Chapter 36 In Spite of Everything
In Spite of Everything
Her gaze hadn’t left the window since Winta closed the door. She’d spent a lifetime longing for freedom, but now that it was hers, it didn’t feel the way she thought it would.
Whatever relief came with escaping King Hendrix was buried beneath the knowledge that she still wasn’t safe—not while Damien held the reins.
The silence of the room pressed in around her.
Her choices weighed heavily on her mind, but also in the hollowness she carried in her chest. Everything had been taken from her: her home, her sense of self . . . the girl she used to be. If she was to look in the mirror now, she wouldn’t recognize the person staring back.
Clutching her heart, she let out a ragged breath and snatched the bedsheet, flinging it over the mirror in the corner, shielding herself from whatever Tyrina’s cruelty had left behind.
For a moment, she stood there, unsure what to do next.
Then she noticed steam curling through the air, soft beckoning wisps.
Her aching feet moved on their own, drawn through a narrow archway at the back of the bedroom and into a smaller chamber, lush with green.
Ferns spilled from the ceiling, and moss softened the stone floor beneath her hooves.
In the center stood—what Luna would later learn was called—a whala: a massive, tulip-shaped bath in full bloom. Its stiff petals curved inward to form a deep basin.
Without another thought, she peeled the flower dress from her body and stepped in. Warm water rose around her, laced with the scent of crushed rose petals. She sank slowly, the heat easing into her sore muscles, soothing her.
For a few breaths, she let it hold her.
The scent reminded her of jasmine. Of another bath—hotter, more crowded. With servants scrubbing too hard and her mother’s voice calling down the corridor: “My daughters will not be outshined tonight.” Emily had been laughing while she’d been scowling.
She remembered how much she hated the attention, the perfume, the ceremony preparations—all of it.
And now . . . Now she would give anything to go back. Just to be in it again, before everything fell apart.
The memory dissolved as the water cooled. She reached for a cloth and mechanically began scrubbing, as if she could wash away the turmoil that threatened to consume her.
Once finished and dressed, she crawled into bed. The sheets were like silk, but she barely felt them . . . too lost inside herself.
A knock sounded at the door. Then it creaked open, and Damien’s head appeared. His eyes were bright, and the edge of a smile tugged on his lips. He looked familiar, like the version of himself from before she knew the truth.
His smile vanished the instant he saw her. His brow pulled tight, concern shadowing his features. “Are you okay?”
No. But it would be easier—safer—to lie.
Her hands curled into the sheets, fisting it as she tried to speak the correct words. Her lips trembled; her throat closed.
She couldn’t.
Because someone cared. Because it was him.
And even now—knowing what he might do—some part of her still ached for the man he had been. The one who had kept her safe, made her feel like she mattered.
She couldn’t silence that part of herself, even though she hated it.
The facade slipped. And she unravelled, far too tired to hold it in.
“I can’t—” The words tore from her, cracked and brittle. A breath. A sob. “Please . . .”
Tears blurred everything. Her hands shook as she curled inward, like she could fold herself into nothing. The words clawed their way up, burning raw, strangling her. “Make me forget.”
Damien stepped inside, closing the door gently behind him. “How?”
Her gaze drifted towards the bed.
In a second, he had crossed the room to sit beside her, reaching for her hand with careful intent. His fingers brushed hers, but she flinched.
Not violently. Not from fear. Just a sharp, instinctive recoil that came too fast to catch.
A groan slipped from her lips, low and strained . . . the sound of someone exhausted by her own reflexes, betrayed by her own body.
She withdrew her hand and pressed it into her lap, as if pinning it there might force it to behave.
“I’m sorry,” she murmured softly, her voice frayed and uneven. “I didn’t mean to. I just . . .”
She’d wanted the contact—needed it, even—but the damage ran deeper than thought, deeper than reason, lodged somewhere in the marrow of her being.
The last hand she’d held had taken her nails. The last grip on her arm had split her open. And her body remembered even when she wished it wouldn’t.
Damien didn’t speak right away. His eyes met hers, no judgment in them. “You don’t have to apologize,” he said gently. “We’ll go at your pace.”
She drew in his words through a breath, letting them settle over her, then she reached for his knee and squeezed firmly. “Touch me like this”—she pointed to her forearm, where Tyrina had taken her blood, and to her fingers, still aching from everything they’d endured—“but not here . . . or here.”
He nodded and scooted closer, eyes never leaving hers.
He watched every flicker of emotion that crossed her face.
Slowly, Damien reached out and rested a hand on her shoulder.
His touch was steady and calm; it undid her.
A quiet sob trembled through her, the grief hitting all at once, so hard she couldn’t hide it.
“Good?” he asked.
She nodded through her tears, nuzzling closer to him, seeking the shape of his comfort. He abided, his arms wrapping around her, threading underneath hers—careful to avoid the sensitive areas she’d pointed out. His grip was tight, holding her like he was afraid if he let go, she’d fall to pieces.
She buried her face in the crook of his neck, letting the sobs flow freely now. “It’s too much,” she choked. “So . . . so utterly broken.”
“What is?”
Her hand slammed to her heart, as she squeaked out the word. “Me.”
“Luna, no,” he whispered, resting his chin against her head, shaking it gently. “You’re going to be okay.”
But he didn’t know; how could he?
In soothing motions, he rubbed small circles on her back. The tenderness only made it worse, and she broke harder, her tears soaking through his shirt.
“I got you,” he murmured, as if he could keep such a promise. “Nothing bad is going to happen. Not while I’m here.”
Her breath hitched, and she pulled him closer, even as a small voice stirred in her mind: He can’t be trusted.
She silenced it. Not because it wasn’t true, but because she couldn’t afford to listen. Not when she needed this so badly.
“It was awful,” she whispered, her voice thin and shaking. “They were . . . ruthless. I couldn’t make them stop.”
She pulled back just enough to see him—to really look at him—at the devastation written on his face. There was no shielding herself anymore, no point in pretending she could hold it in.
So she told him.
What it felt like when they tied her down.
How they’d broken her in pieces—not all at once.
How it didn’t stop when the pain stopped. How it still hadn’t.
He stayed quiet as she spoke, giving her the space to say as much—or as little—as she needed. When she was done, he looked like he might march back to that camp and re-murder everyone already dead.
Drawing small figure eights on his chest, she admitted, “I never want to be helpless again.”
“You’re stronger than you give yourself credit for.”
She wished she believed him.
Gently, his fingers combed through what was left of her hair. “You are a being made of stars,” he whispered, “and darkness, try as it might, can never dim starlight.”