The Reluctant Luna Contract

Chapter 1

Amanda

“You cannot be serious.” My grandmother’s voice is as brittle as the dead leaves clinging to the branches outside our window. She slams an iron pot onto the hearth, the clang echoing the tremor in my own bones. “To give yourself to that… that brute.”

“I am saving us, Nana,” I say, my own voice a low and steady thing I do not recognize. I will not let it shake. “Look outside. The blight has crossed the river. The pups are coughing from the dust in the air. We have nothing left to trade.”

“There are always other ways.” She turns from the fire, her eyes, usually so full of warmth, are two chips of flint. “We are Silverwood. We endure.”

“We are dying,” I counter, the words tasting like ash. “Little Maris can barely keep food down. Your own joints ache from the damp rot in the wood of our walls. I have tried every remedy. Every poultice from every root I know. The earth itself is sick, and I cannot heal it.” I take a breath, holding her fierce gaze. “He can.”

“Alpha Thorn of Blackmoon is a beast,” she spits the name. “Cold. Cruel. They say he has a heart of stone. That he has not smiled since his first mate was killed. What kind of life will that be for you?”

“It is not about my life,” I say, walking to her and taking her work-worn hands in mine. They are trembling. “It is about all of ours. Their offer of grain, lumber, and healers… Nana, it is a king’s ransom. And I am the price.”

Her fight seems to drain out of her all at once, leaving behind the stooped shoulders of an old woman who has seen too many winters. She pulls one hand free and cups my cheek. “My clever girl. Always thinking. Always fixing. Your mother was the same.” A single tear escapes and traces a path through the flour on her cheek. “She would not have wanted this for you.”

“She would have wanted our people to live.” The finality of it hangs between us in the small, smoky room. This is it. The last argument. The last morning in the only home I have ever known. There is nothing left to say.

She helps me pack. Not my few simple dresses, but small, important things. A pouch of dried silverleaf for fevers. A sachet of crushed lavender from our garden to help with sleep. A small, smooth river stone I’ve had since I was a child. Each item is a piece of home, a tangible weight against the hollow fear in my chest. When she presses a tiny, hand-carved wooden wolf into my palm, her voice is a whisper. “So you do not forget who you are.”

I clutch it tight. “I won’t.”

I say my goodbyes at the edge of our territory. My father, our Alpha, pulls me into a stiff, formal hug that betrays none of the sorrow I know he feels. The others offer quiet words, their eyes full of a painful mix of gratitude and pity. They see me as a sacrifice. A lamb being led to a much stronger wolf. Maybe they are right.

Two guards from Blackmoon escort me. They do not speak. The journey is a blur of unfamiliar trees and darkening skies. The air changes as we cross the border into their lands. It grows colder, heavier. The trees here are ancient and enormous, their branches blotting out the sun, creating a world of deep green shadows. Silverwood feels a thousand miles away, a dream of dying sunlight.

The Blackmoon packhouse is not a home. It is a fortress. Hewn from dark stone and timber, it rises from the earth like a fist, imposing and utterly without welcome. I am led inside, not to the great hall, but to a small antechamber. And then I am left to wait.

Minutes stretch into an hour. The silence is a pressure against my ears. No one comes. No one offers me water or a kind word. The message is clear. I am cargo. A delivery to be processed. Just as the humiliation begins to burn, the heavy oak door swings open.

He is larger than I imagined. Broader in the shoulder, taller by a head than any man in my pack. Alpha Thorn does not walk into the room; he consumes it. His presence is a physical force, a drop in temperature, a tightening in my throat. His hair is as black as a moonless night, and his eyes are the color of a winter storm. He stops several feet away, his gaze sweeping over me once, dismissive and cold.

“You are the one from Silverwood,” he states. It is not a question. His voice is deep, a low rumble that seems to vibrate through the stone floor.

