15. Luna #2
I’ve forgotten my place. Father believes it’s time I’m reminded of it.
“Your opinion is the one that matters to me,” Thorne says, his eyes too serious, his jaw too square. He’s speaking words too dangerous for either of us to entertain. “Your opinion is the one that matters most to all, including whoever is monitoring your computer.”
“Then I hope they’ll show me mercy when they see I’ve been on the same page for half an hour.”
“Luna, this—”
I press my palm over Thorne’s mouth while softening my expression. “Stop, my love… Please. It’s hard enough.”
His face morphs from angry to remorseful, his clenched jaw releasing. I remove my hand and nod at the door. “Forget computers. I don’t want this being brought to Father’s attention. Just try to get the information out of the woman.”
“Liberty,” Thorne corrects. His lips pull into a half-hearted smile.
I nod. “Be friendly to her… Don’t be afraid to bond over your mutual hatred for her former captor, and be sure to make it clear he’s the reason she’s here.
In the morning, tell her he managed to talk his way out of his execution.
Tell her he has me eating out of his palm or whatever everyone is saying.
Show your concern for me and hatred for him.
If she tries to manipulate you, let her, to an extent. ”
He looks off for a moment, considering my words, but then nods. “Okay… Whatever you want.” Tilting my chin up, he bends to kiss me, then backs up a step.
“Do you want some company while you work?”
“No… Thank you. I should concentrate.”
He gives me a tight smile. “Okay… See you tomorrow?”
“First thing.”
He nods before turning and heading for the door. He stops to look at me before opening it. “I love you.”
“Love you too,” I say without hesitation. I watch as he leaves, then go back to my computer. Our first I love you plays in my mind.
Fourteen years old. On a picnic in the woods; Thorne insisted we go back to the place we met. I spent the morning baking his favorite bread and ripped my shirt scaling a tree to fill a jar with fresh honey.
He laid a blanket down, and we watched the sky the same way I loved to watch the stars—with him at my side, calling out everything he saw, prodding me to do the same. When he went quiet, I turned to find him watching me.
He kissed me, and I knew right away that something was different. He used his tongue. He touched me in places he never had before.
He was gentle and kind, and I pretended it didn’t hurt.
When it was over, I rolled onto my side, looked him in the eyes and whispered it first: I love you.
It felt like the right thing to say. It felt like the right thing to mean. Even for someone who isn’t capable of such a thing.
I think he’s forgiven me. I think he knows I’m defective—inside and out—and doesn’t hold me accountable for the affection a lover should provide. Not many mates would be content outsourcing warmth.
Maybe that is love. I don’t know. I hope someday I will.
Another hour passes while I search through the information on a man I would never have considered yesterday. It gets grimmer as I go.
I rub my temples. Shove my keyboard crooked. Hurry to straighten it.
I get up to stretch my legs and head to the kitchen for a glass of water.
A cup sits abandoned by the kitchen sink—Persephone’s, I assume. This isn’t even her home, yet she can’t manage to clean up after herself. Everywhere she walks, there’s dirt from her shoes. Crumbs are left behind wherever she eats. She’s almost as bad as Sawyer.
I hate her.
Cringe.
The thought doesn’t quite land. Isn’t quite right.
I don’t understand my emotions, but I consider them as I wash her glass, then get my own. I sip my water while hugging my stomach, a familiar flipping sensation ricocheting all the way up my chest.
I feel … sickly. My skin is cold and clammy. The grapes Father keeps in a bowl on the counter have gone soft, sweet rot thick in the air.
Sawyer’s disgust enters my mind, the face he made when he saw Persephone in the library. The look he gave me.
Nausea hits.
Shaking my head, I drink the rest of my water and wash my glass. I go back upstairs and stare straight ahead as I pass Sawyer’s door.
My steps slow until I come to a full stop.
When I close my eyes, I’m back in my room with Sawyer in front of me. I feel his lips brush mine, feel his hands cup my face.
It was an act. It’s always an act—one I will never fall for again.
And still, I can’t take another step.
My bed looms in my mind: too big, too cold.
There’s no ticking clock in my room to break the silence.
If I looked, maybe I’d find Cinder lounging by the fireplace or tucked away in the reading nook.
But even her presence refuses to ease the itch of …
something. Whatever it is that pulls my gaze to the black spilling from beneath Sawyer’s door.
Leave it.
The thought slips, useless.
Go to Thorne.
The idea lands flat. As if I’d risk rejection a second time.
Would Sawyer reject me?
I blink, thinking. When the answer comes, the decision is made for me.
It’s pathetic.
And wrong.
But I go to the door, put my ear to the wood...
And twist the knob.