LUNA
It’s been two days since the ceremony. Two days that my … that the people have suffered the unmet agony of retribution, retribution that Father stubbornly has refused.
They swarm the Keep with angry fists, demanding retribution for their Head Keeper’s actions. But I don’t hear their furious cries.
Instead, hidden away inside the Bastion, all I hear is the occasional murmur passing Thorne’s door or the thump of footsteps from the room above. Cinder is snugly tucked at my feet while I lie on a mattress too soft, too safe.
I shouldn’t be safe here, but Thorne estimates all but a quarter of my fellow Keepers are grateful for my father’s decision to pardon me for my crimes.
And still, two Keepers stand outside Thorne’s door with machine guns slung over their shoulders.
Keeping others away? Sure. Keeping me in? Certainly.
I could do it myself.
My eyes close at the recurring thought—more frequent today.
The door opens with a gentle creak but no knock. Thorne. He steps through with a steaming bowl in hand, and the scent of rich broth fills the small space as Cinder crawls up my body to snuggle beneath my arms. I stroke her fur with my gaze pointed at the ceiling.
As the mattress groans beneath Thorne’s weight, I roll onto my side facing away.
Cinder’s low rumble vibrates my hand, and I squeeze her gently.
After everything Thorne’s been through the last two days …
now is not the time for Cinder to express her everlasting disdain for him, despite his many attempts at befriending her.
I close my eyes and try not to think of Sawyer. But he comes into my consciousness anyway like an intruding thought I’ll never be able to control.
He could be dead by now.
The soup bowl clanks on the nightstand. “Do you want to talk?”
My vision blurs. I blink away moisture.
“I brought your favorite… Blessing bowl.” The bed dips with Thorne’s movements, my body rocking with the mattress. “It might not be very good. I, uh…” He attempts a laugh. “I made it myself.”
Cinder whines, low but insistent. I gasp when I realize how tightly I’m squeezing, and as soon as my arms loosen, she flees.
“Thank you,” I force out, my voice gravelly. Pathetic. I clear my throat and shift. “That’s very kind… I’ll have some shortly.”
I wish with every fiber of my being that I could love this man the way he deserves. How could I have ever faulted him?
And yet, I allow his discomfort to grow in the silence that stretches. Every moment pushes him further away—I can feel it, but I don’t let it stop. Raven must understand, because since Father put her in charge, Thorne has worked double shifts. She’s requested his attention at every lull.
Or he’s lying and has been with Echo.
Thorne sighs. “I don’t know what to do when you’re like this…”
Run. Please.
“This isn’t you, Luna.” Thorne shoves to his feet. Anger. Thank God. “You need to get up. You need to… to do something.”
Do something…
While prisoner to this room. Banished from the Keep, stripped of authority, my—the—people outside demanding my execution.
I am without use.
“You’ve been sulking in here for two days like some… Like a…”
Coward.
Weakling.
Wounded dog.
“Like a woman.”
A laugh tries to lurch up my throat but catches halfway, and something close to a mewl grinds out instead. I sit up and face him; tilt my head. His mouth opens and closes as he searches for better words. He waves to the wall. “On the outside. Those women. The… The weak ones.”
“The weak ones.”
He nods. “Yes. I… Luna, it kills me to say it, but it’s true. I love you. But this isn’t you. This isn’t—”
“How would you know?”
Three fat lines form on Thorne’s forehead.
“How would you know what the women on the outside are like? How would I know? How would any of us who were born here know?”
His mouth opens too quickly—so quickly my spine snaps straight as though struck with a whip.
“Liberty wasn’t weak. I found her to be quite strong. Wouldn’t you agree?”
His face reddens, his own frustration growing. But then his eyes divert with guilt. As though his little crush on the banshee makes a difference.
“Think, Thorne. You believe what people have told you, and they believe what my father has told them. But have you ever for a moment stopped to wonder if he’s wrong? Or worse, if he’s lying?”
Thorne splays his palms to humor me, but skepticism dims the angry furrows in his brow.
In his defense, until lately, neither had I.
“And if he’s lying about that, what else might he be lying about? What if this… this,” I fan my hands over myself, “is normal? What if this is who I am? What if I’m acting like a woman because I am a woman?”
He scoffs and turns toward the door, head shaking. “I can’t talk to you when you’re like this.”
