Luana's POV
My name is Luana, which sounds a lot like "Luna," doesn't it?
Patrick gave me this name.
From my childish perspective, Patrick was far from a gentle soul.
Let's not even get into the rest. With a name as harmonious as his, he had to give me such an odd one.
I am a werewolf, after all. How could he name me something that sounds akin to "Luna"?
Wasn't that a desecration of the Moon Goddess?
Every time I vehemently protested to Patrick, he would say, "Blame your dad for not being a girl, or you wouldn't have this name."
He was the one who chose this unpleasant name, yet he managed to shift the blame onto my dad.
Ah, I've gone on for so long without even introducing myself.
My grandfather was Patrick Hammond. I heard he was incredibly charming in his youth and the Alpha of the Black Thorn Pack.
My grandmother was Gloria Carter.
I often wondered how these two, who seemed so mismatched, ended up together.
Before my father was born, my grandparents had rejected each other.
But neither found a second chance.
Not only that, but Gloria stayed with the Black Thorn Pack.
As far back as I can remember, Patrick always tried to please Gloria.
My dad said that Patrick never bowed to anyone. He was extremely tough, and everyone feared him.
But to me, it seemed like in front of Gloria, one glare from her and he became as docile as our golden retriever at home.
However, since I was little, Patrick's cooking was the best in the family, even better than the hotel chef we employed.
He would take the dogs out for a walk in the morning and return with a bunch of ingredients. After a morning in the kitchen, by the time Gloria woke up, the dining table would be set with steaming hot meals. They might not be extravagant, but they were full of warmth.
Gloria usually just watered the flowers in the garden, and Patrick said that was just fine with him.
I once secretly asked Patrick, "Don't you get tired of cooking three meals a day without fail, and still going to work?"
He looked at Gloria, who was enjoying the afternoon tea he had made, and smiled like a fool. He said, "If Gloria likes it, I'm happy to do anything. I'm willing to spoil her, to the point where she looks down on other men, so she never thinks of leaving me for the rest of her life."
Gloria was a woman of few words, but when she spoke, no one in the family dared to argue.
It wasn't fear of her, but everyone knew Patrick was extremely biased towards her.
Children never have a deep sense of time, and I felt it for the first time on the day Gloria passed away.
I was six years old that early spring when Gloria, as usual, sat under the big tree in the garden, enjoying the afternoon tea Patrick had made.
She always loved the rocking chair under the tree, and when she was tired, she would take a short nap on it.
Patrick would cover her with a thin blanket and wake her up at the right time.
But on that day, Patrick could never wake her up again. Gloria left this world peacefully on the rocking chair, gently swaying in the breeze, amidst the revival of all things and the lush greenery.
I will never forget how my usually strong grandfather cried, tears streaming down his face.
He squatted by Patrick's rocking chair for a long time. I will never forget his no longer young hands, tightly holding Gloria's hands as they grew cold and stiff.
Patrick cried like a helpless child at that time.
Gloria's funeral was not luxurious, but Alphas and Lunas from the entire city's packs came to attend.
Patrick arranged the funeral himself. After bidding farewell to Gloria, Patrick's health inexplicably began to deteriorate.
Another spring came, a time of revival. Patrick took my hand and said, "You look like her."
"Who?" I asked.
"Your grandmother," he replied.
"Patrick, don't be sad."
That year, I was already eight years old and knew more things, hearing many stories about my grandparents from others.
At first, I was angry when I heard their story, angry at Patrick for being so presumptuous and reckless, hurting my grandmother.
But as I heard more, I thought, how could Gloria be so weak? If it were me, I would never see Patrick again, not even once.
My feelings fluctuated with their story.
Later, I heard from Christine that it was Gloria who made concessions that led to that complicated love story.
One afternoon, I took an original book to Patrick, wanting him to read Shakespeare to me in his pure British accent.
"Patrick, read Shakespeare to me," I nudged him who was dozing in a lounge chair, but no matter how hard I tried, I could never wake him up again.
My grandfather passed away, on another spring afternoon, under the big tree in the garden, on the rocking chair where my grandmother had left us.
Just like Gloria, he left peacefully in his sleep.
I know he went to follow her, the person he cherished most in his life.
"Patrick, you went to find Gloria, right?"
I will never hear Patrick's answer again, but I understand that the most serious and persistent thing he did in his life was to spoil Gloria wholeheartedly.
Finally, among Patrick's belongings, I found his last note - "Patrick Hammond loves Gloria Carter, for eternity."
I was a bit dazed. "Patrick, don't hurt Gloria in the next life."