6. Luna
LUNA
Ihave never been more humiliated in my life.
Streaks of heat climb both sides of my neck as Sawyer and I walk down the empty path, nothing but his comically large stockings padding the bottoms of my feet.
With every step, my heel crunches on the loose pile of thick wool sagging around my ankles, the irritation sharp enough that I almost yank the stockings off.
Let my toes numb, let textured concrete dig into the soles of my feet.
It’d be easier to run, if needed. When needed.
I wonder if he’ll ever give me shoes.
“And then the Keepers, who are like guards with horrendous constipation, wear black. This symbolizes…” Sawyer prattles on, his elbow bumping my tightly crossed arm.
His mouth hasn’t stopped moving since we left the peach building.
Valuable details—the Shadow Sanctum’s hierarchy, roles, structure—sprinkled between nonsensical fluff: the “joyous” celebrations they throw, the food grown right on the property, the lack of disease, symbolism with useless backstories.
No mention of what just took place. No pitiful looks, no cheeks flushing with embarrassment. To him, it’s as if it never happened.
That isn’t normal. This isn’t normal.
I pinch the skin at my bicep as silence overtakes us, tensing when Sawyer’s swaying hand brushes the outer edge of my back pocket.
When my arms hung at my sides, he grazed my fingers with every step—a constant swipe at my comfort zone, inching closer even as my right foot crept along the edge of the sidewalk.
It’s hard to tell if he’s crowding me on purpose or if no one ever taught him boundaries.
“So you’re a Cultivator then,” I say just to end the silence when it creeps too long, the absence of his voice more chilling than its company.
My eyes scan the treeline. Miles of forest wait just beyond, easy to get lost within but harder to be found. What would a sane person do? Run? Hide?
The wall Sawyer described isn’t visible from this trail. There aren’t any men in black slinging weapons. The only marked threat is the man standing next to me, and I’m pretty sure I could outrun him.
“Yes.” Sawyer nods.
“And… What does that mean exactly? What do you do for them?”
He scratches his arm while drifting to his left, just enough that finally, I feel like I can breathe.
“Most of us are farmers or cooks. A lot of people came from construction backgrounds, so they’re the builders.
Then we have those who either work the supply chain or they sew clothing, do woodwork, and whatever else is needed for the collective. ”
“And you?”
The pause only lasts a second, but after Sawyer’s endless rambling, it sticks out. I turn my head just enough to peek at the wrinkle between his brows, the dimple shifting in his cheek, the small lift of his shoulders as he pockets his hands. Embarrassment?
Real? Fake? I hate how hard it is to tell.
He chuckles. “I’m actually pretty useless to tell you the truth. I was rich before I came here, so my role was basically handing over my wealth.”
“You bought yourself in.”
“Yep.” He nods, lips pulling to one side. His voice is light, but his expression looks almost remorseful. Before he can go on, two little girls appear down the path, purple streamers whipping the earthy air as they giggle across the grass.
One sees us and waves excitedly. “Hi Sawyer!”
His face lights up—remorse gone; joy locking into place. “Lily! How are you? How’s Mom?”
The girls skip our way and take turns slapping Sawyer’s raised hand, his knees bent to their level.
“We’re having ice cream!”
“Ice cream?” He drops his jaw. “You better save some for me.”
One girl giggles while the other finds my eyes. For half a second, her smile breaks. She looks down, cheeks turning red as they both run away. Her flicker of discomfort is the most normal thing about that encounter. The lack of reaction is a bigger giveaway than if they’d forgotten their lines.
No one looks into my eyes without grimacing.
“I know it sounds crazy, but it’s really not that bad here…” Sawyer trails, glancing at me. Reading my reactions the way I’m reading his. Hopefully not nearly as talented as I am, though his acting is certainly better than I’m capable.
A breeze sweeps the hair on the back of my neck, even as the air stands stock-still. I shiver.
“You’re right. It sounds crazy.”
He chuckles, more nervous than amused. Like he feels judged. Like it matters in the slightest what I think.
“That’s fair… In truth, my wife was the one who heard about this place.
She spent most of her adult life running charities for impoverished nations, and I think she was just tired of the fight.
So when she heard about this wealthy utopia where everyone shared resources and no one went without, it appealed to her.
Neither of us knew about the kidnappings…
I can’t decide if I’m sad she never got to experience this place or happy she didn’t have to see the dark side of her dream. ”
I look down at my wool-clad feet as Sawyer’s grief overpowers the sidewalk. He makes space for me when I slip off the edge of the concrete, but I’m more comfortable walking in the grass, my feet growing damp as the stockings soak up dew.
“How did she die?” I ask, voice low. Respectful.
When I look up at him, he’s staring off—sorrowful—watching a pecan fall from a tree.
“She was poisoned… Somebody tainted bottles of champagne at a charity event she organized. The detectives said it was a criminal group targeting an individual there.”
My arms loosen from around my chest as he closes his watery eyes, a stubborn tear sneaking onto his cheek. He swipes it away, Adam’s apple bobbing.
