12. CHAPTER 12
MOON
The collar wouldn’t sit right. Every time I moved, the fabric dragged across the marks. I looked exactly like what I was—someone who had been handled.
The small prep room smelled of powder and citrus. Harsh mirrors lined one wall. The door opened behind me. Zara and Vivienne slipped in. Zara carried a small black makeup bag. Vivienne had her arms crossed, already assessing the damage.
“Hold still,” Zara said.
“I am holding still.”
Vivienne’s reflection smiled, dry. “You are vibrating with masculine discomfort.”
“There’s paste on my face,” I said.
Zara tilted my chin and dabbed concealer over the bruises. “Don’t be dramatic. It’s just makeup.”
I hated this. Cool cream on my skin. Her fingers too close to where Declan had gripped. The way I needed them to do it.
“I don’t understand why women do this every day.” The words scraped out. Makeup on my face. Fucking humiliating. What if someone could tell?
“We manage worse than this every single day,” Zara said, dabbing without mercy. “Suffer quietly.”
Vivienne smirked, head tilting. “Aw, listen to the big tough guy complaining about a little concealer. For once, handsome, let the women handle the real work. We’re very good at fixing messes you boys make.”
I rolled my eyes. She wasn’t wrong.
Zara worked fast. Concealer. Powder. A careful blend over the split on my lip. She smelled like citrus. Her hair was different today, waist-length knotless braids pulled into a sleek half-up style, edges laid. It looked good on her. Devastating, even.
The kind of woman I should want. Should marry. Instead my mind slid straight to Cillian. I could picture the life everyone wanted for me. I just couldn’t picture myself in it.
Great. Makeup on my face and having a full-blown crisis over a man. I was going to need a fucking drink.
“You’re going viral on The Gallery again,” Zara said. “They’re already talking. We don’t need anyone snapping pictures of those bruises and feeding the rumor mill.”
I stared at my own reflection. The bruises were disappearing under her hands. The version of me that looked like he belonged to Aster was coming back. It felt like lying to my own face.
Cillian had messaged again. Notifications still unread. I hadn’t opened them. Couldn’t. Every time his name surfaced, Declan’s voice followed. He took the Writ on you from day one.
Zara finished and stepped back. “Better.”
Vivienne tilted her head. “Almost convincing.”
I rolled my shoulders under the jacket. The fabric still felt too tight over the marks on my throat. “Let’s go.”
Zara walked with me to the edge of the salle. Before we stepped fully into view, she turned, rose on her toes, and kissed my cheek.
I let her.
Because I needed it. Because the arrangement was cracked but not dead yet. Because Cillian wasn’t here and the absence was already obnoxious.
Vivienne smiled from a few feet away like she knew exactly what the performance cost.
Zara pulled back, eyes sharp. “Break a leg.” Then she walked away to sit with Vivienne in the stands.
Sawyer was already there, restless, eyes tracking my every move like he was one wrong breath away from throwing punches.
The salle was packed. High windows threw cold light across the long strip. Aster students watching because I belonged to them. Vesper heirs watching because one of theirs was fencing the Moon heir. Phones out, discreet but recording. The Gallery was already circling, hungry for the next clip.
Cillian wasn’t there. Relief hit first. Then disappointment. Some broken part of me had still hoped he’d show. I scanned the room quickly. No sign of him.
My opponent was a Vesper heir I’d fenced once before, years ago, back in high school, before Harvard. Fast. Impeccable footwork. Tall. Curly brown hair. Freckles. He smiled like the whole match was already decided in his favor.
He hadn’t beaten me then. He wouldn’t beat me today.
We saluted. Mask on. En garde.
He came in fast on the first exchange. I parried late. The rhythm felt off in my shoulders, in my head. Every time I tried to settle into the familiar precision, Declan’s hands flashed behind my eyes. My father’s expectations. All of it crowding the space where focus should have lived.
We reset.
“No Thorn bodyguard today?”
I didn’t answer.
