Page 42 of Luna

Another vampire, this one older and far more skilled, materializes in the room. Before I can react, he’s driven a wooden stake through the heart of the vampire I was interrogating.

The young vampire crumbles to dust beneath me, and I leap to my feet. But the older vampire doesn’t attack. Instead, he locks eyes with me.

“You’ll get no answers here, hunter,” he says, his voice gravelly and resigned.

And then he plunges the stake into his own heart.

In an instant, he too is nothing but a pile of ash on Luna’s bedroom floor.

I stand there, blade still raised, heart pounding. Whatever’s going on here, Luna is caught right in the middle of it.

I pinch the bridge of my nose. I still don’t know if I can trust that Thornfield wants to keep her safe but I have no choice; I need to tell him what I know because without him, she is definitely in danger.

Chapter 14

Luna

Iam 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.