---
The Rot at Home
"She didn't come home last night," Miranda spat, glaring at the empty hallway. "No call. No message. Nothing. That little witch thinks she can disappear whenever she likes?"
Her voice rose to a shrill pitch.
Across the room, her two sons—Derek and Brian—sat on the worn-out couch, both barely paying attention. Derek was scrolling through his phone, a half-eaten sandwich in his lap. Brian lazily flipped through the channels on the old TV, the volume too loud for the tiny room.
"Are you two even listening to me?" Miranda snapped.
Brian shrugged. "She's not our problem."
"She probably ran off with some guy," Derek added without looking up. "About time, honestly. She's been walking around like some little saint."
Miranda's face twisted. "She's not going anywhere. That girl owes me. I fed her, clothed her, gave her a roof after her worthless father dropped dead and left us with nothing."
Derek muttered, "You fed her our leftovers and made her sleep on the floor."
"I did more than I had to!" Miranda shouted, voice shaking with rage. "If anyone finds out she's been sneaking off or—God forbid—staying with some man, it'll ruin everything. If she's gone for good, the government will stop those pathetic benefits tied to her."
Brian rolled his eyes. "So go find her then. What do you want us to do?"
"I tried," she snapped. "I went to that cleaning place, but they said she never came in today. Something's wrong."
She paused, thinking, then narrowed her eyes.
"I'll find out who she's with. And when I do…" Her lips curled into a cruel smile. "She'll come crawling back. They always do."
The air in the house seemed to thicken with venom.
But what Miranda didn't know—what none of them knew—was that Luna wasn't crawling anymore.
For the first time in her life… she was beginning to stand.
---
---
(Continued): Whispers of Lucien
Luna wandered the halls of the estate after breakfast. The staff was polite but quiet, moving with precision and purpose. No one asked questions. No one looked at her like she didn't belong.
Still, she felt like a ghost in someone else's life.
She drifted toward the second floor, where a set of double doors stood slightly open. She paused just outside, hearing voices inside.
"…we can't keep this quiet forever, Damian," a man said—his voice low and sharp, clipped with urgency. "Lucien is moving again. Three deaths in Romania. Two packs lost contact with their betas."
Luna's breath caught. She pressed closer, careful not to creak the floor.
Damian's voice followed, calm but edged with danger. "I told them what would happen if they defied the code. Lucien is a consequence. Not my responsibility."
"He used to be your brother," the man replied bitterly. "You trained together. Bled together."
"That was a lifetime ago," Damian snapped. "Lucien made his choice. He gave in to the darkness. Now he wants blood. Let him come."
Luna's heartbeat thundered in her ears.
Brother?
Lucien?
Blood?
She didn't understand what it meant—packs, codes, consequences—but something about Damian's tone chilled her. This wasn't about boardrooms and business deals.
This was war.
She stepped back quietly, the words echoing in her head.
Lucien is moving again…
Three deaths…
She turned and walked back down the hallway, hands cold, mind racing.
Damian was more than a CEO. Much more.
And whatever he was hiding…
It was starting to bleed through the cracks.
---
A Night of Fog and Fire
Luna found Damian in the study, his back to her, staring out into the fading evening light.
"I want to go home," she said quietly.
He turned, surprised by her tone.
"I appreciate everything," she added. "But I don't belong here. This isn't my world."
Damian's jaw tightened. "Back to what, Luna? To that hellhole of a house? To people who would've let you die in that park without blinking?"
She looked away. "They're still my family."
"No. They're your captors."
His voice was low, cold, but not cruel. Just… wounded. She could see it now—he wasn't just trying to protect her. He was projecting his own scars, his own fears of abandonment and betrayal.
"I'm not a prisoner here," she said gently. "But I don't want to hide, either."
For a long moment, he didn't speak. Then, without looking at her, he said, "Fine. But not tonight."
She blinked. "What?"
"Stay one more night," Damian said, walking past her toward the hall. "As a guest. Not a girl who almost didn't make it. I had the kitchen prepare something special. Just… stay. Eat. Rest. Then decide."
---
That Evening
The dining room glowed with soft candlelight and warm amber walls. A long table was set for two—an unexpected intimacy in a house this large.