“Your girlfriend looks loyal. Brave of her.”
I advanced. He retreated. I feinted. He caught it.
“Careful, Moon. Everyone’s watching you today.”
I didn’t rise to it. I needed to win this match. Proof that I was still the version of myself everyone expected.
I won the next exchange cleanly. The point landed. For half a second the old rhythm clicked back into place. We reset. I attacked. He parried. His riposte came fast. The blade caught me across the collarbone.
Sharp. Sudden. Wrong.
Pain flared white-hot. I jerked back. “Ow—what the fuck?” Blood bloomed fast over the white jacket. Red on white. Impossible to hide. The fabric darkened in a spreading line.
The Vesper heir froze for a split second, blade still extended. Even he looked surprised. The referee stepped in immediately, hand up.
“Halt!”
I pressed my gloved hand to the cut. Blood seeped between my fingers. The salle had gone quiet except for the low murmur starting to rise.
I didn’t wait for the referee to fuss. I didn’t wait for the medic. “I’m done.” I turned and walked off before anyone could manage me.
Zara and Vivienne were already moving through the stands. Sawyer half-rose from his seat.
I kept walking. I didn’t want their concern. Their pity. I didn’t fucking need this public circus.
The boys’ locker room door slammed behind me. I ripped the mask off and hurled it. It crashed into the far lockers hard enough to dent the metal. The sound echoed.
Blood ran down my chest. I pressed my bare hand to the cut, furious, shaking.
Tell me this wasn’t you.
I had no proof. But the thought was already there. I hated that I still wanted him, anyway. Blood kept coming. I didn’t stop it. Let it stain. Let the white show everything I couldn’t hide anymore.
The door crashed open.
“Hyung, are you okay?” Sawyer burst in, grabbing a towel and pressing it to my chest. I shoved him off.
“Hyung?”
I winced. It hurt like hell. I snatched the towel back and held it over the cut myself.
“I’ll find out who did this,” Sawyer said. “I already asked Louis. He’s confused. His blade wasn’t prepped right. Someone fucked with the gear.”
“It was Cillian. Or someone from Thorn. Declan told me they have a Writ on me.”
Sawyer stopped dead. “Oh.”
“Oh?” I snapped. “What the fuck do you mean, oh? Did you know?”
“No. I didn’t. But I can handle Cillian. He and the rest of Thorn will regret fucking with a Whitlock.”
“No. I don’t need you going full psycho Whitlock on Thorn. That’s exactly what they want.”
The cut throbbed harder. Fuck.
Vivienne and Zara pushed through the door with the coach and academy nurse.
“Hyun.” Vivienne’s voice was frantic. She reached for my shoulder. I tensed. Too many people. Too much noise.
“Take a seat, Hyun,” the nurse said gently. “Let me look.”
I sat. Removed the towel. Blood oozed steadily. She pressed gauze to the wound. “Not too deep, but you’ll need stitches. Hold this tight. Come with me to the nurse’s wing. You can bring one friend.”
Zara stepped forward smoothly. “I’ll go. I’m the girlfriend.” She took my hand, smiling at the nurse. “Come on, sweetheart.”
I let her pull me out. As we walked back through the salle, I saw him.
Cillian. Jaw tight, eyes dark. He looked pissed. His gaze dropped to Zara’s hand in mine.
I looked away fast. He stepped directly into our path. Even the nurse startled.
“He needs medical attention,” she said sharply. “This can wait.”
Cillian ignored her. He reached out and pulled the gauze from my chest himself. “Who did this?”
Zara shoved him. He didn’t budge. Just stared down at her, furious. She grabbed my hand again and pressed the gauze back over the wound. “This is none of your business. Step away. You’re causing a scene.”
“M—”
“Stay away, Cillian,” I cut him off, twisting my head when he tried to catch my jaw.
He let go. For a split second something raw, almost hurt, flashed across his face.
Zara tugged me forward. I went with her.
How the fuck could you do this after Saint Lucia?
Heartless fucking asshole.