15. Luna
LUNA
Deep, slow exhales sweep through my nostrils as I stare at the background check on my computer screen. Out of the corner of my eye, the curtains hang stiff as boards—mismatched, one side more wrinkled than the other.
I read a paragraph.
Glance at the curtain, my chair squeaking as I shift my weight.
Reread the paragraph.
Reread the paragraph.
Father’s voice: What is wrong with you?
I sit straight with a growl and blink away the words on the screen. With one more deep breath, I roll my neck; lean forward with my elbows on the desk; cup my hands around my eyes.
No more curtains.
Criminal history:
Three arrests for felony rape—none of which even made it to court. Two of the victims were minors.
My hands constrict tighter to block out all but a small section of the screen while a band pulls taut on either side of my neck. My shoulders lift toward my ears as an itch tickles its way deep inside both canals.
I can’t see the curtains, but I can feel them. I can feel the glass particles scattered on my floor, too small to collect in my hand. I’ve scrubbed the area, but they’re still there. They’ll always be there, tiny pieces lodged into cracks just out of reach.
If I lit a match to the curtains, it would solve the problem. If I bolted the front door first, it would solve everything.
My eyes close as I let out a steady breath and lower my hands to my desk. When the door opens, I tense, but at the sound of Thorne’s clunky steps, a sigh pulls from my lungs.
I turn just as he shuts the door—carefully—the soft click bringing me back to when we were teenagers. Thorne, climbing the trellis to my window, then tiptoeing away in the middle of the night.
He must know Father is angry.
“Hey,” he says, his voice low. When he approaches, he kisses my cheek—honest and loyal and way too fast. I follow as he pulls away, my neck arching a centimeter before I stop myself.
“Hi.”
He leans against my desk and crosses his arms over his chest. “Well, you were right. She’s calmed down since we put her with the Nurturers.”
I spin the chair so I’m facing him and rest my elbows on the armrests. My hands steeple in front of my chest. “Did you mention Mr. Hansley’s execution?”
His face impassive, he nods. “She seemed relieved.”
“What makes you say that? Did she smile? Laugh?”
“No… She…” He looks up and twirls his hand as if searching for words. If he’d studied and recorded her reaction as I’d asked, this could be done with a simple report.
But I don’t point that out. It was tense when I asked him to move Liberty to the Hearth.
‘That woman around children?’ he’d sneered.
His faith in my judgment couldn’t be more compromised, but he didn’t argue long.
Didn’t bring it up earlier today, when I’d already excused him of his duties. He was to have the night off.
I can always count on Thorne.
“She nodded and sighed but not in a sad way. Just trust me… She was relieved.”
Relieved. Not glad, just relieved.
“Of course I trust you,” I’m quick to say.
He pauses a moment. “She asked me to tell her when it’s done.”
“She didn’t ask to be present?”
He shakes his head. “Nope.”
“Did she say anything else?”
“No. It seemed like a good time to leave.”
I nod slowly, lips pursing while I process.
Relieved…
She wants Sawyer dead. Truly.
But not out of revenge. Out of fear. He is the ghost who won’t stop haunting her, just as she claimed. She didn’t lie to me.
Interesting.
“Should I go break the news to him?” Thorne asks, perking up. I almost wish I hadn’t spoken to Sawyer, just to give Thorne the treat he’s after. But of course, it’s Sawyer’s reaction I needed most.
“No. I did it myself.”
Silence pierces the room for a few seconds.
“And?”
I shake my head. “I don’t know.”
“What did he say?”
My tongue runs over a patch of dead skin on my bottom lip, copper teasing my tastebuds.
I haven’t been drinking enough water. “With Sawyer, it’s not about what he says.
It’s about what he wants you to see… He wanted me to think he was afraid but not for her specifically.
He doesn’t want Liberty dead, but he doesn’t want me to know that…
I think she’s important to him. I just don’t know why. ”
“Then let’s kill her before we have to find out.”
My fingers drum the armrests of my chair. Instead of replying, I stand and go to the curtains.
“I want you to find out what you can about her. He mentioned her master’s name is Jasper—fact check that. He also spoke of a deceased friend named Angel, maybe another woman from the island.”
“Why don’t you do it?”
Pulling one curtain so its folds are symmetrical with the other, I eye it carefully and take my time to respond. His voice isn’t sharp or resentful. It’s inquisitive. It’s unlike me to offload this kind of work onto him or anyone else.
“Father is displeased with the time I’ve spent on this issue… He’d like me to return my focus to acquiring new initiates.”
“All your focus?” Thorne asks. The compassion in his tone makes my legs feel heavier. Suddenly, I wish his arms were around me, just so I could fold.
