Chapter 10 – Confirming His Luna by Eyes Novel

Filed to story: Confirming His Luna by Eyes Novel

I wake up back in the present, panting and gasping for air. I’m lying in my room in the villa, drenched in sweat, my heart racing, and my body trembling. I lie there in the dark, my mind replaying the nightmare over and over again. I can still taste the metallic tinge of blood lingering on my lips; I can still feel the suffocating weight of helplessness as Oscar ripped through me.

But I’m not alone.

Even after jolting awake, it takes me a few minutes to come to my senses, my eyes wide but unseeing. It’s like I’m coming gradually back into my body, surfacing from the depths of my nightmare. Someone is holding me, running a hand through my hair in a gentle caress.

Tristan is on the bed, holding me firmly as the nightmare unfurls its claws from around my mind. At some point, I tossed the covers off the bed, and my feet got tangled in the sheets. I’m wearing nothing but an oversized shirt Lucy must have left for me, and I’m trembling, curled up against Tristan as if he can physically shield me from the memories.

He must have realized I’m awake, my sobs catching in my throat and turning into panting breaths. He pulls away from me to examine my face, surveying my features and scanning me for further signs of pain or distress.

Even in the darkness of the room, I can make out the golden flecks in his eyes, framed by his furrowed brow. He’s not wearing a shirt, and I realize with a start that I’ve unconsciously dug my fingers into his shoulder, my nails leaving rosy streaks across his skin. He barely seems to notice.

He’s even leaner than he appeared with his clothes on, muscles carved into every inch of his torso. But in spite of his size, there’s nothing bulky about him; he’s elegant in a wild, natural sort of way, like waves in a storm or flickering flames dancing in a fire.

He looks more dreamlike than my nightmare. Oscar’s claws felt real, familiar, and feral. Tristan feels far less present somehow, solid but intangible at the same time. I reach out slowly, and his eyes dart to my hand as my fingertips brush against his cheek. He looks back at me, a hint of curiosity sparking in his amber eyes.

‘This is real,’ I tell myself, looking at him. Tristan is real. Oscar and his friends are not. It was just a bad dream. Just a bad memory. I’m here, in this place, on this night… with this man.

He says nothing; he asks no questions, whispers no sweet nothings, does not chastise me or berate me. He just sits there, wrapped around me like a living shield, waiting for me to come down and get ahold of myself.

I trace my fingers down the curve of his cheekbones, trailing down to the edge of his angular jaw. He has me cradled in his arms, one hand supporting the back of my head and the other pressed against the small of my back. My bare legs are draped over his lap, and he watches me wordlessly as I soak him in, telling myself over and over again that this is real.

My heart is still thundering in my chest, but it’s no longer because of fear. I should be terrified.

I’ve felt the hardness and anger of men firsthand, but as I peer up at Tristan, there is nothing even remotely hateful in him.

I brush my fingers down his neck, over his Adam’s apple, and down along his collarbone. I watch the muscles along his torse tighten beneath his caramel skin as I trail my hand softly across his chest with a feathery touch. My fingers glide between his pecs, and a chill runs through him, something new flashing in his warm eyes. I pull my hand away suddenly, clutching it against my chest and going rigid in his arms. He sucks in a sharp breath, and I’m worried that I’ve done something wrong, frightened that I’ve somehow angered him once more.

“I’m sorry, I shouldn’t… I didn’t…” I mutter. But he just exhales slowly and shakes his head as if reeling something back into himself.

“It’s okay,” he says finally, his voice low and husky, barely above a whisper. He shuts his eyes tightly before adding, “You… you can touch me… if you want to.”

I do.

I’ve seen plenty of pretty males back in my own pack, but none like him. And none who were kind. Hesitantly, I unfurl my fist and raise my hand up toward him again, tracing the dip of his lower lip, surprisingly silky under my fingertips. His lips part slightly, melting under my touch, and an idea crosses my mind that makes color rise up to my cheeks and heat pool in the pit of my stomach.

I want to trace the soft lines of those lips with my own.

As if reading my mind, his eyes flicker down to my mouth, and I feel that heat spreading with me. He leans down, and I tilt my chin up toward him, my hand dropping to rest lightly against his chest. He smells like honey and smoke, and he’s close enough that I can feel the warmth of his breath against my lips. They brush tentatively against his, feather-soft and tantalizingly slow.

It’s barely the ghost of a kiss, but suddenly something cold and biting burns across my chest. There’s a slashing sort of sting over my heart, reminding me of the slicing agony that Oscar’s claws once inflicted, and I gasp, pulling away sharply.

“No!” I choke on the word.

Tristan’s eyelashes flutter over his golden eyes as he blinks in confusion, and I desperately wriggle out of his arms and crawl away from him, putting as much distance between us as possible without falling off the bed. I press my palm over my chest, over the crescent, scar-like birthmark right below my left collarbone, as I pant.

It happens so quickly, and panic floods back into me. That flicker of pain muddies my memories and nightmares like something stirring up dirt underwater. I’m dizzy with drowsiness; fear makes everything murky, but I catch the flash of hurt in Tristan’s eyes.

