21. Luna
LUNA
Alone in the dilapidated training house—knees callusing on the bedroom floor, hands raw and blistered—the one solace is this: I don’t have a watch.
Bent over the edge of my newest ‘masterpiece’, I puff a breath at the hair hanging in my face. I sit up; rub my eye on my shoulder. Dip my finger into the chunky bucket of paint that was once white, now a dull gray.
Then it’s back to work on the polar bear’s fur, my finger skimming in fast, shallow passes, rubbing gray into hardwood with the care and concentration of an artist, not a woman who’s taken up the hobby out of madness.
My hands cramp, this morning’s baseboard-scrubbing blisters cracking open as I work. Fruitless but effortful. Useless to the body, essential for the brain.
Routines make the mind carry what the soul can’t. And for the last several days, routine is all I’ve had.
Wake up to an empty bed.
Pick up Sawyer’s clothes off the floor, make the bed, scrub the walls until my hands refuse to go on.
Stare out the window.
Practice dancing—like a silly little girl.
Tell myself I don’t love it.
Lie on the bed, stare at the ceiling, ignore the rumble of my stomach.
Paint over the imperfections on the walls—stains, scratches, warps.
Graffiti the floor. Pretend Sawyer will care.
Wait for Sawyer.
Wait for Sawyer.
Wait for Sawyer.
Always waiting for Sawyer, until the moon shines bright in the sky and my pride withers away with hunger. When he finally returns, it’s with food from outside the compound—foil wrappers cloaking stuffed tortillas, bags of chips, sticks of ‘meat’ encased in plastic. Mockery dressed up as kindness.
I eat while he shucks off his clothes and collapses into bed, gracing me with an hour or so of his attention before drifting off to sleep. An hour of attention that is never enough.
It isn’t failure—yet. There’s still time to win him over, convince him to show me the exit, extract the information I need.
But every tick of a clock I’m grateful not to have brings me closer to the inevitable. The longer I spend in this house, the more outmatched I feel.
My finger pauses mid-stroke when the front door to the house slams shut. I perk up, eyes darting toward the door while I hold my breath. As heavy feet clomp up the stairs, my lungs release.
Not Sawyer. His steps are exact, in perfect rhythm, each foot laid carefully in front of the other.
These steps are loud and off-beat, an ox trampling through a forest versus a cheetah encroaching on prey.
Soft knuckles rap on the door.
“Luna?” the Shadow Sanctum’s bleeding knight calls, so considerate—always. Sawyer’s opposite in every way.
“Come in.”
I go back to my painting as Thorne enters, carrying the smell of steaming broth. I dip my finger in the paint and go back to my outline of the bear, a snowstorm swirling around his crawling form. His red eyes are like beams guiding his path to nowhere. Beautiful, no. Powerful, yes.
“What are you doing?” Thorne asks. He came two days ago with food and saw what I’d done to the floor without comment. So it isn’t the defacement that causes concern to enter his voice.
“Painting.”
The bowl of soup makes a soft clank next to my knees. Thorne’s hands approach carefully. He touches the spot just above the gash on my arm, but yanks away when I tense.
“What happened?”
I glance at the trails of blood on my arm—mostly dried. My bear needed color.
Thorne sighs before dragging a wooden rocking chair closer to me. Tts screech on the floor is sharp enough to turn my head. Without a word, he sits.
Within seconds, the air in the room thins with guilt he doesn’t try to hide, suffocating me with hypocritical remorse, like he’s somehow outside of this. Like this wasn’t his decision, he doesn’t approve, and he wants me to know it.
I wish he’d leave.
But I don’t ask him to.
Sawyer said I should seek out a male who gives off a remorseful vibe, not unlike the one Thorne oozes now. He comes off like a man itching to rescue a damsel in distress.
But he’s loyal to the Shadow Sanctum. He’d never be useful to a captive…
Right?
My finger pauses over the painting, the bear’s fur solid white. Thorne watches as I walk to the bathroom until I disappear through the doorway.
At the sink, I scrub away paint with methodical strokes, my eyes closing as warm water washes away a sea of germs people tell me I can’t feel. I clean the cut on my arm next, then return to the room.
I’m halfway finished with my bowl of vegetable soup before Thorne speaks.
“I watched the video.”
Broth sputters in my throat, my hand clapping over my mouth as I choke on a carrot. Swallowing, I lock eyes with Thorne. He looks pained, his lips hung in a frown, the bridge of his nose creased.
“The most recent one,” he clarifies. As if it could possibly matter which one he watched.
I look down at the soup as fire licks my cheeks.
My last session with Sawyer…
I was up to six orgasms before I moved enough to cut off my air supply. The more orgasms I was able to withstand, the quicker Sawyer loosened the belt.