Silver lids were lifted. Steaming roasted meat, herb-baked vegetables, fresh bread, fruit, and a bottle of vintage red wine glinted in the center like a jewel.
Luna sat hesitantly across from him.
"This is a bit much," she murmured.
"I don't do small," Damian replied, pouring the wine. "To survival."
They toasted.
The wine was sweet at first—warm, rich—but it had an edge. And Damian kept topping up her glass as the night went on, conversation flowing easier than she expected.
They spoke of books.
Of loss.
And of silence.
And sometime after her third—or maybe fourth—glass, Luna's cheeks flushed, and her laughter became soft and loose, her body light.
"You're not what I thought you were," she whispered, fingers grazing his across the table. "You're broken. Like me."
His eyes darkened. "No. Not like you."
"Why not?"
"Because I lost control a long time ago."
He stood.
She followed.
The wine had worked its way into Luna's bloodstream like a lullaby, softening her edges, loosening the tight coil of fear she always carried inside. The firelight danced across the room, flickering shadows on the walls like silent witnesses.
Damian sat across from her, his eyes unreadable—but smoldering, intense, like a storm threatening to break. He hadn't touched her all evening, and yet she felt more seen than she ever had in her entire life.
"I shouldn't be here," she whispered.
"But you are," he said, voice low and rough.
She set down her glass, her heart thudding. "I don't know what I'm doing."
"You don't have to," he said, rising slowly. "Just follow what you feel."
He held out a hand.
And she took it.
He led her through the wide corridor, through the silence of the house, until they reached a bedroom that was darker, heavier, and warmer than anything she expected.
Once the door shut behind them, the air changed.
Tension pulled tight between them, vibrating with unspoken need. Damian didn't pounce—he approached her slowly, giving her every second to change her mind. But Luna didn't move.
Not when his fingers brushed her cheek.
Not when his hand slipped behind her neck, pulling her closer.
Not when his mouth touched hers—soft at first, then deep, hungry, like he'd been starving and she was his first breath in years.
She melted against him, her arms rising to circle his neck, heart pounding as heat surged between them.
Damian's control began to slip—his hands gripped her waist tighter, his mouth moving to her throat, tasting, exploring. "You don't know what you do to me," he growled into her skin.
She gasped as his mouth moved lower, his hands sliding beneath the hem of her shirt.
Clothes fell to the floor like petals, discarded and forgotten.
When he laid her down, it wasn't with domination—but reverence. Like she was something sacred. Something he didn't deserve to touch, yet couldn't stay away from.
Their bodies moved together in the dark, not rushed—but urgent. Each kiss deeper than the last, each moan a confession.
It wasn't just lust.
It was release—a cry of pain, of loneliness, of two souls starved for something real.
And when the final wave of pleasure crashed over her, Luna clung to him, her body trembling, her heart breaking open.
Because in that moment—just for that night—she didn't feel broken.
She felt wanted.
And loved… even if it wasn't spoken.
She's marked..
---
The Next Morning
Luna woke in silk sheets. Alone.
Her head ached, her body sore, but her memories were clear.
And for once, she didn't feel ashamed.
Just… confused.
Especially at the mark on her shoulder.
She wondered what it was a....
*Hickey*She thought to herself.
What will mom say....
But little did she know she has been marked for life.
She dressed quietly, leaving a note on the nightstand before slipping out.
---
Back at Her Old House
The sound of laughter and boxes being carried greeted her return.
She stopped short.
Miranda was outside, watching men load furniture into a van. Two unfamiliar cars were parked by the curb. One man—tall, gray-haired, wearing a well-cut suit—noticed her first.
"Luna," he called, walking toward her. "It's been a long time."
She blinked. "Uncle Raymond?"
Her father's best friend smiled warmly. "Your stepmother called. I… didn't realize how bad things were. I've arranged for a new house for you all—in Crestwood. Fresh air, better people. And starting next week, you'll be enrolling at Westhill Academy."
Luna stared at him, stunned.
Miranda crossed her arms. "Don't look so shocked. He says it's what your father would've wanted."
A new town.
A new school.
A clean slate.
Luna swallowed hard.
But behind the fog in her chest… something new stirred.
Hope.
And fear.