I don’t know what just happened, what that was. Before I can contemplate the words that might express my confusion or communicate what I just experienced, Tristan is on his feet. He moves with the speed and precision of a perfect predator. In what seems like a single, swift motion, he turns away from me, heading for the door with such resentment in his expression that I don’t know what to do with myself.

“No,” I say again, softer this time. He ignores me, taking another step toward the exit.

I’m sore and startled and still very much afraid.

But I don’t want him to go.

 

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“Please.”

The plea escapes me before I can think twice about it, and Tristan stops, his back still turned to me. He doesn’t face me, but he’s no longer bolting for the door. I take a few shaky breaths, trying to steady myself as my head spins. I let myself collapse onto the bed, hunching forward facedown, so my forehead is resting on the mattress as I struggle to gather my bearings.

I don’t have the energy or the good sense to consider my next words, so I just let them tumble out. “Please don’t go.”

I hear him turning back toward me, but I remain curled up on the bed, shaking slightly.

“Why?” he asks, but it is more of an accusation than a question. He must think I’m mad. Perhaps I am. Perhaps I’ve lost my mind at last. Is this what my mother felt like? Am I damned to suffer the same fate as she did?

I don’t know what to tell him. I don’t know what I could possibly say to explain myself or to apologize. I want to thank him for comforting me, thank him for his patience and concern for me. It’s more than anyone has ever shown me.

I think of the way he held Oscar’s hand in a death grip before my cousin could hit me, and how he let me climb onto his back when I was too weak to run. I think of how he snapped at his Beta at dinner, and the way he seemed almost apologetic when he came to check on me after.

‘All this trouble, and I still don’t even know your name.’

It’s the least I can give him.

“I…” I start, and my voice is unsteady as I lift my head from the bed but keep my eyes lowered. “I don’t have a name.”

Silence. My head is hanging, my gaze fixed on my hands curled into the sheets below me.

“You wanted to know what I’m called,” I go on, filling the silence with my hushed words. “But I couldn’t tell you. My father abandoned my mother without mating with her. I never knew who he was or where I came from, and my mother…” She lost her mind. She had a cursed child with violet eyes and no father that drove her mad until she died. “My mother died when I was just a baby, so I was raised by her brother, Viktor.”

Tristan lets out a sharp breath, and it dawns on me that he never even knew that I was the Alpha’s niece. He probably never would have guessed it from the way Viktor and Oscar treated me. It might not have been the best idea to reveal that I’m related to his enemy.

Please, please don’t hate me…

“Viktor, is your uncle?” he asks, and when I nod to confirm, he curses under his breath. I flinch.

“He doesn’t consider me family,” I add, which is actually true. “My mother was unmarked, and I’m illegitimate, so he never considered me his kin. He was just… my guardian.”

My warden is more like it, but I keep the thought to myself.

“And he never gave you a name? No one in your pack did?” he asks, and I can’t quite make out the emotion behind his tone.

I glance up at him from where I’m huddled on the bed. He’s standing a few feet away, completely still, watching me with an unreadable expression on his face. The softness, openness, and curiosity that were there a few minutes ago while he held me in bed are gone. But he is also no longer glaring at me in anger.

I shake my head no.

“What did they call you?” he asks, his voice guarded and his words measured.

Nothing kind. Nothing worth repeating.

I shrug, lowering my eyes again, not wanting to see the disgust that surely fill his. I fidget uncomfortably, feeling the heat of his gaze on my skin. I rub at the birthmark on my chest absently, but there is no pain there. Whatever I felt earlier is gone, and all that remains is this tension filling the air, clouding the space between us.

After a while, I look up at him again, but he seems farther away somehow, like he’s retreated into himself. I bite my lower lip, wondering if I’ve ruined everything.

“I’m sorry I didn’t tell you before; when you asked my name, I didn’t know what to say,” I try to explain. “I’m sorry for running away at dinner. And sorry for waking you up tonight. I’m sorry I—”

“Don’t,” he says, his voice still quiet, but there’s something firm and commanding behind the word. He stops for a moment, considering what to say next. His gaze tickles my skin like an invisible caress, and I feel suddenly exposed in nothing but a shirt and underthings.

Even in the darkness of the room, I feel as though I’ve somehow bared myself to him, and I cannot stand to imagine what he must think of me. I cannot stand the thought of that familiar disgust and disdain that comes from seeing the broken pieces of another person. Of seeing me.

I tuck my legs into my chest, turning away from him to reach for the tangled pile of blankets by the edge of the bed.

After a long moment, Tristan sighs and says, “You don’t have to apologize. If there was anything for me to forgive, I would. But there isn’t.” With that, he turns away once again. He lingers in the doorway, tearing his attention away from me to glance down at the door handle with a sudden frown. “You can lock the door if it makes you feel safer,” he tells me at last. “But at least for tonight, I’m glad that you didn’t.”

I wonder what he would have done if I had. Would he have knocked down the door to reach me when he heard me scream? Or would the enchanted house simply have opened it for him?

“Get some rest,” he says, and he closes the door behind him.

I crawl back under the covers, but briefly consider getting up to lock the door behind him. After a few minutes of lying in the darkness, I slip out of bed and head for the door, the floor cold under my bare feet.

Eventually, I go back to bed, and I sleep soundly the rest of the night, the door of my room left slightly open.

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