Luna Forsaken (Arya and James) novel Chapter 46

46 The Mercy That Will Ruin Them 3

Arya’s POV

Nixon took a step back without even meaning to.

“That,” I rasped, voice hoarse, “name,”

My throat burned, but I forced it out anyway, each word sharpened.

“Never,” I said. “Say it.”

Nixon’s jaw worked.

He nodded

ce, tight and quick, as if he’d been slapped.

“Alright,” he said quietly. “Alright.”

Silence.

The air felt

Nixon logged, stretched thin.

at the untouched food tray.

Then back at me.

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His face tightened.

“Arya,” he said, careful now. “I need to ask you something.”

I stared at him.

He hesitated.

Then he pushed forward anyway, like duty was pulling the words out of him.

“Did you do it?” he asked. “Did you… did you really do what Lisa and Margaret said you did?”

My eyes narrowed.

For a second, I thought he was joking.

Then I realised he wasn’t.

He was standing in front of me, looking at my broken body, my bandaged skin, the bracelet of concealed silver, and he still needed to know if I deserved it.

I laughed,

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<46 The Mercy That Will Ruin Them 3

It came out dry and ugly.

A single sound.

Nixon’s face tightened further.

I didn’t answer his question the way he wanted.

Instead, I asked my own.

“Does it matter?” My voice was rough, but steady. “Tell me, Nixon. Does it matter now?”

He blinked.

I kept going, not loud, not theatrical, just sharp.

“They got what they wanted,” I said. “They got me out of the way.”

Nixon’s eyes flickered.

“The Rainhorns wanted me broken,” I continued. “They wanted me erased. Whether I did it or not, whether Lisa and Margaret lied or told the truth, none of it changes the outcome.”

I lifted my hand slightly, the bracelet clinking faintly.

“Look at me,” I said. “This is the outcome.”

n’s throat bobbed.

is unease deepened.

He didn’t argue.

He couldn’t.

He looked away for a moment, jaw clenched, then forced himself to look back.

His voice dropped.

“Lisa and Margaret were beaten,” he said.

I didn’t react.

He swallowed.

“After… after everything,” he continued. “Marcel sent them to his pack to be dealt with.”

Still nothing from me.

No shock.

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No sympathy.

No satisfaction.

Just numbness.

If he wanted me to care, he was too late.

“They made their choice,” I said flatly.

Nixon’s eyes flickered, like he wasn’t sure if that was cruelty or exhaustion.

I didn’t explain.

I didn’t soften.

I didn’t have softness left for anyone in this pack.

I shifted slightly, pain flashing, but I didn’t let it show on my face.

Then I looked at him directly.

“The best thing you can do for me,” I said, voice steady, “is give me Maxwell’s number.”

The moment I said it, Nixon’s face changed.

Not surprise.

Not confusion.

Sadness.

The kind of sadness that came with restraint. Like he knew something and hated that he knew it.

I watched him.

He didn’t answer immediately.

My eyes hardened.

“Out with it,” I said.

Nixon’s jaw clenched.

He looked at the door, then at the corner of the room again, then back at me.

“You know I can’t,” he said quietly.

I stared at him, unblinking,

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He exhaled.

“No one will associate with you,” he said, voice low. “Not now. Not with the mark on your neck.”

My hand moved automatically, fingers trembling as they went to my throat.

My skin was tender there.

Healing but raw.

I remembered the sensation so clearly it made my stomach twist.

James’s hand.

James’s blade.

The cut.

The severing.

The cancellation.

Not just of our bond.

Of my protection.

Of my name.

Of my place.

My fingers pressed lightly against the area, as if I could feel the scar through the bandages and skin.

Rogue mark.

A brand.

A sentence.

Nixon kept talking, and his voice sounded like it was coming from far away.

“Before,” he said, “you were packless. Rogue, yes, but… not marked like this. Not declared.

Not… condemned.”

His eyes held mine.

“Now,” he continued, “it’s different. They’ve given you the rogue mark. It means anyone who helps you becomes a target. Anyone who shelters you becomes guilty by association. Even

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if I wanted to,

”

His voice broke slightly, then steadied again.

“I dare not,” he finished.

I stared at him.

My fingers stayed at my neck.

My throat tightened, not with tears this time, but with something worse, realisation.

Maxwell.

Lev.

Union.

All those doors I’d thought I could still reach.

Shut.

Locked.

Bolted.

Not because they didn’t care.

Because now helping me meant declaring war.

And no one declared war for a marked rogue.

Not unless they were ready to burn everything.

I dropped my hand slowly back onto the sheet.

The bracelet felt heavier.

The IV line felt heavier.

My body felt like a cage.

Nixon watched me like he expected an outburst, like he expected me to scream that it wasn’t fair.

I didn’t.

Silence stretched.

Then Nixon glanced at the food tray again.

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He took one step closer and lowered his voice, like pleading might work.

“You need to eat,” he said. “You need strength. You need to heal.”

I looked at him.

Really looked.

And the emptiness in my chest shifted, not into grief, but into something flat and sharp.

“My death will serve them better,” I said.

Nixon stiffened.

I didn’t stop.

“They should have let me die in the yard,” I said, voice low and steady. “That would’ve been

cleaner. That would’ve been easier. For them.”

His eyes widened slightly.

I leaned into the words, each one deliberate.

“But they didn’t,” I said. “They kept me alive.”

Nixon’s throat worked.

“Arya,”

I cut him off with a small shake of my head.

“No,” I said. “Don’t.”

My voice dropped even lower.

“All that’s in my heart now,” I said, “is vengeance.”

Nixon’s face tightened, and for the first time, real fear flickered in his eyes, not fear of me attacking him in this bed, but fear of what I meant.

Fear of what I would become if I survived this.

I held his gaze and didn’t blink.

“Now,” I said, barely above a whisper, “leave.”

Nixon hesitated,

Then he nodded once, stiffly.

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He backed toward the door, eyes still on me, like he wasn’t sure whether turning his back would be a mistake.

He opened it.

Paused.

“Arya,” he said quietly, almost like a confession. “I… I’m sorry.”

I didn’t answer.

He left.

The door shut.

And the room fell silent again.

The tray of food sat untouched.

The IV line continued dripping.

The bracelet remained around my wrist, zinc outside, silver inside.

A mercy.

I lay there, staring at the ceiling, body wrecked, heart hollowed, and something in me settled into place with terrifying calm.

They thought they’d ended me.

They thought the baby was the last thing tying me to hope, and with that loss, I’d collapse into nothing.

They were wrong.

Hope wasn’t what I needed anymore.

I didn’t need hope.

I needed time.

And they had just given it to me.

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