Luna Forsaken (Arya and James) novel Chapter 45

45 The Mercy That Will Ruin Them 2

Arya’s POV

My skin felt flayed. My abdomen felt like It had been scooped out and stitched wrong. My throat was raw from screaming and begging and swallowing dust.

My mate, ex-mate, had watched me dragged like trash.

My pack had cheered.

My enemies had smiled.

And I was in an infirmary with an IV line in my arm and a silver bracelet disguised as kindness around my wrist.

I didn’t answer.

Lesley didn’t push. She just kept stroking my hand, slow and steady.

Elsie’s eyes glistened. She looked like she wanted to apologise for being alive.

Lesley’s gaze flicked once, quickly, to the corner of the room again. Then back to me.

“Arya,” she said, softer now.

My chest tightened.

Something in her tone shifted.

The air in the room felt suddenly heavier, like it was bracing itself.

Lesley held my hand a bit tighter.

And then she spoke, carefully, like she was trying to wrap the words in cotton so they wouldn’t cut as deep.

“I’m so sorry,” she said. “You… you lost the baby.”

For a moment, my mind refused it.

No.

No.

I blinked at her, slow, stupid.

Lost the baby.

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My mouth parted, but no sound came.

Lost the baby.

The words repeated in my head like a chant, like a curse, like a hammer.

Something hot tore through my abdomen, not physical pain this time, something worse. So mething that started in my gut and spread up into my chest.

My breath fractured.

A sound ripped out of me.

It wasn’t a sob at first.

It was a broken, animal noise.

My eyes flooded again, and my face twisted as the grief slammed in full force.

I tried to sit up, panicked, as if I could reach inside myself and undo it. As if I could rewind time, fight harder, run faster, bite deeper, kill sooner.

But the moment I moved, my body punished me. The pain snapped through my ribs and spine, and I collapsed back with a cry.

Lesley caught my hand tighter.

Elsie rushed forward, hands hovering.

Lesley shook her head sharply at Elsie.

Don’t touch unless you have to.

Elsie stopped, tears spilling now.

I shook, whole body trembling, breath choking in and out like I was drowning on land.

I had failed.

That was the first thought.

Not James.

Not Marcel,

Not Rebecca.

Me.

I had failed to protect my baby.

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<45 The Mercy That Will Ruin Them 2

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I had held my stomach in the dark, whispered promises into my own skin, sworn my child would not pay for James’s cowardice.

And still,

Still,

They had taken it.

They had beaten it out of me.

The grief sharpened into something more violent, twisting my sobs into rage.

Lesley leaned forward and wrapped her arms around my shoulders, careful of my wounds, holding me like she was anchoring me to the bed so I wouldn’t tear myself apart.

“I know,” she murmured into my hair. “I know. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”

I clutched at her sleeve with shaking fingers.

It wasn’t comfort.

It was survival.

If I let go, I would rip through the room. I would scream until the walls cracked. I would claw

my own skin open just to feel something I could control.

Lesley held me until my cries turned rough and hoarse, until my throat felt raw again and my chest burned.

When I finally sagged back against the pillow, drained, Lesley stayed close, her hand still on

mine.

Elsie stood there, silent, crying without sound.

A sharp knock came at the door.

Lesley’s body stiffened instantly.

She lifted her head, face smoothing into something neutral, professional.

The knock came again.

“Lesley,” a voice called from outside, “Now.”

Lesley’s jaw tightened.

Her eyes met mine.

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<45 The Mercy That Will Ruin Them 2

She didn’t say what she wanted to say.

She didn’t need to.

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Her thumb squeezed my fingers once, harder than before, like a warning and a promise wrapped together.

“I have to go,” she said, voice calm.

I stared at her.

The room felt colder when she pulled away.

Elsie took one hesitant step closer, like she wanted to fill the space Lesley left behind.

Lesley stood, adjusted her clothes, then leaned down close to my ear again.

“Don’t speak,” she whispered. “No matter who comes. Watch their mouths. Watch their eyes. Don’t give them anything.”

Then she walked out.

The door shut.

Elsie stayed.

She looked at me like she wanted to beg forgiveness on behalf of the whole pack.

I didn’t give her anything.

I didn’t cry anymore.

Something inside me had changed shape.

The grief didn’t leave.

It just… hardened.

It sank deep and turned heavy.

My tears dried.

My breathing slowed.

And in the hollow where my baby had been, something else took root.

Rage.

Not wild rage.

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Not messy rage.

Clean rage.

Cold rage.

The kind that didn’t need screaming..

The kind that waited.

The kind that sharpened quietly while everyone thought you were broken.

They should have let me die out there.

Beaten and bleeding, tossed aside, corpse left in the yard like a warning.

That would’ve been safer for them.

Because this,

This small mercy,

This infirmary bed, these IV lines, this disguised silver bracelet,

They thought it was control.

They thought it was restraint.

They thought it was them being gracious.

It would be their undoing.

The door opened again later.

A tray came in first.

Food.

Broth, bread, water.

The scent hit my stomach and made it cramp.

A healer’s assistant placed it on the small table beside my bed without meeting my eyes.

No words.

No comfort.

Just routine.

I stared at it.

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Then I turned my head away.

Minutes passed.

The tray remained untouched.

My body didn’t matter to me anymore.

Let it rot.

Let it weaken.

Let it die.

If my death served them better than my survival, then good.

At least my absence would haunt them.

At least my blood would stain their hands permanently.

Footsteps approached again.

Slower this time.

Heavier.

Male.

The door opened.

I didn’t look at first.

Then a familiar scent hit the air, dust, iron, leather.

Beta Nixon.

He stepped in carefully, like the room might bite him.

His eyes found mine, and something flickered across his face, pity, discomfort, regret.

He shut the door behind him, but not fully. Not a decisive click. More like he wanted an escape route.

He took two steps closer, then stopped.

“Arya,” he said quietly.

I didn’t answer,

His gaze flicked to the IV line, the bandages visible beneath the sheet, the bruising that

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climbed up my arms like proof of what they’d done.

He swallowed.

“How are you doing?” he asked.

I stared at him.

Then, slowly, I lifted my hand.

The bracelet caught the light.

Nixon’s eyes dropped to it.

His whole body flinched.

A sharp, involuntary reaction, like even seeing it made his skin crawl.

My mouth curved slightly, but it wasn’t a smile.

I didn’t speak.

I just held it up, letting him look.

Letting him acknowledge the leash.

Nixon exhaled, tense.

“That… that was Marcel’s idea,” he said, voice tight. “I don’t know why James went with it.”

The moment he said that name,

James,

Something surged through me so violently my lip curled and a low, rough growl pushed out of my chest.

Not loud.

But enough to make Nixon stiffen.

Enough to make his eyes widen slightly.

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