It doesn’t matter how much he hates my involvement with Sawyer. He’ll support the mission for as long as I need him to. Publicly.
“Yes… You’re taking over my work with the breeders. Father will call an official meeting with you tomorrow to deliver the news.”
I back away from the curtain only to return, fiddling with the heavy, black velvet. It will never be right, but tomorrow, I’ll be stronger. I won’t be so bothered.
Thorne’s heavy steps approach, and when his giant palms roam my waist to settle on my stomach, I let go of the curtain. My hand hovers, fingertips grazing velvet.
“I love you,” he whispers. “I respect you. Whatever you want me to do, I’ll do it.”
I relax against his chest and breathe him in—sun-dried cotton and lye soap, softened by a faint trace of crushed herbs. The scent of safety. The scent of home.
It doesn’t intoxicate; it grounds. A reminder of who I am. What I believe in. What I’m supposed to become.
“Thank you,” I whisper back.
He nuzzles my hair while his hands slide to a spot just below my breasts. I spin and lift onto my toes to plant my lips to his, my palms splaying against his pecs.
He kisses me softly with the warmest of mouths, and slows my blood with the gentlest of touch. No electricity to speed my heart; no lie to dissect. My mind doesn’t spin trying to make sense of nipping teeth or the stroke of a tongue.
The hand that runs up my back and cups the nape of my neck wishes to cradle me, not capture me. Not possess me.
I never lose myself. Which means I never snap back to awareness, like waking from the same nightmare—alert and breathless.
I could have kissed these lips forever without questioning what it meant to be alive, truly alive. I’d have never craved the sharp, terrifying exhilaration of being breakable. Like dangling off a cliff with the promise of everything I’ve ever wanted twenty feet below, if only I’d let my hand slip.
Thorne would catch me.
Always.
I lean closer and bunch his shirt in my fists. I search for the cliff with the grind of my hips; invite a fire into my core.
Nothing.
I try to train my thoughts on a younger, more passionate version of Thorne but wind up finding another memory.
My back against the wall, the taste of minty breath. Sandy blond strands caught between my fingers.
Hot breath in my ear: Tell me you want me.
The steady rhythm of my heart flickers as the skin of my chest flushes.
My tongue eagerly seeks Thorne’s, but his mouth stays firmly closed—fair, this is not how we kiss. Not yet, but maybe.
I cup my hand over his and arch my breasts against his ribs, my mouth working a little harder. His lips slowly part, and his hips seem to move. Just the subtlest of thrusts, but a good sign. A great sign.
I follow the memory to a bed, to tangled limbs and strong hands and dirty words growled in my ear.
My hand cupping Thorne’s, I slowly guide him beneath my sweater. Together, we crawl up my stomach, over my breasts, to the yellowing bruises circling my neck.
I mold his hand around my throat and give him a gentle squeeze.
He rips from my mouth. “What are you doing?”
My face goes cold at the accusation in his tone. For a moment, my lungs refuse to move. “It’s okay,” I say but let go of his hand. “I want you to.”
Deep lines form across his forehead as his upper lip twitches with a curl he doesn’t quite allow. I wonder how hard he has to hold back. “Why?”
Why?
Very good question.
Thorne waits for me to respond. I can’t even find the truth, let alone a good enough lie.
Eventually, I shake my head. “I don’t know. I’m sorry.”
I tug his hand down my chest and push onto my toes, but before I can kiss him, he turns his head.
He pulls away, hand retreating as he avoids my eyes.
“I shouldn’t distract you,” he says before forcing himself to look at me.
Something sharp and heavy settles in the pit of my stomach, but I don’t allow my posture to fall. My chin doesn’t lower. Thorne would think me weak if I let it.
He clears his throat when the silence lasts a beat too long. He nods toward my computer. “I think we should start looking into the viper.”
Breathe.
Don’t hesitate.
“You should call her Liberty… Your contempt will bleed into your interactions with her.”
Thorne’s only response is a jaw tic.
“We can’t use my computer. It’s being monitored.”
His brows raise. “What?”
“As of two hours ago…” I wave my hand to the screen. “Otherwise, I wouldn’t be giving that soulless creature a moment’s attention.”
Thorne glimpses the screen. “Why would Aurelius—”
“Because he can, Thorne. He can and he will. He has a vision of what kind of man we should welcome into our home, and I’ve been too stubborn to accept that… It’s his opinion that ultimately matters.”
Not mine.
I cup my hands in front of me and try to shove bitterness away when it bites at my nostrils, willing them to flare. In truth, this is a merciful punishment. I’ve been given leniency no one in the Shadow Sanctum could ever dream of.