14. Luna

Chapter 14

Luna

I am still freezing cold, and the sun is setting, which means it's going to get even colder in here.

I can't see any radiators.

There's a fireplace, but the fire isn't lit.

Taking my third scalding hot shower of the day, I resist the urge to wash my hair because leaving it to dry damp on my bare skin would be unbearable.

I stand under the water for a long time.

The sting of heat distracts me from the ache in my body.

Ache isn't really the right word; it's more like my nerves are on fire, sending electric shocks through my muscles and bones.

Sometimes it's a dull, persistent throb. As if someone's beating a drum inside my body. Other times, it's sharp and stabbing like tiny shards of glass are embedded in my joints, grinding with every movement.

The pain migrates, never staying in one place for long. One moment it's concentrated in my lower back, a deep, gnawing ache that makes standing straight feel impossible. The next, it's shooting down my legs, making them feel heavy and weak, like they might give out at any second.

My skin feels hypersensitive, like it's been rubbed raw. Even the soft touch of my clothes can feel abrasive, sending ripples of discomfort across my body. There's a constant underlying tension, as if my muscles are always braced for impact, never truly relaxed.

And the fatigue that comes with it is just as overwhelming. It's not just tiredness – it's a bone-deep exhaustion that makes even the simplest tasks feel monumental. My brain feels foggy, thoughts slipping away before I can fully grasp them.

But the hardest thing about it is the unpredictability of it all. Some days, the pain is a quiet whisper in the background. Other days, even with my meds, it's a roaring monster that consumes everything, making it hard to focus on anything else.

As I finally step out of the shower, wrapping myself in a towel, I brace for the wave of pain that I know will come with the change in temperature and movement. It's always there, waiting, a constant companion I never asked for and can't seem to shake.

I hate it.

I hate that it is part of me, and that I can't escape it.

I hate that there is no answer, no fix, no solution.

I hate that I look normal. That no one can see the way I feel.

I should be black and blue, swollen, covered in bruises, limbs jutting out at strange broken angles. I shouldn't smile. I shouldn't laugh. I should stop trying to pretend I'm okay, but I'm terrified that if I give in and allow myself to admit that I'm not, I'll be handing it the power.

The pain will consume me.

Ignoring it. Drowning it out. Smiling wider, laughing louder, being so okay that no one will ever guess... that is how I win.

I take a deep breath, allowing the air to swell in my chest.

The true danger is that with pain comes darkness. The kind that settles in the between my bones and feels heavy. All consuming.

The undulating, undeniable need to take control of something swarms beneath my skin.

I glance toward the bathroom and think about the razor in the shower. My fingers go to my leg. I lift up the towel and look down at the silvery scars on my thigh.

I'd like to say it has been a long time since I hurt myself.

It has not.

Just before Steven disappeared, I gave in to the urges that used to consume me daily and are now confined to my darkest most desperate days.

But I can't do that here, can I?

He'd smell the blood.

He'd know, and what if this time he couldn't control himself?

I let out a frustrated sigh and lean forward, scraping my fingers through my hair.

When I stand, I pull my underwear and my jeans back on, then wrap the blanket around my chest. I hang the towel on the hook behind the bathroom door and study my reflection in the mirror, trying not to make eye contact with the razor by the sink.

Through the condensation, my skin looks smoother and more palatable than usual.

I wipe some of the condensation away with the corner of the blanket, revealing a clearer view of myself. My blonde curls are a mess, frizzy and untamed without product to keep them in check. I've always had a love-hate relationship with my hair — it's unique, but often unruly.

Right now, it looks like a flock of birds have been nesting in it.

I reach for my glasses and as soon as I lift them to my face, they fog up slightly. My blue eyes peer back at me through the mist. I've never considered my eyes particularly striking, but they're probably the feature I like the most. Especially if I use a little makeup.

I'm not a heavy makeup kind of person, but mascara and eyeliner are my go-to.

Right now, the remnants of yesterday's makeup are smudged beneath my eyes. I push my glasses on top of my head and dampen some tissue paper to try and remove the stains on my face.

It doesn't work. The smudges just get bigger.

I sigh and brush my fingers over my flushed cheeks. Still pink from the heat of the shower.

My skin is usually pale, with a smattering of freckles across my nose and cheeks. No amount of sun seems to give me a tan, just more freckles. But I've learned to accept them as part of my look.

Beneath the makeup, I notice the dark circles under my eyes, a testament to the lack of sleep over the past twenty-four hours.

I stand up straighter and flex my fingers at my sides.

My arms ache.

I flex them, too. As if stretching might help.

