Luna
Sawyer doesn’t seem to notice the looks I get from the Keepers standing guard outside the Grove.
One frowns. The other narrows his eyes, his jaw tensing before he looks away.
We pass two female Cultivators in the hall who are silent and rigid. But their whispers carry as soon as we’re steps apart.
I walk with my hood off and my back straight, but all I can think about are the consequences of being seen with me.
Will they come to Sawyer’s room in search of me, their insults and grievances strung back like arrows? Will they turn their backs on him already, when he’s only just been granted acceptance?
Father has made things perfectly clear. No one is allowed to touch me. The penalty is death.
No one is even allowed to challenge me, a practice that has diffused the tension in our society since before I was born. I have no memory of a single instance where he’s granted anyone such immunity. Cowardice and hypocrisy, that is our legacy.
But Sawyer’s… How will they see him once they know what he’s capable of feeling for me?
What is he capable of feeling for me?
I blink away my thoughts when Sawyer opens the door to his room and steps to the side. I meet his eyes and try to do a quick read, but his expression is indiscernible. Not blank, but not obvious.
His eyes look heavy with the way they dip down my body, but I’d never know if he was pleased. There’s no smile playing on his lips.
I wander into the room, my eyes dancing over the glass bottles of oil (probably coconut), some type of grease (for his hair?), toothpaste and a toothbrush all strewn about the wooden dresser.
My boot nudges the abandoned, disgusting shirt he wore for days in the woods, his pants and boxers piled at the side of his bed.
He’s had this room for all of four hours, and he’s managed to trash it.
“They stink, don’t they?” Sawyer asks as he comes up behind me. I turn my head to see him staring down at the clothes. “I didn’t notice so much while I was wearing them.”
“You could take them to the laundry,” I offer, as though the thought could never occur to him otherwise.
“Yeah.” Sawyer nods but kicks the clothes beneath the bed.
An itch crawls up both sides of my neck, strong and urgent. I don’t lift a hand—it’s far too deep to ever be scratched.
“They’re just clothes, Luna,” Sawyer says, suddenly closer. His warmth radiates against my back. As he leans in, smoky wood and vanilla soap hit my senses—vanilla. Coincidence. Meaningless. And yet I let it mean more.
“It’s good to embrace a bit of chaos.” His voice is low, teasing, but there’s an undercurrent that sends a shiver down my spine. While simultaneously annoying me.
His hands plant on my arms before rubbing up and down, nose nuzzling my hair.
“Sure… By the way, how many steps is it from the treehouse to here?”
He chuckles as his hand finds the zipper of my jacket.
My lungs pause, and for the next two seconds, the only sound in the room is an unhurried grind of metal all the way down to my waist. Two layers of clothing stand between Sawyer-scented air and my nipples, yet he might as well have whispered a breath across each peak.
“Did you use my soap?” Weird how accusatory that sounds.
He pauses. Then the last of the itch melts away as he drags my coat off my shoulders and tosses it on the bed.
“I don’t like the smell of lye.”
He spins me to face him, my heart skipping with the sudden intensity.
He smiles like he can see the strings he keeps so firmly attached to my shoulders, and when he cups my jaw, I close my eyes and lean into him without him needing to tug.
There’s no hesitation, no second-guessing. My body molds against his when he pulls me closer by the small of my back and kisses me deeply like the lover I think he might be.
As our mouths move together, everything that happened before this moment seems to melt away. There’s this ball of tension that’s been wound in my neck, but I struggle to remember why it’s there when Sawyer’s hands find my waist and pull me closer until every inch of our torsos is pressed together.
My hands tangle in his hair while he guides me back toward the bed. At his prompting, I climb onto the mattress and drag him down with me.
His hot lips devour my neck, but cold air clings to his shirt. Suddenly, I can’t remember how his skin feels.
“Take this off.” Silly to say while I’m already yanking the cotton material up to his chest. He lifts his arms and lets me yank the material over his head before he finds my tongue with an urgency I meet stroke for stroke.
My hands move over his chest, down his arms, until every hard angle and curve is familiar. Every contorted piece of flesh. There was a time when he might’ve tensed or pushed my hand away, but I don’t miss how he lets me touch his scars now. How he lets me touch him.
But then, Sawyer pulls back. My hands still, and my eyes flicker over his face.
One side of his lips lifts, and he lets out half a laugh before pecking my nose. “Good girl.”
He rolls off of me with a glint of mischief in his eyes, and before I can process it, he’s moving to the closet.