I lift my chin, refusing to be cowed. My grandmother’s parting gift feels warm in my clenched fist. “My name is Amanda.” I pause, the next words catching in my throat. “I am your intended.”

A muscle feathers in his jaw. For a moment, I see something flash in his eyes. Something raw and dangerous before it is locked away again behind a mask of ice. He takes a step closer, and I fight the instinct to step back.

“Let us be clear,” he says, his voice devoid of any warmth. “This is a treaty. A political arrangement to keep your pathetic pack from starving. You will have comfortable quarters. You will want for nothing material. But you are not my mate.”

I stare at him, the word ‘pathetic’ ringing in my ears. My entire world, my home, my family, dismissed in a single, cruel word.

“You will not share my bed,” he continues, his voice dropping even lower, each word a carefully placed stone building a wall between us. “You will not have my mark. And you will not expect anything more from me. Do you understand?”

I cannot find my voice. I can only nod, a tiny, jerky movement. All my courage, all my resolve, shatters into a million pieces. This is my cage. And the beast has just locked the door.

He gives me one last, unreadable look. “Good.”

Then he turns and walks away, leaving me alone in the heart of his fortress, the profound, chilling weight of my promise settling over me like a shroud.

Chapter 2

Amanda

I wake to silence. Not the gentle quiet of my home, filled with the distant sounds of the pack stirring, but a dead, heavy silence. The room they have given me is larger than my entire childhood home. The sheets are silk, the bedposts carved from a dark, polished wood. It is a beautiful cage.

A sharp knock precedes the door opening. A woman stands there, impossibly beautiful, with hair the color of spun gold and eyes the green of new spring leaves. Her smile is perfect. It does not reach her eyes.

“You must be Amanda.” Her voice is smooth, like honey. “I am Lila. Alpha Thorn’s Beta.”

She steps inside, her gaze sweeping over my simple woolen dress with a flicker of something I cannot name. Pity, perhaps. Or satisfaction.

“The Alpha asked me to ensure you are settled. We have a small morning ritual, a greeting in the dining hall. A formality, of course, but important for a newcomer.”

I nod, grateful for the guidance. “What do I need to do?”

“It’s simple,” she says, moving to adjust a silver vase on a table. “When the pack elders enter, you must bow your head. Keep it bowed until they are all seated. It is a sign of ultimate respect for their wisdom and age. A good first impression is so important, isn’t it?”

“Yes. Thank you, Lila.”

“Of course,” she purrs. “We are all one pack now.”

Her words feel like a lie.

The dining hall is immense, the air thick with the smell of roasting meat and the low hum of dozens of conversations. I find a place near the entrance, my hands clammy. When three older wolves, two men and a woman with stern faces, walk through the doors, I do as I was told. I lower my head, my eyes fixed on the stone floor.

The conversations die. A fork clatters against a plate, the sound echoing in the sudden, complete quiet.

A tense moment passes. Then another. I can feel every eye in the hall burning into me. A whisper snakes through the silence.

“What is she doing?”

“It’s an insult.”

My head snaps up. The elders are staring at me, their faces thunderous masks of offense. Panic claws at my throat.

Lila is suddenly at my side, a hand on my arm, her touch light but her grip like iron. Her face is a mask of false sympathy.

“Oh, you poor thing,” she whispers, just loud enough for those nearby to hear. “I am so sorry. I must have explained it wrong. In Blackmoon, you meet an elder’s gaze. To look away is to show you have something to hide. That you are a threat.”

Her eyes glitter with triumph. “It’s such a small thing. I’m sure no one will even remember.”

I pull my arm away from her, the heat of humiliation scorching my cheeks. I flee the hall, the sound of renewed whispers chasing me like a pack of hounds.

I find refuge in a small, untended garden, sinking onto a cold stone bench. I failed. My first day, and I have already failed.

“Are you Amanda?”

The voice is soft, hesitant. I look up to see a teenage girl with Thorn’s black hair and a shy, uncertain smile. She clutches a book to her chest.

