7. Luna

Chapter 7

Luna

T he sound of the key turning in the lock makes my heart twist violently. I can't move. All I can do is stare at the place where, a moment ago, Lucien Thornfield stood baring his fangs at me.

Does he really expect me to believe he's brought me here for my protection?

Okay, yes, he saved me in the bookshop. But he was watching me. He kidnapped my ex-boyfriend. He cut off Steven's body parts and mailed them to me with a note.

What did the note say?

I'll always protect you .

For a while, when I was watching that video of Steven, and Thornfield was standing behind me smelling like sin and seduction, I forgot what he really is.

I listened to the heat humming on my skin instead of the facts.

And the fact is; he's a vampire.

He's a sick, twisted, vampire stalker and who knows what he'll do to me if he keeps me here.

What does he want? A vampire bride? A human sex slave?

I mean, sure, he's smoking hot. Like, the kind of hot that should only exist in movies because it's not fair for something that perfectly muscular and chiseled and smoldering to exist in real life.

But he's a vampire.

He drinks blood to sustain himself.

And now he has me, a living, breathing, blood supply locked up in his house.

I leave the bed and start to pace back and forth, bracing my hands on my lower back. Anxiety and adrenaline are turning to gristle in my muscles. Gristle that grates, and rubs, and becomes pain that I won't be able to shift.

Instinctively, I reach for my bag then realize I don't have it; it's back at the shop. And so are my pain meds.

Fuck.

Fuck, fuck, fuck.

I try not to let the overwhelming sense of panic take over. I try to think clearly, but I have no idea whether I'm more terrified of going cold turkey on my meds or of what Lucien Thornfield plans to do with me.

To me.

I stride over to the door and rattle the handle. Of course, it's no use. The door is locked.

I close my eyes and see the video of Steven. His face.

Pleasure and revulsion converge in the pit of my stomach.

Did I enjoy seeing him like that?

I turn around and lean my back against the door, the cool wood making me shiver through my sweater.

Wrapping my arms around my waist, I slide down so I'm sitting on the floor. I try to breathe slowly, purposefully, in and out, in and out. I adjust my glasses on the bridge of my nose. I do the square trick. Picture forming all for sides as I inhale and exhale. Try to make each breath as long as the last.

I hug myself and rub my upper arms, then tap my chest. All tricks I've learned over the years to soothe myself when my nervous system becomes completely dysregulated.

Usually, one of them works. Something shifts and I start to feel calmer. Warmer. Safer.

Here, tonight, my tricks do nothing.

My entire body feels too alive, too alert, too switched on. And I can't think straight.

There was a time when Steven took my medication from me. He told me it wasn't helping, and that the doctors had given it to me because they didn't know what else to do.

"If it was a real illness, it would show up on blood tests, Luna."

"But they said it's to do with my nervous system..."

He rolled his eyes and snatched the pills out of my hand. "ME, Chronic Fatigue, Fibro-whatever... they're all the same. Labels made up by doctors because they have to say something to placate their needy patients." He tapped my forehead. Hard. "It's all up here, my love. See what happens if you stop them. I'll wager it makes no difference at all." He kissed my forehead this time. "Trust me."

After a week of being barely able to get out of bed, and fearing I'd lose my job because I'd ignored my boss's emails, hadn't showed up for work, and the bookshop had been closed all week, I dragged myself to the doctors and told them I'd lost my meds so had decided to see if I could cope without them.

They gave me a strict talking to and a new prescription, with instructions never to just quit like that again.

After that, I hid them from him. I kept them at work, in my desk drawer, and took them only on days I was in the shop. It made Sundays and holidays hard, but Steven just assumed that was because I was tired from work.

Before he disappeared, he'd been trying to convince me to give up my job. Stay home. Make life easy on myself because clearly I was too weak to hold down even the most non-taxing of careers.

Thinking of the shop, and the smell of the old books, and the sense of peace that washes over me every time I walk through the door and hear the bell ringing, makes a lump form in my throat.

With Steven gone, I had a glimpse of a life I thought I might live. One where I could take control of my own destiny. Grow stronger, and brighter. Maybe even wear heels again.

Now, I'm here. Trapped in a creepy old mansion with a creature that could kill me in a fraction of a second.

And there is no way in hell I'll be strong enough to escape him; I couldn't fight back even if I wanted to.

I'm weak, and he knows it.

After all, he's been watching me, hasn't he?

How long for, I have no idea. Did it start after his first visit to the bookshop? Was I too friendly? Or was he following me before that?

He says he brought me here to protect me. But he also said he'd force me to stay if I tried to leave.

I bite my lower lip. I cannot cry. Not here, not now.

Think, Luna. Think.

I brace my hand on the door and stand up slowly. My body seems to preemptively hurt. I took my pills this morning; I shouldn't be suffering this much already.

But I can't just lie down and accept the fate Lucien has in store for me. I have to fight. For once in my life, I have to fight back. And if I can't use my strength, I'll have to use the one thing I do have: my brains.

He might be incredibly good looking. He might make my mind and my body race in a way that no one ever has, and I might feel like I can trust him.

But I learned a long time ago that I can't trust my feelings.

My head is telling me to get out. So, that's what I'm going to do.

I am not going to be the girl who convinces herself a vampire won't hurt her just because he has a sexy smile or an intoxicating laugh or muscles for days.

I stand in the center of the room and examine my surroundings. A large four poster bed, which looks like something from a period drama. White, billowy drapes, deep red blankets, and pillows that are temptingly fluffy.

There are wooden floors, and a large rug.

Dark walls. It's hard to tell exactly what color they are because the only light is candlelight, which, honestly, is a bit of a cliche.

Why couldn't he have had a suave, modern, minimalist place? Polished concrete floors and expansive glass windows?

I turn around slowly, taking in all four walls.

There are no windows here. Not one. Just huge, ugly paintings. One of a polar bear, standing on its haunches, with a bright white light surrounding it.

A couple showing old fashioned portraits of people I assume are Thornfield's relatives.

And a phoenix. A glittering, red and gold and orange phoenix.

This one intrigues me. It is in the same, old, gilded frame as the others. But it looks more modern. The brushstrokes are more liberal, more free. The paint thicker. I press my index finger to the canvas, half expecting Thornfield to appear behind me and tell me off for touching.

I am staring at the initials scrawled in the corner of the canvas, LT, when I notice a small freckle of light on the wall beside the frame.

I move sideways.

It's more than a freckle.

It's a long, thin sliver of light.

And it's coming from behind the painting.

What time is it? Could it be sunrise already?

I stretch my arms wide, and grab hold of the side of the frame. It is huge, and thick, and heavy, and my arms are already straining with the effort of stretching so wide.

With every ounce of strength I possess, I groan loudly as I lift it up, freeing it from its hanging, then pull it away from the wall.

As soon as I'm holding all of the painting's weight, I stumble. I turn around and stagger toward the bed before letting it fall.

It lands with a soft thud.

And daylight floods the room.

When I turn around, rubbing my arms, breathing heavily, I blink and shield my eyes.

The painting was hiding a window, and beyond the window, the sun is rising against a bright pink sky.

This time, I do let myself cry.

Because maybe I just found my way out of here.