“What if our girls don’t mature faster than the girls on the outside?”
That makes him pause. But not because he’s considering what I’m saying. It’s because he doesn’t understand it.
I’m confusing him. I’m confusing myself.
I twist toward Thorne and pull my knees up, my arms drawn tight around my shins. A quick beat pulses in my fingertips, only ceasing when I dig bruises into my legs. Only for the rapid patter to travel to my temples.
I don’t know why I’m saying this.
I’ll never be able to take it back.
“The outside world prosecutes men who have sex with younger girls—even teenagers. They’ve gone so far as to dub the attraction a psychological condition. What if they’re correct, Thorne? What if it’s wrong, and we’re hurting children because Father’s told us otherwise?”
“We’re not,” Thorne growls like I’ve insulted him personally.
“The outside world discriminates based on all kinds of things. We don’t.
That’s why we thrive. While they’re separating their members into dependents and workers, every member of society contributes.
It’s what makes us superior. You know that. ”
“But how do I know?”
A curl forms in his upper lip, as if I’ve shoved a lemon into his mouth. I can’t blame him. Thorne and I are mates. We’re partners. Once upon a time, we were friends.
But we don’t do this. We’ve never done this.
“We know because Father said so,” I try to point out. "You’re practically reciting his speech.”
“Because he’s right.”
“No.” I shake my head and stand from the bed, my legs wobbly from lack of use. “He isn’t. He’s…” I pause in front of Thorne and cross my arms over my chest. It takes an embarrassingly deep inhale to force my next words.
“He’s hurting them.”
“Who?”
“The children. The—the girls. He’s selling off our baby boys and raising the girls like they’re crops to harvest.”
Thorne shuffles closer to the door. Just a step, barely culpable, but the distance is noted just the same. “What?”
“It’s true. Aiden told me himself that my father had been ordering him to retrieve the boys and deliver them to buyers.”
“So he’s avoiding waste.” Thorne lifts a shoulder, but he doesn’t mean it. His tone is confused. Overwhelmed. Again, I don’t blame him.
“But the girls—”
“Are fine.”
“No, they’re not.” The last word cracks in half, like a clay target flying high before shattering with a bullet. Tiny pins prick my eyes until the moisture welling can no longer be explained away. No tears fall—not yet. But Thorne’s horrified eyes latch onto the fragility.
He backs up another step.
“I know they’re not fine because…” I suck in a shaky breath and step closer only for him to step back. A dance. A cruel one. “Because I’m not fine. I’m not fine, Thorne.” A tear slips, the first he’s ever seen.
It’s only natural he’d be surprised, but I feel a twist in my gut anyway.
“I don’t think I’ve ever been okay.” It comes out as a wobble, an admission not just to Thorne, but to myself. The air turns thick and heavy, like a curtain fallen over our heads. And suddenly, I know what I want most in the world:
For him to understand. Not as my mate or my partner or my equal. But as the boy in the forest, who would not cringe at the demon girl.
If there is a pure soul in this world, it belongs to this man. This wonderfully, beautifully, generously, whole-hearted man. Loyal and kind and honest, more honest than I could ever dream of being.
If he knew the truth… If he could see that in our unified mission to protect the people, we’ve neglected the most defenseless of all, he would grieve with me.
Then, together, we would fix it.
“We have to help them.” I take his arm. “You have to help them.”
He pulls away, slowly but forcefully. It may as well be the rug beneath my feet that he yanked.
I wobble backward while his face twists with something between pity and disgust. His lips half crimp, half frown. Creased eyes won’t meet mine.
“You need to pull yourself together,” he says. Calmly. The voice of reason. A doctor to a patient during a psychotic break. “If not for me, then for the Shadow Sanctum.”
His eyes flick at me, but they don’t land. He lowers his head, turns and leaves.
I stand in place for an indiscernible amount of time. I don’t cry—the pain is deeper than tears. A blow at the bottom of my gut that leaves me breathless and hunched.
It’s the horn that finally pulls me from my numbness.
Four successive notes drawn out, loud and low-pitched.
It means good news is to be heard… A successful birth. A child’s ascent into womanhood. Or…
An initiate has passed their test. We’re welcoming a new brother into the Shadow Sanctum.
Hand to my chest, I stumble forward and seek out my shoes, neatly lined up at the door where I left them.