Luna Forsaken (Arya and James) novel Chapter 56

56 Break Her Nose, Break Her Crown

Arya’s POV

I sat on the edge of the bed and listened to the rhythm outside my door.

Boots. Pause. Shift. Boots again.

The guards changed on rotation, and each one thought he was smarter than the last. Each one thought the way he leaned on the wall, the way he spoke low to the other man, the way he yawned or scratched his jaw, meant I wouldn’t notice his patterns.

I noticed everything.

I counted time in footsteps and keys.

I counted time in the scrape of a chair in the corridor when one of them got bored.

I counted time in the sound of a tray being set down on the floor before the door opened

a crack.

I counted time in the click-click of the lock.

I counted the seconds between the first turn of the key and the second.

I counted the breath it took for their grip to relax when they thought I’d already resigned

myself to being caged.

They were wrong.

I had only one goal.

Leave.

At all costs.

Not next month. Not next week. Not when James’s guilt finally grew a conscience. Not

when the Union signed. Not when the pack “calmed down.”

Now.

As soon as I found the crack.

As soon as I found the weakness.

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Of course he had.

He’d taken our private moments and handed them to her like trinkets to prove devotion.

He’d taken what belonged to us and used it to build her confidence.

My smirk didn’t falter.

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30 Break Fer

Every scar was a promise.

And in my head, I kept the list.

Not out of drama.

Out of discipline.

Marcel Rainhorn.

Rebecca Rainhorn.

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Leah.

Lisa.

Margaret.

The guards who laughed.

The elders who watched.

The pack members who booed.

The ones who turned away.

The ones who called me “rogue” with pleasure.

And James.

Always James.

His name sat at the top like a crown of rusted iron.

I didn’t speak it aloud.

I didn’t need to.

The vow didn’t require sound.

I pressed my palm to my abdomen, not gently, not tenderly, firm, like I could still feel the

echo of life that had been there.

My baby.

My child.

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They had ended her chance at living.

They had ended her before she took her first breath.

They had stolen her without even granting her the dignity of being mourned properly.

They had treated it like a problem solved.

A consequence.

A price.

A bargaining chip.

I closed my eyes and spoke inside my head, calm and cold.

I will grant you justice.

So you can rest in the afterlife knowing your mother avenged you.

I will make sure those who ended your chance at living don’t get to enjoy life either.

I didn’t cry when I said it.

I didn’t beg the Moon.

I didn’t ask for mercy.

I didn’t ask for strength.

I already had what I needed.

Time.

Opportunity.

And a rage that refused to die.

The lock clicked,

One turn,

A pause.

Second turn.

The door opened.

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I didn’t move.

I didn’t lift my head like a frightened animal waiting to be fed.

I stayed still, calm as stone, eyes forward.

Footsteps entered.

Lighter than the guards.

Smaller.

Confident.

I smelled perfume before I saw her.

Leah.

She walked in like she owned the air.

Like she owned the space.

Like she owned me.

The guards didn’t step in behind her, but I heard them shift closer outside, ready. They

had probably been ordered to let her have her moment.

Let the new Luna see the old one caged.

Leah looked around the small room with obvious delight.

Her eyes flicked over the bed, the bare walls, the cramped corners.

Then she laughed.

A bright, smug sound.

“See where the fierce and mighty Luna has landed,” she said, voice dripping with

mockery.

I didn’t blink.

I didn’t rise.

I didn’t give her the satisfaction of seeing me react.

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I turned my head slightly and looked at her like she was something the guards had dragged in on their boots.

“Get out,” I said quietly.

Leah’s smile widened.

“Oh?” she said, amused. “You’re giving orders now?”

Her gaze slid down to my wrist.

To the bracelet.

Her eyes lit with pleasure.

“My father was right,” she murmured. “Rogues need restraints.”

I tilted my head.

“Get out,” I repeated.

Leah walked further in, slow, like she wanted to savour every step.

