All Chapters of Beasts of the Moon : Chapter 71 - Chapter 80

Gerald. Thursday, 3rd July. Next day. Morning. I stare at my wife as she sleeps. Her lashes rest against her pale skin, her lips drained of color. She looks fragile, breakable. I don’t know what happened to her yesterday. No one does. One minute she was with my mother at Agnes’ place. The next, she was carried back into the house unconscious, burning with fever. No explanation. No answers. I drag in a heavy breath and rise. Training with the wolves waits for me as it has every morning since the elders forced these rules of engagement down my throat. Since they refused to join me in avoiding this war. ‘Gerald, you either fight, or you face banishment.’ Elder Ryan’s words replay in my mind. That venomous snake. He’d love nothing more than to see me cast out, paving the way for Ephraim to rise. I know where his loyalty lies. I’ve heard his thoughts. I’ve felt his fear of being caught for his involvement in that violent protest that took place in my home, days back. “Is she awake

Luke. Meanwhile… I step into the house and the smell hits me instantly, rich pork roast, crisping potatoes, spices that cling to the air like a promise. My stomach growls. My tongue waters. I'm fucking hungry. “Honey,” I call, kicking my shoes aside. Primrose’s head pops out from the kitchen. “I’m in here.” I smile, wandering in leisurely until I’m standing in the doorway, just watching her. My wife, moving so effortlessly in her space, stirring, turning, seasoning. Graceful even in the small things. “Hey, come chop the onions for the salads.” She calls over her shoulder, without even glancing at me. I chuckle inwardly, grab an onion and a knife, and start methodically slicing. My thoughts drift. Tiny little ones running around this very kitchen. Her laughter mixing with theirs. Our future, close enough to touch. “How was training?” She asks, stirring at the stovetop. “Mhmm…” I blink, pulled back from my reverie. “It was fine, baby. Gerald’s just… worried about Iris.” Primr

Willa Ford. Later… My heart pounds in my throat as I wait. I'm waiting for news, waiting for my son. The rain lashes against the windows, wild and unrelenting. My children are out there, in that storm, in that bloodbath. I haven’t seen Erianna in days, but I know her loyalty, her heart is tied to her brother’s fight. She must have gone long before the first blow was struck. Iris, she must be beside herself. She wasn’t born into this. She wasn’t raised for it. Half wolf, half human, as that DNA report says, yet she only remembers the human half, raised by a foster mother who kept her running from city to city, never rooted, never safe. Their laws were not our laws. She doesn’t carry Silvaton Ridge in her bones the way we do. Earlier she was restless, shaken. I gave her sleeping pills, just to ease her mind, just to give her a moment’s peace. I wonder now if she finally found sleep. I slip beneath the covers, ready to surrender to a few hours of uneasy rest, then I freeze. A

Iris. Saturday, 5th July. Next day. Morning. Pain sears through me, inside my neck, burning hot. Erianna’s teeth sink in, tearing muscle, ripping tendon. A scream lodges in my throat. Patrick’s last words echo before his eyes fall shut forever, ‘I love you, Iris. Always.’ “No, Patrick!” My eyes fly open and my body jolts upright, breath hitching. My gaze is wild, unblinking, my heart hammering so loud it drowns the room. Blood roars through my veins, every nerve sparking, every sound amplified until a pin drop pounds like a waterfall. I clamp my hands over my ears, eyes squeezed shut. Too much. Too loud. I stumble out of bed, crawling backwards, desperate to shield myself from the crawling sensations under my skin. Thoughts bleed into me, voices that don’t belong. Memories slam against my skull. Too fast. Too much. Too painful. “Go away… go away…” The chant tumbles from my lips. My sobs fracture the air. And then I see it all again, Erianna lunging, Patrick leaping in fron

Iris. Tuesday, 8th July, three days later… Evening. I’m out on the terrace, staring helplessly into the garden. Rain falls in quiet sheets, soaking everything, cold and heavy. But it isn’t the wet or the chill that dampens my mood. It’s the dangerous truth I’m hiding, one I can’t bring myself to share. It presses down on me until my chest feels hollow, my heart drowning in guilt. For three days now, I’ve fought the urge to run to my mother, my real mother, Agnes Herewit and collapse in her lap. More than once I’ve sat in the car, hands trembling on the wheel, ready to drive to her. But every time I start the engine, I remember. To her, I am the kind Luna who redeemed her from shame. Not the guilty daughter who once dragged her name through the mud. And Gerald, gods, Gerald. The very qualities I once condemned, I now crave. Methodical. Careful. Compassionate. A true leader. Responsible. Sexy as hell. It’s always been him. Yet I tossed him aside for Patrick. Patrick, the charming f