His Fierce Lycan Luna: A Dark Fantasy Romance

ABBIE

Standing on the porch, I tug Gannon’s jacket closer around me, feeling a chill despite the sun. The sound of the ax hitting wood punctuates the surrounding silence. Curiosity gets the better of me, and I step forward to see Gannon working, his back glistening with sweat under the effort, his shirt discarded somewhere out of sight. A huge pile of wood is already chopped, and I can’t help but let my eyes wander over his muscular body, noticing scars that mar his chest. I’ve never seen him like this, so focused, so… captivating.

I lean over the porch rail, where curls of wood shavings lay strewn about like the aftermath of a silent storm. There appears to be a method to his movements—raise, swing, impact—a dance of strength and purpose that left his broad back shining with sweat.

The sharp lines of muscle shift across his torso with every movement, drawing my gaze in a way that felt both invasive and admiring. Scars lace his skin, etched into the tanned flesh of his chest.

A flush of embarrassment warms my cheeks when he turns suddenly, catching me in the act of staring. My eyes dart away, seeking the wooden steps as I descend and perch on the top one, hugging myself tighter, trying to stop the cold chill seeping into me.

“Come here,” Gannon’s voice breaks the silence, soft yet somehow reaching me clearly. I hesitate, swallowing hard as I glance up at him. The world around us feels almost unnaturally quiet. He gestures for me to come closer with a finger to his lips, signaling me to be quiet. With reluctance, I stand and walk towards him, and he pulls me close by the waist, pointing towards something in the trees.

I follow his gaze to spot a mother deer and her baby. We watch in silence until the wind shifts and the mother’s head snaps towards us, her and the baby darting away through the trees. A smile finds its way to my lips, a rarity these days, and I look up at Gannon, who brushes my hair behind my ear with a gentle touch.

“Finally, a smile,” he says, his voice warm. “See, there is good, Abbie. You just need to find it.” After watching the deer disappear, Gannon starts gathering the wood, and we head inside. He gets the fire going.

The warmth from the freshly kindled fire wraps around me as Gannon painstakingly stacks the last few logs beside the hearth. The glow illuminates his features, casting shadows that play upon the rugged lines of his face. He catches my gaze.

“Did you see the bathroom?” he asks suddenly, an undercurrent of eagerness in his voice.

I shake my head, curiosity tickling the edges of my wariness. His hand finds mine, calloused and warm, and with gentle force, he leads me down the hallway. The door swings open to reveal a space bathed in soft light, the centerpiece being a vast spa bath sitting beneath a huge skylight.

My breath escapes in a hushed gasp, but the awe quickly turns sour as my eyes catch the unavoidable reflection in the mirror. A shiver claws up my spine, and the room seems to close in around me. My scars, usually hidden beneath layers of fabric, peek out reminding me this is just the illusion of safety.

“Abbie?” Gannon’s voice pulls at me, laced with concern.

Panic blooms in my chest, wild and desperate to escape. I start to retreat, every muscle tensing to rush out, but his hands are there, firm on my hips, halting my movement. “You will not hide here,” he says, a command woven with the gentleness of his voice.

My head shakes involuntarily. The thought of confronting my marred reflection, the visual of my fractured past, is unbearable.

Gannon seems to sense the turmoil within me; he slides the jacket from my shoulders and presses a reassuring kiss to the exposed skin on my shoulder. His fingers brush the hem of my blouse, inching towards the ghosts that haunt my flesh and my mind.

“I don’t want to see,” I whisper.

His touch pauses, and for a heartbeat as his eyes dart to mine.

“Then close your eyes. I’ll tell you what I see,” Gannon murmurs, his voice soft as a feather drifting through the air. It’s almost too much, that voice, carrying with it the promise of an acceptance I’ve never dared to give myself. Tears brim at the edges of my eyes. My breath catches in my chest, my heart pounding against my ribs like a hummingbird’s wings.

I nod, a mere dip of my chin, and let my eyelids fall. Darkness cradles me, and I’m grateful for it. Grateful not to witness the slow reveal of my damaged skin, the map of my pain laid out for him to see.

As Gannon’s hands slide over the fabric of my clothing, every touch is a whisper against my fears. His fingers graze the blackened mark on my neck, and a sharp intake of breath escapes me. The memory of fire licking at my flesh rushes back. I hate that mark and how much control it has over me. I despise what it represents.

But then, there’s Gannon again—his presence a balm, his voice pulling me from the confines of my mind. “I see a woman who doesn’t know how beautiful she is,” he says, and the warmth of his breath tickles my ear.

“Her scars are not something to hide.” His tone reverberates with conviction, a stark contrast to the quiver that threatens to break through my resolve. “They tell a story of what she’s overcome.”

Gannon’s touch is careful and reverent as if he knows he’s not just peeling away layers of clothing but layers of my past.

“I’ve overcome nothing,” I whisper back, my voice shattering the silence.

“That’s what you think,” he replies. His hands pause on the small of my back, warm and steady.

The air between us charges with something unnamed, a current that buzzes through my veins, filling spaces hollowed out by years of self-loathing.

And for a moment, just a fleeting moment, I allow myself to believe him. With his hands on me and his voice a soft caress at my ear, hope flickers—a delicate flame in the space that holds my fears.

Hope feels dangerous to me. It threatens the walls I’ve built, the safe cocoon of darkness where I’ve hidden. Yet here, in this sliver of time, I cling to it, and the possibility that there might be beauty in the scars. Strength in the pain and a future where I see myself through eyes not clouded by the ashes of my past.

As Gannon continues, his voice is a gentle caress in the silence of the room.

“This lash here,” he continues, his fingers hovering over a scar, “it tells me you’ve faced unimaginable horrors and yet, you’ve emerged stronger. Your strength is breathtaking.”

“That’s not strength Gannon,” I murmur.

“Really, because all I see is a woman who is still alive despite everything she has been through.” I shake my head yet he ignores me.

“These bite marks,” he says, his voice filled with reverence, “they’re proof of the battles you’ve survived. You’re a survivor, Abbie, in the truest sense.”

“Your eyes,” he marvels, “despite the darkness they’ve seen, they hold a light that’s purely yours. A reminder that there’s beauty even in pain.”

“Your hands,” he notes, gently taking them in his, “they’ve clung to hope when despair seemed the only option, yet still, you fought. It doesn’t matter whether it was for you or Azalea. You held on even though you preferred death.”

Tears blur my vision; I didn’t hold on. If only he knew how many times I tried to end it, yet fate chose torture, not freedom for me.

“This mark on your neck,” he murmurs, “while it might seem a reminder of Kade, but to me, it’s a reminder that not even a mate bond can get between me loving you.”

“You’ve been to hell and back, yet here you are Abbie. Don’t let what they did to you be the only way you see yourself.”

That’s easy for him to say, all I see is them when I look in a mirror.

“Your heart,” he says, his voice barely above a whisper, “it’s seen the depths of human cruelty, yet it’s filled with an unparalleled capacity for love and forgiveness. It’s the most beautiful thing about you.”

“And your soul, Abbie,” he concludes, “despite being fractured by torment, it’s not dimmed. It’s tragically beautiful, and there’s nothing more captivating than that. Nothing more captivating than you.”

A lump forms in my throat at his words. He must be deluded to think I am the least bit captivating. I’m frightening, yes, but certainly not captivating.