21. Luna
Chapter 21
Luna
T he rich aroma of coffee fills the air as Lucien pours us both a cup. It’s such a normal, domestic act that for a moment, I forget where I am and who he is. As he hands me the steaming mug, our fingers brush, and I feel that now-familiar tingle of electricity.
“Thank you,” I murmur, wrapping my hands around the warm ceramic.
We settle into a comfortable silence, and I can’t help but marvel at how at ease I feel. It’s dangerous, this sense of comfort. I should be on guard, shouldn’t I? He’s a vampire. A powerful, ancient being who’s been keeping me here against my will.
And yet, it feels right. Normal, even. Like something a couple would do the morning after a good date if they’d gone home together and liked each other. The thought makes me blush, and I hide behind my coffee cup.
Lucien’s voice breaks the silence. “How’s your pain this morning?”
I look up, meeting his concerned gaze. There’s genuine care there, and it catches me off guard.
“Better,” I admit. “Whatever is in your blood... it helped.”
He nods, a small smile playing at the corners of his mouth. “I’m glad. But it will wear off soon.”
“I understand.”
“I probably shouldn’t have offered it to you,” he says, more contemplative than annoyed at himself. “Forming a habit would not be a good idea.”
“It’s okay. I won’t pester you for more.”
“You wouldn’t need to pester . I just mean—” Lucien stops when he notices me smiling at him. It is very endearing, the way he can change from being utterly terrifying one minute – like when he was threatening Trent – to almost tender the next. He takes a sip of his coffee. “When did it start? Your illness, I mean. I have to admit, it’s not something I fully understand.”
I hesitate, my fingers tightening around the mug. It’s not something I talk about often, but something tells me he’s willing to listen.
“It started after a car accident. It has a stupid long name – fibromyalgia – but apparently, it can be triggered by traumatic, painful events. Or an accumulation of them. Doctors don’t really understand it. I think the last consultant I saw said it was something to do with the way my brain processes pain signals. But other doctors have said it’s more like ME or Chronic Fatigue.” I laugh dryly, rolling my eyes at myself. “I hate talking about this stuff. Like I said, it’s not exactly sexy.”
“I want to understand.” Lucien shifts closer on the bed, then slides a hand beneath the sheets and squeezes the soft flesh above my waist again. “And, like I said, I find everything about you sexy, Luna.”
Usually, I’d flinch and pull away. Instead, I let him keep his hand there. “The accident happened when I was in college,” I begin, my voice soft. “I was home for the holidays, driving my parents back from my dad’s work Christmas party.”
Lucien leans forward, his full attention on me. I take a deep breath and continue.
“My dad was drunk, which wasn’t exactly unusual for him. They were in the back seat. He started to get angry with my mum, accused her of embarrassing him in front of his colleagues by making a joke at his expense.”
I can feel the tension building in my body as his voice echoes in my ears. How can I remember it so clearly? Even now?
Lucien must sense it too because he gives my waist a gentle squeeze.
“He lunged for her,” I say, my voice barely above a whisper. “I leaned back, trying to help, and the car veered off the road. We rolled into a ditch and hit a tree.”
I fall silent, the memory of screeching tires and shattering glass echoing in my mind. What I don’t tell him is that I blacked out. Before the car veered off the road. I was reaching for my mother and my vision blurred. Everything went hazy and black.
I comb my fingers through my hair and swallow down the lump in my throat.
Lucien doesn’t push, doesn’t ask for more details. Just lets me speak.
“They died.” I shake my head, biting back tears. “Both of them. Because of me.”
“Not because of you.” Lucien’s voice has changed from sympathetic to angry. He takes my chin in his hand and makes me look at him. “Do you hear me? Not because of you.”
I nod at him, still crying.
He takes my coffee mug, and his, and moves them to the bedside table. I reach for his hand. “Lucien?”
“Yes, kitten?”
“Talking about it makes me...” My breath hitches and my hand goes to my thigh, my nails needling my skin. “I need to feel something. I need the memory to go away.”
In one swift movement, he eases me back onto the bed, flips me onto my stomach, and yanks the sheets down.
“I can help with that,” he says, parting my legs and positioning himself behind me. “How would you like to come?”
I wriggle back toward him.
“My hands, my mouth, or my cock?”
“Your mouth, and your fingers.” I feel him settle behind me. Seconds later, his tongue is at my entrance. At first, my mind still whirrs, but as the sensations build in my core and his fingers find the spot that makes wetness flood to my pussy, the noises quiet.
