The Nameless Luna – Book One: The Girl With Violet Eyes
The Nameless Luna – Book One: Chapter 8

I make my way back to my room as fast as my feet will carry me. A familiar, wicked voice whispers in the back of my mind over and over again: ‘It’s your fault. It’s all your fault. You’re a disappointment. You’re more trouble than you’re worth. You’ll pay for this.’
I can no longer tell the difference between my uncle’s voice, my cousin’s taunts, and my own inner monologue. Thankfully, I make it back to my room and collapse against the door after closing it behind me. I lean against it, shutting my eyes, but the sound of footsteps on the other side makes me stiffen.
A door that locks from the inside is a gift. A luxury. But what if locking myself in only makes things worse?
Before I can consider my options, there’s a tentative knock at the door, and I turn to face it. I don’t know how, but I know it’s him.
Tristan.
Has he come to chastise me for storming off?
There’s another knock, a little more forceful than the last. I reach for the handle, numbly obeying the unspoken command. I open the door slowly, moving to stand behind it.
Tristan’s golden-brown mane is tousled as though he ran his hands through his hair in frustration. He surveys me, noticing the way I timidly poke my head out from behind the door, seemingly calculating the distance between us.
He sighs, some of the annoyance and anger melting out of his feline eyes. “I’m not going to hurt you, little one.” He reaches out toward me, and I take a step back, but he simply closes the door, removing the barrier between us. Alone in this room with him, something stirs within me at the way he looks at me. Though he is built like a lion, his gaze is not predatory; he watches me with curiosity, his amber eyes narrowing.
“It was not our intention to startle you,” he says, his voice cautious and measured. “Mark should not have lashed out like that.”
Is he… apologizing? To me? I frown, unable to conceal my confusion. I figured he’d be angry that I ran away, but as my violet eyes flicker up to meet his, there’s a trace of concern there that I do not recognize.
“Whether any of us like it or not, you are my fated mate. No one in my pack will harm you; you have my word.”
His words are firm, and there is nothing soft about the way he addresses me. He is an Alpha in every sense of the word, authoritative and commanding, even in his attempts to reassure me. Yet somehow, it works. A small part of me relaxes, raging against all logic with a longing to trust him.
I wonder if it’s because of the mating bond. Could its power lull me into a false sense of security? I can’t worry about that now, not when he’s standing so close to me, not when we’re alone in a room where the only sound is his steady breathing and the frantic beating of my heart.
He chuckles bitterly, looking away as if following some train of thought with his eyes. “It’s not supposed to be like this.”
I don’t know what he means, but I recognize the weariness in his voice. I may not know anything about being an Alpha or the pressure of his pack, but I know what it’s like to be exhausted. I know what it’s like to carry the sort of fatigue that weighs down to your bones.
We are too young to be this tired.
I take a small step toward him, closing some of the distance between us. My hand grazes his, something inside me longing to comfort him. I know I am far too small and inconsequential to feel any sort of kinship toward someone like him, but I can’t help it. Perhaps it’s that same urge that drove him to come after me and try and reassure me.
My fingertips brush against the tops of his knuckles, and I glance down, but I can feel his eyes trained on mine, unwavering.
I shouldn’t want to touch him. I shouldn’t want to be anywhere near him. Every survival instinct should be screaming at me to put as much distance between us as possible. This man, this wolf, is all but a stranger. He’s a feared Alpha that could crush me without breaking a sweat.
But Tristan is also my mate.
I’ve never allowed myself to consider the implications of that. He risked his life to come and claim me, and argued against his Beta on my behalf. He opened his home to me, gave me my own room, and offered me his word that I would be safe here.
It’s more than I would ever dare ask for.
“All this trouble and I still don’t even know your name,” he says at last, and my breath catches in my throat.
I don’t have one.
My mother lost her mind when I was just a baby. She was never able to tell anyone who my father was. Viktor was furious when he discovered his sister was pregnant, but she went properly insane, rambling nonsense and speaking in made-up languages. She’d wander around, lost in her own house, falling into fits of unexplained screaming or laughter. No one in the pack stepped forward to claim me as a daughter, and my mother bore no mating mark.
I was a bastard, and before my lunatic mother could name me, she passed away, presumably killed by whatever had destroyed her sanity in the first place. My uncle never bothered to name me after her passing. No one did. I was just ‘the girl,’ ‘the mutt,’ or ‘that bitch’ on a bad day. Uncle Viktor had a lot of bad days.
I pull my hand away, retreating back into myself.
“You are my mate and a guest in my home. I would like to know your name,” he insists, reaching to take my hand, but I take a step back, wrapping my arms around myself.
How can I tell him? How can I stand before him and reveal this broken, unwanted thing that I am? How can a nameless slave be destined for a king?
From the corner of my eye, I can see his muscles going taut, his back going rigid.
“What’s your name, girl?” he asks, that patient uncertainty now gone from his voice. I just shake my head. I don’t have the heart to tell him.
Weak, foolish thing.
I can’t bring myself to look at him, too ashamed to speak the truth and unwilling to lie. He makes a sound somewhere between a huff and a hiss, going for the door.
And just like that, there’s nothing to say, hold back, or wonder about.
He’s already gone.