I manage a nod.

“I’m Elara. Thorn’s sister.” She sits beside me, not too close. “Don’t listen to Lila. She’s a snake.”

Her directness surprises me. “She told me to bow my head.”

“I know. I heard her.” Elara looks down at her book. “She wanted you to look foolish. She… she used to be with my brother. Before.”

Before. Before what? Before me?

“I like your dress,” she says, changing the subject. “The stitching is nice.”

I look down at the familiar patterns of Silverwood. “My grandmother taught me.”

“She must be very wise,” Elara says. A small smile touches my lips for the first time since I arrived. Maybe I am not entirely alone here.

Later, a guard finds me. “The Alpha will see you.”

Thorn’s office is as cold and imposing as he is. He stands by a massive window, staring out at the dark forest. He doesn’t turn when I enter.

“You embarrassed this pack today.” His voice is flat. Final.

“I was given incorrect instructions,” I say, my own voice shaking slightly.

“It is your responsibility to learn our customs,” he counters, finally turning to face me. His storm-grey eyes are hard. “Not to make excuses.”

He walks toward me, closing the distance until I have to crane my neck to look at him. “I told you what this arrangement is. It is a treaty. Nothing more.”

He stops right in front of me. “I will not mark you. I will not make you my Luna in truth. You are a symbol, a guest in my home. That is all you will ever be.”

Something inside me snaps. The humiliation in the hall, Lila’s venomous smile, his cold dismissal. It is all too much.

“A guest?” The word is sharp. “Guests are welcomed. They are not set up for public failure by your… Beta.”

His eyes narrow, a flicker of surprise in their depths.

“You call my pack pathetic,” I continue, the words pouring out of me, hot and fast. “But at least we have honor. We do not play these kinds of cruel, petty games.”

I take a step forward, closing the last bit of space between us, refusing to be intimidated. “You can keep your mark. I have no desire to be bonded to an Alpha who has ice in his veins instead of a heart. I am here to save my people, not to be your toy. I will not be your fool.”

He stares down at me, his face an unreadable mask of stone. The air crackles with a tension so thick I can barely breathe. For a long, silent moment, he just looks at me. And for the first time, I see something behind the ice. It is not warmth. Not yet. But it is something. A spark of curiosity. A glint of respect.

Then it is gone, the mask slamming back into place.

“Get out,” he says, his voice a low growl.

I turn and walk away, my head held high, the echo of my own defiance a surprising, steadying beat in my chest.

Chapter 3

Amanda

The packhouse is a hive of activity. Preparations for the commitment ceremony are in full swing, with servants bustling through the halls carrying linens and trays of food. The scent of pine and roasting meat hangs in the air, but I cannot taste it. I am a ghost here, watching a life that is supposed to become mine.

Then I see her. Standing in the main entryway, looking small and defiant amidst the chaos. My grandmother.

“Nana.” The word is a breath, a prayer. I run to her, and her arms, strong and familiar, wrap around me. I bury my face in her shoulder, breathing in the scent of woodsmoke and home.

“Hush now, little wolf,” she murmurs into my hair. “Did you think I would let you face this alone?”

She pulls back, holding a long, flat bundle wrapped in cloth. “I brought you something. For the ceremony.”

She unwraps it carefully. It is a cloak. Woven by hand from the softest Silverwood wool, dyed the deep grey of a twilight sky. Along the hem and hood, she has embroidered a delicate, winding pattern of silverleaf vines. It is the most beautiful thing I have ever seen. It is a piece of my soul.

“It’s our history,” she says, her voice thick. “Every Luna of our line has worn a cloak woven by her mother or grandmother. This is your strength, Amanda. Do not forget it.”

I can only nod, my throat tight with tears I refuse to shed. “Thank you, Nana.”

“There you are!” Lila’s cheerful voice cuts through the moment. She glides toward us, her eyes landing on the cloak. “Oh, my. How… rustic. What a charming little heirloom.”