Pleasure takes over.
Lucien takes over.
A few hours later, I lie in bed, staring at the ceiling, trying to stop my mind doing somersaults. Just as he said they would, the effects of Lucien’s blood are fading already. Not even twelve hours have passed and I’m starting to feel like myself again.
My body aches, a bone-deep weariness. But it has nothing to do with the lots of sex I had with Lucien. No, this is a familiar pain, the kind that settles in my joints and muscles when I’ve pushed myself too hard, when I’ve let my guard down.
And that’s exactly what I’ve done.
In the moment, it was incredible. But now he’s gone, locking the door behind him to go and deal with some ‘urgent business’, I can’t help feeling like I’ve made a huge mistake.
I let him get close to me, let him see the cracks in my armor.
He’s seen my scars, physical and emotional.
And I’m not sure I’ve ever felt so vulnerable.
The sex was incredible, mind-blowing, but it wasn’t just physical. There was an emotional connection that I’ve never shared with anyone before. And the intensity is so unnerving I don’t know how to handle it.
I told him about my parents, about the car crash that shattered my life. I let him see the guilt I’ve carried ever since. I let him see what it does to me.
I close my eyes as the memory surges up, vivid, and gut-wrenching. The screech of tires, the sickening crunch of metal, the searing pain in my legs and back and arms. The darkness. I squeeze my eyes shut tighter, trying to block it out, but it’s too late.
I was trapped, upside down, the seatbelt cutting into my chest. The radio was still playing, some upbeat pop song that seemed almost funny amongst all the carnage. Blood dripped into my eyes, my hair, my mouth. I couldn’t move, couldn’t breathe. I thought I was going to die.
I called for my parents. I tried to look back over my shoulder, but the pain was too much, and I was pinned by something.
A tree.
Sticking through the windshield. A branch pressing down on my chest.
I called for them again but there was no answer.
I smashed the glass. Fought my way out.
A sob catches in my throat, yanking me back to the present. I curl in on myself, hugging my knees to my chest. Why did I tell Lucien about that? What was I thinking? Was I so blinded by the sex, and the way he looked at me, and the way he spoke to that werewolf?
“You don’t even think about her. Do you understand?”
If that wasn’t the hottest thing anyone has ever said to me then I don’t know what is.
But even as I berate myself, I can’t ignore the small, traitorous part of me that feels a connection to Lucien. He’s not like the vampires who attacked me at the bookshop. He’s cruel, yes, and dangerous, but there’s something else there too. A flicker of humanity, buried deep.
He thinks I can’t see it. But I do.
The way he wants to protect me. The way he looked at my scars.
I turn over and allow myself to scream into my pillow.
I don’t even know what time of day it is. Yes, he’s shown he wants to protect me. But he still has me locked up here.
And I know he’s watching me. He has to be; how else would he have known I was holding a razor against my thigh?
I can’t let myself get sucked in. I’ve been down this road before – with Steven. I thought he was different, too, thought he cared about me. But in the end, he just used me, broke me down until I was a shell of myself.
I can’t let that happen again.
I can’t sit here and convince myself that Lucien is capable of truly caring for me.
Look at the evidence, Luna. Just look...
He’s locked you in. Locked. You. In.
Does someone do that if they care for you? If they trust you?
And he still hasn’t given you answers.
I have to get out of here, and away from Lucien and his mind games. I’ve already tried to escape once and failed, but I can’t give up. I won’t. I can’t stay just because the thought of never feeling him inside me again makes me feel like crying. Or because I felt safer in his arms than I ever have before. Or because his blood is the only thing in years that has muted my pain.
Gritting my teeth, I push myself out of bed, ignoring the protest of my aching muscles. I pace the room, trying to clear my head.
I need answers. I need to understand why he’s doing this. Is he just another monster, playing with his food? Is it all a game? Or is there really something else going on. Something bigger.
My thoughts careen between fear and curiosity, despair and a fragile, foolish hope. I want to trust Lucien, want to believe that he’s different. But I’m terrified of being wrong, and of letting myself fall into another trap.
I lean my forehead against the cool wall beside the portrait of the phoenix. There is no window now. No way out.
I’m a prisoner. And I can’t let myself forget that, no matter how my treacherous heart might yearn for something more.
I have to find a way out. Even if it means leaving behind the one person who might understand my broken pieces.