Luna Forsaken (Arya and James) novel Chapter 42

42 The Whip and the Severing: Count the Screams

Arya’s POV

My hands clenched into fists even though the rope bit my wrists.

My stomach tightened hard, fear for the baby slamming into the pain.

I tried to breathe.

Tried to steady.

Tried to hold on.

Crack.

The second lash hit lower, slicing.

I screamed again, longer.

The crowd laughed.

“Louder!”

“Let her suffer!”

My knees buckled, but the ropes held me up.

My skin burned.

Warm blood slid down

my back.

///////

Crack.

Third lash.

I sobbed, teeth clenched, eyes squeezed shut.

Crack.

Fourth.

My body shook,

Crack.

Fifth.

I tried to keep my screams in, but the pain dragged them out.

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The crowd fed on it.

They booed.

They pointed.

They mocked.

“Where’s your strength now?”

“Warrior?” someone laughed. “Look at her!”

A guard called numbers as the lashes fell.

“Six!”

“Seven!”

“Eight!”

Each lash cut deeper.

Each lash brought heat and fire and the sickening sting of silver.

My breath came in broken gasps.

My legs trembled uncontrollably.

I could feel blood soaking down, cold air hitting wounds.

Somewhere through the haze, I heard Rebecca’s voice again, shrill with rage.

“Harder!”

Marcel didn’t stop her.

James said nothing.

The whip cracked again.

“Nine!”

My vision blurred,

Not from tears.

From pain.

From shock.

From the silver poisoning my strength.

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“Ten!”

My voice went hoarse.

My throat burned from screaming.

I tried to keep my head up, tried to show them I wasn’t finished, but my neck shook.

A guard grabbed my hair and yanked my head up.

“Look at them,” he snarled. “Look at what you did.”

I blinked hard, eyes stinging.

The crowd swam.

Faces blurred.

Hatred everywhere.

“Eleven!”

The lash hit.

I cried out again.

My knees buckled harder.

The rope cut into my wrists.

I felt warm blood on my arms now too, from friction and strain.

“Please,” someone near the front whispered.

It might have been my own voice.

It might have been nothing.

Another lash.

“Twelve!”

A scream tore out of me.

Not controlled.

Not dignified,

Just pain.

My stomach cramped sharply.

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I froze, breath catching.

Fear spiked.

No.

No.

Not now.

Another lash.

“Thirteen!”

My body convulsed.

My stomach clenched again.

I bit down hard on my lip to keep from making a different sound, one of fear.

A guard shouted, “Keep going!”

The whip cracked.

“Fourteen!”

My vision flashed white.

My legs trembled so violently I could barely stand.

The rope was the only thing keeping me upright now.

The crowd kept jeering.

Kept shouting.

Kept throwing insults.

Some laughed like it was a festival.

I heard someone call, “She deserves all hundred!”

A roar answered.

My breath came shallow.

My chest hurt,

My back felt like it was being peeled open.

The whip cracked again.

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“Fifteen!”

I screamed and sagged, hanging against the ropes.

The guard yanked me upright again.

“Stand,” he barked. “Stand and take it.”

My head lolled.

I tried to force my eyes open.

I tried to focus.

Through the haze, I saw James again.

He looked like he was dying inside.

His fists were clenched.

Tears were on his cheeks.

But he still didn’t move.

He still didn’t stop it.

He watched like a man watching a punishment he had agreed to.

The whip cracked again.

“Sixteen!”

Pain ripped through me.

I sobbed, gasping.

My stomach cramped again, worse this time.

I froze, breath hitching.

My hands strained against the ropes as if I could protect the baby by sheer will.

“Seventeen!”

The lash hit.

I screamed.

My voice cracked.

The crowd roared louder.

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Rebecca’s voice cut in again, triumphant now.

“Yes! Yes!”

My vision blurred.

I couldn’t count anymore.

The guard kept calling numbers.

“Eighteen!”

“Nineteen!”

“Twenty!”

Each one broke something new.

Not pride, pride had already been beaten out of me in that hall.

This was raw survival.

My body shook violently.

My legs started to give out entirely.

Ropes held me.

Whip kept coming.

At some point, the chanting started.

“Lashes! Lashes! Lashes!”

It turned into a rhythm.