Curiosity prickles at me as I watch him rummage through its contents. He emerges carrying a full-length mirror, the frame rough and rustic but undeniably striking in the dim light of the room. He sets it down at the edge of the bed with a confident thud.
I flush. I’m confident no expression shows on my face, but I’ve learned with Sawyer that can be worse. I work to lift my lips, widen my eyes the slightest bit.
“What are you doing?” Too high-pitched.
Are you a Barbie?
He cocks his head in a lazy nod. “Come here.”
No.
That’s the first thought that enters my mind—No.
“Why?”
“Because I want you to.”
“But what are you…” My eyes flick to the mirror. It faces away from me, so the back side is all that’s in view. “What’s that for?”
Sawyer’s eyes crease as he smiles. “To murder you with. What do you think?”
When my stomach lurches, I cave forward—subtle, he may not have noticed if I didn’t spring straight with too much force. A rush of heat floods my face and spreads down my neck. No doubt I’m a tomato fresh from the vine.
“If this is meant to turn me on…”
“Just humor me.”
“Where did you even get this?” I wave to the mirror with a scoff. “What kind of person has the foresight to…” I shake my head. “I appreciate who you are, but I am not adventurous. I understand where you would get that idea, but—”
“Luna, it’s a mirror.”
“A mystery mirror.” Is that my voice? “Wielded by you, a man proven countless times to—”
“Wielded? Like a knife?”
I flick my wrist at the monstrosity. “It’s…”
It’s what?
Sharp?
I turn my head away. Wait for his laugh. Instead, the tension creaks beneath the weight of Sawyer’s shoes as he moves to the bed. I spend a moment searching my mind for an explanation—or even a plea—but it’s fruitless.
How do you explain discomfort with mirrors to someone who looks like Sawyer?
I listen to the quick, incessant thumping of my heart in my ears while he sits on the side of the bed and try not to lose my composure when he gently takes my cheek. He brings me to look at him.
“You’re beautiful,” he says, more like coos. His words only embarrass me further.
He knows exactly what’s in my head.
My lips press together as I swallow.
“I promise, your hair is not made of snakes. Your eyes aren’t fogged glass. No one would mistake you for an elephant.”
“One literary reference is plenty.” I swat his hand when he touches my hair. But it doesn’t stop him from pinching a lock between two fingers. My scalp tingles as he slides down the straight, full strands.
I tense as he leans in, but my eyes instinctively close. My lips part.
His mouth grazes my ear. “Quit being a coward, and get the fuck up.”
Abruptly, he pulls away. Stands. Offers me his palm, which I take after only a count of three. It would be dramatic to fight any more than that.
Once standing, I pull—not quite yank—my hand from his and adjust my sweater to line the hem with my waist.
Not quite right.
Try again.
Sawyer clears his throat. Because for every admirable characteristic, he possesses an equal fault—impatience and arrogance and a deep, sick lack of compassion.
Fine.
I walk tall to the mirror and step in front with dead eyes, like that will somehow prove something.
At first, I see nothing. Images playing through my mind, a glimpse of smooth glass. My heart beats so fast that I’m content to concentrate on its rhythm, but when Sawyer’s body presses to my back and he guides my head straight, I blink my image into focus.
Something about the lighting—or the man standing behind me—makes this worse than in the comfort of Thorne’s bedroom, with a man content with secrets and silence, and frankly, minding his own business. I saw myself then. I know. It was so recent, I carry the image in my mind.
This is not it.
This skin is not pale; it is sickly. Disheveled, silver-blonde strands frame a pointed face the way smeared, blood-red lips frame bleached canines. Beauty, almost—if not so marked by the devil.
“Satisfied?” I croak as I stare into eyes that make babies cry. They’re so close to being like Sawyer’s. Every time I look into his irises I’m mesmerized by the striking shade of blue, but my own take it too far. Two shades away from human.
The bruises on my face are fading little by little, but the ugly white of my skin will hold onto them longer than they should. My hand flinches toward my face, then lowers as Sawyer combs my hair off my shoulders.
He leans toward my ear. “Take off your clothes.”
What? I almost ask but don’t bother. His commanding tone is all the clarification one could need. He’s had plenty of practice anchoring his pitch—one hundred and seventy-six women before me.
I meet his eyes in the mirror as a buzzing sensation comes over me. Dread. Desire. I’m not sure anymore if there’s a difference when it comes to Sawyer.
We’re back at the training house again, before I was really me. Back when I was at his mercy. When I was in a constant state of discomfort.