It’s a cruel game, but oddly enough, it worked for his purposes. I stopped flinching when he touched me. Within days of meeting him, I didn’t hesitate to beg him to fuck me when he wanted it.
The days he chose to fuck me were always the gentlest on my body. He conditioned me to want it in only a little over a week.
As a human trafficker, he’s good. As a person, he’s awful.
“I’m so sorry he’s cruel to you,” Thorne says, his voice a heavy blanket of remorse.
I close my eyes and set my soup on the floor—appetite spoiled.
Thorne clears his throat, his hand to his chest while he hacks up emotion. “Aurelius asked me to bring this.” He pulls a new camcorder out of his jacket pocket and rests it in his lap. His head hangs, chocolate eyes peering at me beneath long lashes.
I don’t know what to say to him. My lungs feel heavy with a scream that isn’t fair—even if he’s looking at me like I’m a dog about to be put down.
It’s Sawyer's fault that I’m angry.
That I’m hungry.
That I’m pathetic.
Thorne looks down while fumbling the camcorder in his hands.
A vein pops on his forehead when he clenches the device, and I watch unflinchingly as he pushes to his feet and slams the camcorder to the ground.
He stomps on it with his big, heavy boots until it comes apart in pieces, the broken glass of the lens sliding my way.
I pick it up and trace the jagged crack of glass before letting it clank at my feet. Pins prick the back of my eyes, pulling my lids closed.
When was the last time I cried?
“Thank you,” I say, clearing my throat when my voice comes out hoarse. I don’t tell him that training is over and his dramatics are unnecessary. For once in my life, I want the drama.
I open my mouth to say more, but before anything can come out, the front door creaks. Bangs shut.
Footsteps sound on the stairs. This time, the gait is unquestionably Sawyer’s. I look out the window as if I’ll see stars, but the sun hasn’t even begun to set.
Thorne and I watch the door as Sawyer shoves inside, his hands digging in his bulging hoodie pocket for a plastic bag reeking of grease. When he raises his head and sees Thorne, he drops it. “What the fuck are you doing here?”
Thorne answers with the stretch of his spine. His jaw tenses, his fingers half-curled—not quite into fists.
As Sawyer’s widening eyes roam the cut on my arm, I twitch to cover myself. But don’t.
“Did you fucking hurt her?” He swings in front of me like I might get snatched by the supposed vulture that is Thorne.
Because now he’s protective.
After days spent ignoring me, now, he cares.
“Did I hurt her?” Thorne stomps Sawyer’s way. “It’s seven, and according to Brex, you left early this morning. She hasn’t eaten a thing today.” He stabs a finger at the bowl of soup. “Forgive me for not letting her starve.”
Sawyer scoffs, but Thorne isn’t finished. He towers over Sawyer, steaming like a volcano, a hair-trigger from eruption. His fists fully close. “None of us were sure you’d even be back.”
Thorne shoves Sawyer’s chest and makes him stumble backward onto me. I flinch against his freezing palm on my thigh. His hand squeezes the slightest bit as he peers back to make sure I’m okay.
A half look. For half a second.
It shouldn’t bring me relief.
“Where did you go, Hansley?” Thorne sneers, Sawyer’s last name somehow an insult.
Sawyer rights himself then shoves back at Thorne’s chest, but of course, the lunk doesn’t budge. “I’m not going to discuss my work with you here. Or anywhere, for that matter. I won’t tell you how to follow the yellow brick road if you don’t tell me how to do my job. Okay, Scarecrow?”
Thorne’s lips fumble as confusion makes his angry face twitch. A robot malfunctioning.
He shakes his head. “I don’t understand half of what you say.”
“Because you grew up in a fucking cult of illiterate inbreds.”
Tension wraps tight in the room for half a second, Thorne’s rage tiptoeing to the proverbial ledge. It wobbles. Then falls.
With a beastly growl, Thorne catches Sawyer by the throat. He squeezes and shakes, manic eyes looking like they may pop from his skull.
Sawyer grasps Thorne’s hand and tries to pry—without success—all while maintaining his enraged expression. Remarkable. It’s even more remarkable that I don’t know who I’m rooting for.
Both to win.
Both to lose.
I jump to my feet anyway. “Stop!”
Thorne whips toward me, his hand still squeezing Sawyer’s throat. I wrap my arms around my stomach while slowly walking toward them. “Please.”
As soon as I reach the barbarians, Thorne lets go. No less angry than before.
Sawyer chokes on air and glares like he’s going to attack, but before another word can be said, Thorne storms from the room, his concrete feet audible all the way out the front door.
I turn my gaze to the red surrounding Sawyer’s neck, bruises sure to form. Soon, we’ll have matching blue collars.
Good.
“What the hell is wrong with you?” I ask.