Like drums.

Like a war cry.

The guard’s voice was relentless.

“Twenty-five!”

My back was slick with blood.

The air felt cold on open wounds.

I couldn’t feel my fingers properly.

Silver made everything heavy.

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Everything slow.

My eyes fluttered.

I forced them open again.

The world swam.

Then I heard a shout, different.

“Enough!”

James.

My head jerked slightly.

The whip paused midair.

The crowd murmured in outrage.

Rebecca snapped, “No!”

Marcel’s eyes narrowed.

James stepped forward, voice strained.

“She has taken enough,” he said.

Marcel’s face was ice.

“Not yet,” Marcel said. “You agreed.”

James swallowed.

His voice cracked. “Marcel,”

Marcel stepped closer to James, speaking low and dangerous.

“Do not make me regret sparing your pack,” Marcel hissed.

James’s jaw clenched.

His shoulders rose and fell with one hard breath.

Then his voice turned cold again, like he was forcing control back into himself.

“Continue,” James said.

The whip lifted again.

The crowd cheered.

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My heart dropped.

The whip cracked.

“Twenty-six!”

I screamed again, but my voice came out thin now, weak.

My throat was shredded.

My body sagged.

I couldn’t hold myself upright anymore.

The ropes bit deeper as I hung.

My stomach cramped again.

Sharp.

Terrifying.

I whimpered, trying to breathe through it.

More lashes followed.

The guard kept counting.

At some point, the numbers blurred.

Pain blurred.

Time blurred.

I only knew the whip kept cutting, and my body kept trying not to die.

Finally, the whip stopped.

I hung there, trembling, barely conscious.

The crowd’s noise swelled and then shifted, disappointed that the show was ending.

“Is she dead?”

“Not yet.”

“She should be.”

Marcel’s voice cut in, satisfied.

“Now,” he said calmly, “sever the claim.”

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A hush fell again.

Even the crowd quieted, curious.

I lifted my head weakly.

James stepped forward.

A guard placed a silver blade in his hand.

The blade glinted.

My breath hitched.

James stared at it like it weighed a thousand pounds.

Then he looked at me.

His eyes brimmed with tears.

His mouth trembled slightly.

He swallowed hard.

“Arya,” he whispered, voice breaking.

I didn’t answer.

I couldn’t.

My throat wouldn’t.

And even if it could, I had nothing left to give him.

James lifted the blade.

Rebecca watched with hungry eyes.

Marcel watched like a judge.

The pack watched like spectators,

James stepped close to the post.

His hand shook,

Then he pressed the silver blade to my neck.

Pain flared instantly, silver against skin.

I jerked weakly.

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<42 The Whip and the Severing!

A guard held my shoulder still.

James’s breath hitched.

Then he drew the blade.

A sharp cut.

A burn.

It felt like my skin split and my soul flinched.

I gasped, a sound caught between pain and shock.

The silver bit deep enough to leave a mark.

A mark that wasn’t a claim.

A mark that was a relinquishing.

James pulled back, breathing hard, tears spilling.

The crowd murmured.

1

Rebecca let out a satisfied exhale.

Marcel’s eyes gleamed.

James stared at the blade in his hand like he hated it.

Then, with a rough, broken movement, he lifted the blade to his own neck.

He pressed it to the place where his mark sat.

His jaw clenched.

Then he slashed.

Blood welled instantly.

A collective gasp rose.

James hissed through his teeth, eyes squeezed shut for a second.

When he opened them, tears were running down his face.

He looked at me, like he wanted to say something.

Like he wanted to apologise.

Like he wanted to undo everything.

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But he didn’t.

Because there was nothing left to undo.

My eyes were heavy.

The world tilted.

My body felt like it was slipping away from me.

James’s voice cracked as he spoke, not to me, into the air, into the crowd, into whatever law they believed in.

“It is done,” he said.

Marcel nodded once, satisfied.

Rebecca’s mouth curled.

“Good,” she whispered.

The guards cut the

ropes.

I collapsed immediately, legs giving out.

Chains clinked as I hit the ground.

Pain shot through my back as wounds touched dirt.

I tried to curl instinctively, but the chains made it awkward.

Hands grabbed me again, rough, uncaring, and dragged me forward.

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