My mind hunts for the lie inside his grief, but… nothing. It looks sincere—too sincere, even as his story sounds absurd. He’d have to be a sociopath to fake tears like that.
I slow to a stop and turn away from his grief. My hand reaches for my ring as discomfort settles. But it isn’t there.
A sharp inhale—quiet, sudden—and my gaze darts to my bare, webbed finger, as if the emerald might be hiding in a crease.
But it’s gone.
I clasp my finger. My eyes squeeze shut as I try to remember whether I had the ring in the cave.
Don’t panic. It’s just metal.
My father’s voice follows, cold and clipped: Don’t be dramatic
“Is everything okay?” Sawyer asks gently.
I keep my eyes shut another second.
It’s just a ring.
It’s just lost.
Lost can be found.
Don’t panic.
Don’t look weak.
“I’m sorry for your loss,” I say past the tightness in my throat.
Emotion shows through, my own grief etched into my words as though finally, I’ve learned how to respond to others’ pain.
After twenty-four years of scorn for being a frigid bitch, Luna Cox—Childless, loveless, ice cold—has a heart.
It sounds so real, only I know it’s a lie, and for a moment, I see how Sawyer does it.
Real emotion. Fake story.
Extremely useful… when it isn’t a sociopath I’m trying to convince that I do, in fact, have empathy. I’m his captive, for heaven's sake.
He runs his thumb beneath his eye while laughing bitterly. “Don’t apologize to me. You’ve just been taken from your home, and now I’m supposed to…” He shakes his head. “Never apologize to me. I don’t deserve your compassion.”
I just stare at him. A kinder soul might disagree.
“The biggest mistake I ever made was believing living my wife’s dying wish would make me less lonely. The second will be whatever I let happen to you… I will do everything in my power to help you, Luna. I just need you to trust me.”
I peer into sky blue irises a moment before turning away. He keeps saying my name, over and over again. Intentional—probably—but disconcerting. What is that supposed to do?
Looking down, I pick at a loose strand on the hem of my sweater. I tug sharply to snap the thread—only to watch the knit spread open. Figures. “I don’t know how I’m supposed to trust you when you’re asking me to be a whore.”
“I’m not asking.”
I look up with a glare.
“Listen to me, Luna.” He inches into my bubble, his palms settling warm and heavy on my shoulders.
“I don’t want you to be here. I wish they’d never chosen you…
But they did, and you’re as stuck here as I am.
That sucks, I know, but hear me when I say that the best course of action for you is to at least fake obedience.
That’ll get you through the next few weeks. ”
In other words … survive.
My molars press together hard as I take in his words. They aren’t far off from what my father would say.
Survive.
Adapt.
That is the way to conquer the world. Joy makes people lazy.
Pain makes them strong. I know this not in my gut but in the architecture of my bones.
But following Sawyer—or anyone—blindly is something I will never do.
Only the weak-willed would give in to his request just because he’s … handsome? Emotional? Good at lying?
It’s going to take more than that.
Any sane person would have doubts.
But any clever person would hide them.
I close my eyes while letting out a shaky breath. When I shift my feet, my damp panties come into focus, the uncomfortable reminder of earlier made physical by the sensation.
“Okay,” I whisper, fluttering my eyelids open.
He sighs, relief softening his posture as he leans a fraction too close. But I don’t back away. Not even when his thumb hooks in the crook of my collarbone, and his hands on my shoulders suddenly feels intimate.
“All of this is simpler than you think,” he begins.
Something catches his eye up the path, and I follow his gaze just in time to see Thorne come to a halt, shoulders lurching forward as if he’s physically stopping his enormous frame from tumbling.
Surprise—as if he just walked in on two people having sex.
Then … shame. Concern. His eyes roaming my blazing face, tight with an awkwardness that slithers like a snake down my spine.
Finally, anger. Directed at Sawyer with a sneer.
I turn my head into Sawyer’s chest.
“Checking up on us?” Sawyer asks, his hands sliding off my shoulders as he faces Thorne with an open chest. It’s a simple question, but he says it like a challenge. He stands taller as he embraces Thorne’s glare. They don’t like each other. That much is obvious.
Thorne’s response doesn’t come, and it’s only when my lungs burn that I realize I’m holding my breath waiting for it. I release, creeping off the sidewalk while Thorne marches down the path. He shoulder-checks Sawyer as he passes.
As soon as he’s gone, Sawyer looks at me. “Don’t worry too much about him. His bark is worse than his bite.”
“Are you two enemies or something?”
Sawyer shrugs. “I think he just doesn’t like outsiders. The guy’s had it in for me since I got here a few months ago.”
I peer down the path where Thorne disappeared. “Oh…”
“Come on.” Sawyer gestures toward the opposite direction, blinking away the wet shine clinging to his lower lashes. “We’re almost to the Bastion.”
I let him lead me, expecting him to continue what he was saying. But he doesn’t, and I’m not sure I wanted to hear the answer anyway.