

So I stopped bringing it up.

Stopped asking where he’d been.

Or why he didn’t come home for dinner.

Or why he didn’t reach for me anymore.

Silence was easier than disappointment.

My Luna duties didn’t stop.

Every morning, I walked the kingdom with Corinne or the council aides. I checked on families, oversaw food distribution, mediated disputes, and attended meetings. I smiled. I listened. I did everything a Luna was supposed to do.

But the whispers followed me everywhere.

“Why isn’t she pregnant yet?”

“It’s been years.”

“Maybe the Luna is barren.”

“The kingdom needs an heir.”

“Chase and Eve’s boy Cael is getting so big now…”

“At least Chase left a legacy.”

“Maybe the Alpha needs a different Luna.”

I tried to ignore it and pretend I didn’t hear.

I remind myself that wolves talked, and gossip was as natural as breathing.

But it still hurt.

Especially because I wondered the same thing.

Why wasn’t I pregnant?

Callum and I didn’t use protection.

But our intimacy had become rare — and when it did happen, it felt rushed, like he was fulfilling a duty rather than reaching for me.

One night, months ago, I tried to initiate something. I touched his arm gently, leaned into him, whispered his name.

He kissed me back — briefly — then pulled away.

“I’m exhausted,” he said. “Tomorrow, okay?”

Tomorrow never came.

The pack talked about Cael often.

Chase and Eve’s son.

The only Ashbourne child.

Growing fast.

Overseas with his mother.

“He must look just like Chase,” someone said once as I passed by.

“You think he’s already shifting early?” another whispered.

"I think he's too young. He's what, three?" someone replied.

“Strong bloodline,” a warrior murmured. “He’ll be something.”

And every time I heard his name, something inside me twisted.

Not because of Cael — he was innocent.

But because of what he represented.

A legacy. A future. A child that wasn’t mine.

Then one afternoon, Callum came home early.

I was in the study reviewing winter supply reports when I heard the front door open. I didn’t think much of it — maybe he forgot something. Maybe he needed a document.

But then I heard him humming.

Callum never hummed.

I stepped into the hallway just as he shrugged off his coat. His face was lit with a smile I hadn’t seen in years — bright, unguarded, almost boyish.

“You’re home early,” I said.

He looked up, eyes shining. “I have news.”

Something in my chest tightened. “Good news?”

“The best,” he said, breathless with excitement. “Eve and Cael are coming home. They’re staying in the kingdom.”

I froze.

Just for a second.

Just long enough for my heart to drop before I forced it back into place.

“That’s… wonderful,” I said, my voice steady even though my stomach had twisted into a knot.

He didn’t notice.

Or maybe he didn’t look closely enough to see.

“They’ll be here today,” he continued. “I want everything ready. Is Chase’s home still maintained?”

I nodded. “Yes. I made sure of it.”

He blinked. “You did?”

“Of course,” I said softly. “It’s still his home.”

I didn’t tell him I was the one who checked it. I made sure the sheets were changed regularly. I kept the windows open so the air stayed fresh. I dusted the shelves even though no one slept there.

He ran a hand through his hair, still smiling. “Good. Good.”

I swallowed. “Are you leaving?”

“Yes,” he said immediately. “I’m picking them up from the airport.”

He was already reaching for his keys. Already halfway out the door.

Already somewhere else in his mind.

I forced a smile. “Callum… are you forgetting anything today?”

He paused. Just for a moment.

Then shook his head. “No. I’ll be back later, okay?”

He didn’t wait for my response or even look back.

He didn’t see the way my smile fell the moment the door closed behind him.

I stood there in the quiet house, the echo of his excitement still hanging in the air.

Today was my birthday.

And he didn’t remember.

I didn’t cry or call after him. I didn’t chase him down the driveway.

I just stood there, hands clasped in front of me, feeling something inside me shift — a small, quiet breaking.

It was a soft, tired ache.

The kind that comes from loving someone who no longer sees you.