She stopped in the middle of the room and spread her arms a little, as if she were

greeting an audience.

“I don’t have to,” she said. “I’m Luna. I can do anything I damn please.”

Her voice sharpened at the title, like she wanted it to bruise me.

I stared at her.

Her posture was too relaxed.

Too pleased.

Too proud.

For someone who had “lost a baby.”

For someone who had “suffered.”

She looked happy.

Glowing, even.

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Like she’d won something.

Like she’d won me.

Leah took another step closer.

Her eyes were bright.

“Do you know what he does every night?” she asked suddenly.

I didn’t respond.

She leaned forward anyway, like she was determined to force the image into my mind.

“James,” she said, slow and deliberate, “makes love to me every night.”

She smiled wider, watching my face like she expected tears.

“Every night,” she repeated, almost purring. “He can’t keep his hands off me. He’s trying so hard to put a baby in me.”

I looked at her expressionlessly.

It didn’t bother me.

Not because I was numb.

Because James was already dead to me.

Because the idea of him touching anyone, touching her, touching a wall, touching the ground, held no power over me anymore.

James’s body was irrelevant.

His loyalty was a lie.

His love was poison.

Leah’s smile faltered slightly when she didn’t get the reaction she wanted.

So she changed tactics,

“He’s doing everything to make me happy,” she said, voice turning petty. “Do you know

he gave me land?”

I lifted one brow.

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Leah nodded, pleased with herself.

“A piece of land,” she continued, “to do as I please. Mine. Just because I mentioned I

liked it.”

She leaned closer again, eyes sharp.

“I heard when you and James were together,” Leah said, savouring the words, “he refused to give you land.”

Her smile returned, smug and triumphant.

“But look at him now,” she said. “Trying to do everything for me. Trying to make me smile. Trying to keep me.’

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I stared at her for a second longer.

Then I smirked.

It was small.

Controlled.

But it was real.

Leah’s eyes narrowed immediately.

“What?” she snapped.

I let my gaze drop, slow, deliberate.

Not to her stomach.

Not to her hands.

To her neck.

Bare,

No fresh mark.

No claim.

No bond sealed.

Just skin.

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Leah’s breath hitched.

It was quick, involuntary.

A flinch she couldn’t hide.

I looked back up at her, smirk still in place.

“Your neck is still bare,” I said softly.

The words hit her like a slap.

Leah’s eyes flashed.

Her smile twitched, then reformed, strained.

“We’re waiting,” she said quickly, too quickly. “For a special day.”

I tilted my head, still watching her.

Leah forced the words out like they were sweet.

“The day of the Yellow Moon,” she said.

Yellow Moon.

My stomach tightened.

Not with longing.

With disgust.

My memories of James were already tainted, already ruined, already rotten.

But the Yellow Moon had been… significant.

James had claimed me under a Yellow Moon.

He had looked at me that night like I was the only woman that existed.

He had sworn things.

He had marked me like it meant eternity.

And now Leah stood here, smug, triumphant, using the same moon as her promise.

So James had told her.

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As soon as they got sloppy.

They would get sloppy. They always did.

Men believed they were safe when a woman stopped screaming.

They mistook silence for surrender.

They mistook stillness for defeat.

They mistook restraint for weakness.

The bracelet was still on my wrist, a dull band hiding the silver inside. A leash disguised

as mercy. It bit when I pushed it too far. It burned when my pulse rose.

I tested it every day.

Not enough to blister my skin into uselessness.

Enough to remind my body that pain didn’t own me.

Enough to remind myself that when the time came, I would move through the burn.

I wasn’t going to allow James keep me.

Not after the yard.

Not after the cell.

Not after the knife.

Not after the baby.

I stared at my hands and flexed my fingers slowly, feeling the pull of healing skin, the ache in my ribs.

My body was still recovering, but recovery was not the same as weakness.

My pain was not an anchor.

It was a weapon.

Every ache was a reminder,

Every bruise was a map of what they did.

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