My grandmother’s eyes narrow, but I place a warning hand on her arm. “It was made for me,” I say, my voice level.

“Of course it was,” Lila says with a brilliant smile. “You must be Amanda’s grandmother. I am Lila, the Alpha’s Beta.”

Nana just gives a short, sharp nod.

“Let me help you take that to your room,” Lila insists, reaching for the cloak. “You do not want it getting wrinkled before the ceremony. I have some special ink for the treaty scroll, very dark and permanent. We must keep it far away from this lovely fabric.”

Her words are a casual warning, yet they hang in the air like a threat.

Later, in my chambers, I lay the cloak out on the bed. It feels like a shield. A piece of home in this cold stone fortress. Nana sits in a chair by the window, watching me with worried eyes.

Lila enters without knocking, carrying a small, unstoppered bottle of that same ink and a quill. “The Alpha needs your formal signature on the preliminary pact,” she says, her voice all business. “Just right here on the table is fine.”

I move toward the table, but Lila stumbles. It is so artfully done. A tiny, theatrical gasp as she lurches forward, her arm flailing out. The uncorked bottle flies from her hand.

It happens in slow motion. The arc of the dark liquid through the air. The splash as it lands, a black, spreading stain, directly in the center of my ceremonial cloak.

Silence. Thick and absolute.

“Oh, no.” Lila’s hand flies to her mouth, her green eyes wide with fake horror. “Oh, Amanda, I am so dreadfully clumsy. I cannot believe I did that. It’s ruined.”

My grandmother rises from her chair, her face a mask of cold fury. “You did that on purpose.”

Lila’s facade cracks for just a second. A flash of triumph shines in her eyes before she smothers it with pity. “Ma’am, please. It was an accident. The ink is indelible, made from crushed river stone and oil. It will never come out.”

She turns back to me, her voice dripping with false sympathy. “Do not worry. I knew something like this might happen with such an old garment. I took the liberty of finding you a replacement. It’s plain, of course, but it will have to do.”

She pulls a folded cloak from a bag by the door. It is a drab, scratchy brown. The cut is awkward, the fit clearly wrong for my frame. It is a servant’s cloak.

My heart feels like a lead weight in my chest. I stare at the black stain, a gaping wound on the symbol of my heritage. I cannot speak. I cannot breathe.

She won. Lila has won.

Nana stays until the last possible moment, but she must take her seat in the hall. She kisses my cheek, her own eyes bright with unshed tears. “Be strong, my girl.”

I stand before the mirror, the pathetic brown cloak hanging from my shoulders. I look small. Broken. A charity case. The weight of my isolation, of my utter powerlessness, presses down on me until I can barely stand.

The double doors to the great hall loom before me. This is it. This is the walk I have to make, in this ugly cloak, to stand beside an Alpha who despises me.

Just as I am about to take the first step, Lila appears at my side, a shadow in the dim corridor.

“A final piece of advice,” she whispers, her voice a venomous caress. “Do not pretend to be anything more than what you are. A placeholder. He will never mark you. He will never desire you. Every time he looks at your plain face, he will be thinking of me. You will always be second best.”

Her words are the final blow, shattering the last of my composure. A tear slips down my cheek.

With a triumphant smirk, she turns and disappears into the hall. I take a shuddering breath, trying to piece myself back together for the public humiliation that awaits.

I lift my chin and prepare to walk into the hall.

Then a presence fills the corridor behind me. A sudden drop in temperature. A wave of raw, absolute power that makes the hairs on my arms stand up.

Thorn.

He stops beside me, saying nothing. His gaze sweeps over me, taking in my tear-streaked face, my devastated expression, and the pathetic, ill-fitting cloak I am wearing.

His face is stone. Unreadable. But his eyes… his eyes are a different story. A storm gathers in their grey depths. A silent, dangerous fury flashes within them, so cold and so intense it makes me flinch. A storm that is not directed at me, but for me.