As I move, the blanket slips a bit, and I catch a glimpse of my curves. I'm not skinny, never have been. I have big hips, a big bum, and a rounded stomach, definitely more padding than society typically deems ideal.

Definitely more than Steven deemed appropriate.

Sighing, I adjust the blanket and turn away from the mirror. I hate that he is still in my head even though he's gone.

I close my eyes for a moment and recall the memory of the video Lucien showed me. I think about Steven's face, and his piss-stained pants, and the pathetic mumbled apology that became more and more desperate as he tried to save his own life.

Frustration blooms in my gut.

For the first time, I feel angry that he is gone. Not because I miss him but because I should have been the one to stand up to him and make him apologize.

I should have been brave enough. I should have stood over him and made him grovel at my feet.

"Luna?" Lucien's voice tugs me back into the room.

I step out of the bathroom and find him standing in front of me holding a wooden tray. On top of it is a steaming bowl of what looks like pasta, a glass of water, and... my pills.

My eyes widen.

"Kim tells me you asked him to fetch these for you." He sets the tray down on the bed and picks up the pill packet.

I move closer, slowly, half expecting him to tease me with them the way Steven would have. Hold them out of reach. Taunt me for needing them.

Instead, he presses them into my palm and says, "You should have asked me." He curls his fingers over mine. The contact sends a shiver through me.

"I didn't think you'd let me have them," I say bluntly, still fuzzy from the feeling of his hand on mine.

Lucien's brow creases into a displeased frown. "I want you to be safe. And I would never want you to be in pain."

I have no idea why, but as he stares at me, I believe what he's saying. His words land like kisses on my skin. Tingling heat settles between my legs.

"I will do anything I can to prevent you from suffering, Luna." He moves his hand to my wrist and tugs me closer. His other hand is on my waist. It slips beneath the blanket and his fingertips brush my stomach.

Why does he love that part of me so much?

I don't understand it.

He leans closer. My lips part in anticipation of his kiss, but then he jerks away from me and thrusts a glass of water into my free hand. "Take your pills. I want you to feel better."

I stare at the packet, then at the glass of water.

"I'll take them if you tell me why I'm here." I mutter the words without looking at him. When he doesn't respond, and I feel his body stiffen, I know I have got to him.

This is how I take back control.

"You can't bear to see me suffer. You will do anything to prevent it." I push back my shoulders and tilt my chin.

For some reason, I feel more able to challenge this vampire than I felt able to challenge Steven.

"So, then, Lucien... tell me why you are keeping me here. The real reason."

"You were attacked. I killed your assailants. More will come." His eyes are shimmering with frustration. "You have your answer, now take the pills."

"That's not the real answer." I put my hands on my hips. I want to sit down. And I want to take the pills. But right now, this is all I have... this is the only thing I can control.

"Why do you think that?"

"I can see it in your face. There is something you're not telling me. And it doesn't add up. Why would more vampires come for me? I'm of no interest to them."

The muscles in Lucien's shoulders twitch. He is biting down on his anger. I can see him quite literally grinding his teeth as he struggles to keep it in check. His eyes flash with a mixture of frustration and something else – concern, perhaps? He turns abruptly, striding towards the door.

"There are clothes on the bed," he says, his voice tight with restrained emotion. "Kim brought them from your house." His hand rests on the doorknob. "But until you take those pills, you'll live like I do. In utter darkness."

Before I can respond, he's out of the door. I hear the lock click into place and, suddenly, all the lights in the room go out. The darkness is immediate and complete, so thick it feels like a physical presence pressing against my skin.

Panic rises in my chest, a suffocating wave that threatens to overwhelm me. I've always hated the dark, found it oppressive and terrifying. The blackness seems to amplify every sound, every sensation. My breath comes in short, sharp gasps.

My father used to do this.

Leave me in the dark.

Alone.

I stumble forward, arms outstretched, trying to find my bearings. My hip collides painfully with what must be the edge of the bed. I swear under my breath, fighting the urge to call out for Lucien, to beg him to turn the lights back on.

But I can't give in. Not yet.

I'm still holding the pill packet, and for a moment, I'm tempted. The pain is still there, a constant throb that seems to intensify in the darkness. But I resist.

I need answers. Real ones. And if this is what it takes to get them, then so be it.

If he really can't stand to see me in pain, then surely he won't sit back and let me suffer for long?

He killed for me.

He brought me here to protect me.

And the look in his eyes when he asked why I hadn't come to him for help...

I sink onto the bed, wrapping my arms around myself. The darkness presses in, and I can feel my resolve wavering. But I think of Steven, of all the times I gave in, all the times I let someone else control me. Not this time.

"I can do this," I whisper to myself. "I have to do this."