Page 33 of His Fierce Lycan Luna

I reel back as if struck, the revelation sending a shockwave through me. My gaze snaps to Gannon, who stands rigid, his face a mask of disbelief.

“Impossible, Tatiana—” Gannon’s begins.

With a swift motion, Trey raises his hand, asking for him to wait. His eyes lock onto mine, pleading to let him explain.

“She knew he was having affairs; she always knew. Yet she wanted to save her marriage and….” He trails off for a second becoming nervous.

“She knew?” I ask, shocked by this news. What Queen would allow that? Trey’s voice breaks the silence, rough with emotion.

“Of course, she knew, but where would she have gone with hunters killing off royal families, with the only other Lycan community being yours and with a baby that would be heir to both the Landeen and Azure name?” His eyes are wide, imploring me to understand the desperation of a cornered Queen, a mother protecting her pup.

I can’t help but feel a pang of sympathy for Tatiana, imagining her plight, trapped between love for her daughter and duty to a marriage she never wanted. Trey sighs heavily and rubs his temples.

“The night of the attack then, where were you?” The command rolls off my tongue. It’s not a question but an order for the truth, and Trey knows it. He meets my gaze, his own eyes shimmering with the threat of tears.

“With my brother. It was my night off.” His voice falters, a single tear slipping down his face. “By the time we both gotback to the castle, Azalea was gone. Tatiana was dead, and King Garret was barely alive.”

“We tried to save him, but...” Trey’s voice trails off, his body rigid with the memory. Then, with a sudden motion, he opens his shirt. There, on his chest, are three bullet holes.

I lean forward, my breath catching at the sight of the scars. Trey’s chest rises and falls with shallow breaths.

“The hunters shot my brother in the head,” he finally manages, the words hollow, as if spoken from a grave. Gannon stands motionless, the muscle in his jaw working silently as he listens.

The skin around the wounds is tight, pulled into pale circles that mark Trey’s brush with death. He glances down at his chest. “A few millimeters closer, and I would have died,” he murmurs, his voice steady—too steady. He touches the scar closest to his heart, a haunted look in his eyes. “This one collapsed my lung.” His finger moves up slightly. “Another here, lodged in my sternum.”

Then his hand hovers over where his heart beats beneath the flesh, a tremor betraying his stoic facade. “And this one,” he says, his voice barely above a whisper, “only burned me when the bullet lodged into my Landeena crest pendant.”

Damian shifts beside me, clearing his throat; he leans forward, resting his elbows on the desk, the weight of his gaze heavy on Trey. “What happened afterward?” His voice rumbles.

Trey straightens, the fabric of his shirt settling back over the scars, hiding them once again from view. “After the Landeena was taken down?” Trey asks, and Damian nods.

“I was beside myself with grief when Liam found me. I told him about Azalea. We searched the castle, and he left while we searched the river edge and the forest.” Trey explains. “We came across some hunters. When I was shot, adrenaline kept me alive long enough to get back to Landeena when your men arrived.”

“Then what?” Damian asks.

With a nod, Trey acknowledges Damian’s question. The room feels smaller somehow, the walls closing in with the weight of his words as he continues. “Spent three months in your hospital with silver poisoning,” he says, eyes locked on mine, compelling me to verify his claim later. “Check your records.”

I make a mental note to do just that, but there’s something about the way he says it—no hesitation, no falter in his voice—that makes me believe him without seeing the proof.

“Then, when I was released,” Trey goes on, “I went hunting with a few other Landeena warriors.” His gaze drifts past me, focusing on something distant and unseen. “We went looking for Azalea; we even thought we found her at one stage.”

“But by the time we got to the camp by the river, it was empty.” He presses his lips in a line.

“We picked up Jordan’s scent by accident.” Trey’s hand absently moves to the Landeena pendant hidden beneath his shirt that was now a necklace—the crest that both marked him and saved him. “By the time we got there, there was no sign of them.”

“That was years ago,” he finishes his voice a soft echo of defeat.

“9 years ago?” The words taste like ash in my mouth as I voice the unspoken timeline we’ve all danced around.

Trey nods, his gaze holding a distant sorrow—a mirror to my own heartache. “Yes, I got here just before your sister died.” His fingers fidget with the hem of his shirt, a restless energy that speaks of unease and regret. “After Clai… she died, we gave up,” he admits, and there’s a tremor in his voice that doesn’t escape me. A man haunted by his failures.

“Figured I would come to the trials and failed miserably for three years.” Trey’s eyes don’t meet mine; they’re fixed on Dustin. His jaw clenches tight, the muscle ticking with tension.

“I didn’t want the last Royal family to die.” There’s defiance now in his voice.

“Tatiana wouldn’t have wanted that,” he finishes, and the weight of his loyalty—to a Queen long gone, to a lineage teetering on the brink—settles heavily in the room.

I narrow my eyes at him, pressing for an answer that makes sense. “And you didn’t recognize Marissa when she was here, not even notice her scent around here?”

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