14. Luna
Chapter 14
Luna
The pounding in my head is relentless—like someone taking a hammer to my skull with each heartbeat. Cold metal presses against my cheek.
Where am I?
I try to open my eyes, but only one cooperates; the other seems swollen shut. A wave of nausea hits me as I attempt to move.
My surroundings come into focus slowly—corrugated metal walls, a ceiling too low to stand upright, dim light filtering through tiny slits near the top. The metal floor beneath me vibrates slightly, like we're in motion.
Memory floods back—Cherry's panicked warning, the note about explosives at the clubhouse, my desperate rush to Pier 17, the blow to my head. I was tricked. Lured away. Captured.
I try to sit up but find my hands bound in front of me with plastic zip ties, the edges digging painfully into my wrists. My mouth is dry, metallic with the taste of blood.
"Don't move too quickly," a soft voice advises. "You might have a concussion."
I turn toward the sound, wincing as pain shoots through my neck. A girl about my age is kneeling beside me—pale and slender with shoulder-length blonde hair and wide blue eyes.
“Where are we?” I manage, my voice rough.
“A shipping container,” she answers matter of factly, as thought this were an everyday occurrence.
“Who are you?” I ask.
“I’m Rose," she says, helping me slowly sit up against the wall.
Now that I'm upright, I can see we're not alone. Four other women occupy the space—all young, all showing various stages of fear, resignation, or blank detachment. One rocks back and forth in the corner, arms wrapped around her knees. Another stares unseeing at the wall, tear tracks dried on her dirty face.
"How long have I been here?" I ask, wincing as Rose dabs at something wet on my temple with a scrap of fabric.
"They brought you in a few hours ago," she answers, her touch gentle despite her bound hands. "You were unconscious. I was worried you wouldn't wake up. Do you know your name?”
“Um…yeah…I’m Luna.”
I look more closely at Rose. Despite the dirt on her face and the haunted look in her eyes, there's something resilient about her—like a flower growing through concrete.
“Why are we here? What are they doing with us?" I ask, though I already suspect the answer.
Rose glances toward the small ventilation slits. "I'm not entirely sure," she admits. "But I heard them talking about a ship. Something about 'international buyers' paying premium.'" She says this clinically, as if discussing the weather rather than our fates as human merchandise.
My stomach lurches, partly from the concussion, partly from horror. "How long have you been here?"
"Three days, I think." She gestures to the other women. "Natasha and Mei were already here when they brought me in. Zoya came yesterday. You're the newest."
I study the other captives. Natasha must be the redhead curled into herself in the corner. Mei, an Asian woman who can't be more than twenty, sits with perfect stillness, only her blinking confirming she's alive and not a statue. Zoya, with dark hair and hollowed eyes, lies on her side, facing the wall.
"Have you tried to escape?" I whisper.
A small, sad smile crosses Rose's face. "The container is locked from the outside. They only open it to throw in water bottles or to..." her voice falters, "to take someone out."
The implication hangs heavy in the stale air. I don't ask what happens to those who are taken out. I'm not sure I want to know.
"Are you in pain?" Rose asks, redirecting the conversation as she examines the bump on my head.
“Not really,” I lie. My whole body aches, particularly my skull where they struck me, but admitting it feels like surrendering to weakness I can't afford right now.
"Here." Rose offers me a half-empty plastic water bottle. “Not sure when they’ll bring more…or if.”
I take a small sip, forcing myself to go slowly despite my parched throat. The water is warm and plastic-tasting, but it’s the most welcome thing I've ever swallowed.
"Thank you," I say, passing it back to her.
She shakes her head. "Finish it. You need it more than I do."
I want to protest but the kindness in her eyes stops me. I take another small sip before capping the bottle and setting it aside for later. We might need to ration.
"Why are you here?" I ask. "How did they get you?"
Rose's expression darkens, shadows passing behind her eyes like storm clouds. "My stepfather sold me.” Again, she speaks the horrifying words so matter-of-factly. I can’t help but wonder about the parts of her story she hasn’t shared.
"What about you?" Rose asks.
I tell her about Cherry, about the note, about believing the clubhouse was in danger. "I thought I was saving everyone," I finish, the irony bitter on my tongue. "Instead, I walked right into a trap."
“Motorcycle club?” Rose’s eyes are as wide as saucers.
I nod, then wince at the pain the movement causes. "The Shadow Reapers. My..." I hesitate, unsure how to define what Saint is to me. "My man is their Sergeant at Arms."
Something like hope flickers in Rose's eyes. “Are they looking for you?"
"Yes," I say with certainty. If there's one thing I know, it's that Saint won't rest until he finds me.