Tear the Alpha's Vow

Chapter 2 — What I Remember

I remember my first life.

I don't need the music or the lights from the hall to set the scene. I close my eyes and go straight to the part that matters: the floor of the Alpha's study, cold under my knees, and Nicholas standing above me like a verdict in a dark suit.

“Please," I said. “Spare my parents."

My voice didn't shake. It couldn't. If it shook, he would hear weakness and take it as proof. I kept my forehead low and my hands open on the carpet.

“We did nothing wrong," I said. “I am your Luna. My father would never speak to rogues. My mother would never touch that kind of thing. Let me bring them here. Let me explain it to you. Question me if you want. But let them go home."

Nicholas watched me for a long time. The room ticked around us—the clock, the fireplace, the guards outside the door shifting their weight. He didn't sit. He didn't offer a chair. He just stepped closer until the toes of his shoes touched the edge of the carpet where I knelt.

“Up," he said.

I rose to my knees, nothing more. He didn't like the angle, so he bent, caught my chin between his thumb and first finger, and made me look up the last inches to his face.

His eyes were flat. There was no heat there. Only a plan.

“You think being Luna buys you anything?" he asked. “You think the title erases what you cost me?"

“I didn't cost you anything."

He squeezed harder until my jaw ached. “Because of you," he said, slow and clear, “Victoria died."

“She died because you didn't go to the bridge," I said. The truth came out before I could stop it. “You chose not to. You called it strength."

His mouth twitched like he wanted to smile and didn't. “I chose order," he said. “You chose to be here."

“I married you." My throat burned where his grip forced my head back. “I did my duty. My parents—"

“Your parents will pay," he said. “You will pay." He let go of my chin and wiped his fingers on a handkerchief like I was dirt. “You took the only person I ever—" He stopped himself, then finished it without shame. “You took Victoria from me. I will take your family from you. Then you will understand what it feels like to lose what matters."

“My father is innocent." I set my palms on the floor to stop them from curling into fists. “You know his record. He's loyal."

“That's cute," he said softly. “Keep that line ready for the crowd. They like simple stories." He straightened the cuff of his sleeve. “You will remain in this house. You will not speak to the council without my permission. You will not write to your parents. You will not go to the prison. If you try, I will chain you to your bed and call it care."

I swallowed the first answer that came to me. It tasted like blood. “What do you want from me?"

He looked bored. “I want you quiet." He nodded toward the door. “Take the Luna back to her room."

Two guards stepped in. I stood. One took my arm. I pulled it free and walked ahead of them because I refused to be dragged.

They locked me in the bridal room like a jewel in a box. The window caught the river, silver and small from this distance. On the table sat a tray of sugared almonds and a vase of lilies. I moved the flowers to the corridor and closed the door. They made the room smell like a funeral parlor.

Hours stretched. The house settled in its bones. From time to time, someone stopped at the door to listen. I lay down on the coverlet and counted my breaths. When I reached one hundred, I started over. When I reached a thousand, I stood.

I tried the handle. It turned. The door stayed shut. Someone had slid a bolt on the other side.

“Luna?" a voice whispered later, thin as a thread through the keyhole. “It's me."

“Who?"

“Lily."

The maid had the soft steps of someone who had learned to disappear. She had carried my cloak that morning and filled my water that night. She knew how to enter a room without becoming part of it.

“You can't be here," I said through the wood.

“I can, if I'm quick." A metal click. Another. The bolt lifted. The door cracked open. Lily slid in sideways and set the bolt back, this time on the inside. Her hands shook, but her eyes were steady.

“How did you—"

She held up a rolled cloth. Inside were thin tools, bright as teeth. “I used to help the locksmith," she said, and tried on a small smile that didn't fit. “Keys are just slow thoughts."

“Thank you." The words were simple. I meant them like a vow.

She nodded once. “The night captain is drunk. The north stair is empty. If you go now, you can reach the street."

“I'm going to the prison," I said.

She flinched. “They won't let you in."

“Then I'll stand at the door and shout until someone looks at me."

She stared at me for a heartbeat, then tied back her hair with a strip of cloth like a soldier before a run. “Keep your head down," she said. “If anyone asks, you're a kitchen girl taking scraps to the alley." She pulled a gray cloak from under her apron, thrust it at me, and lifted the bolt again.

We moved like ghosts. The house was all hush and corners. We took the north stair and crossed the back hall. Lily walked a half-step ahead and tapped once on each turn, as if checking the world for hollow spots. At the last door she stopped, pressed her ear to the seam, and then opened it into the night.

Cold air hit my face. I pulled up the hood. “Lily," I said.

She didn't let me finish. “I know," she said. “Come back if you can."

I didn't promise. I ran.

The streets were slick. The lamps made small islands on the stones. I kept to the edges and counted intersections. The prison sat at the south wall, low and square, built from stone that didn't care who touched it. The front gate was closed. A smaller door stood to the side, half-lit. A guard leaned on a stool with his hands tucked into his belt.

“Kitchen," I said, pointing to the bundle I carried. It was only my cloak rolled tight, but it looked like a parcel.

He grunted and jerked his chin at the door. “Five minutes."

I slipped inside.

The smell hit first: water, lime, sweat, a metal sting. A clerk sat behind a counter. He didn't look up. “Delivery?"

“Yes." I set the bundle down like it had weight. “Also a message."

“Name." He chewed his lip like it was a habit. Ink stained his fingers to the cuticles.

“Beta Charles and his wife." I kept my voice level. “From their daughter."

He stopped chewing. He didn't look surprised. He looked tired. “No visitors after sundown."

“I don't need to see them," I said. “Just tell me if they're alive." The words made my mouth dry. “Please."

From the corridor behind him, a bucket fell. The sound bounced off stone and came back smaller.

He rubbed the edge of a page with his thumb. His eyes slid to the left and then back, like he wished they could leave without him. “Go home," he said. “Come back in daylight with a paper."

“I am the Luna," I said. It felt useless and heavy at once. “I don't need a paper."

“Everyone needs a paper," he said, and looked past me toward the door, already making me leave in his head.

A second guard came in from the corridor, hair damp, cheeks pink from the cold. He saw me, blinked twice, and hid his surprise the way men hide coins. “You can't be here," he said. “Orders."

I set my hands flat on the counter. “From who?"

He didn't answer. That was the answer.

“Please," I said again. “Tell me if they're alive."

The clerk opened his mouth to repeat himself. He didn't get the chance. A third man pushed through the inner door with a clipboard tucked under his arm. He wore the quick, careless face of someone late to his own life.

“Bodies," he said, not yet seeing me. “We need the cart at the side."

Silence fell in a shape. The clerk's eyes flicked to mine at last. He had the grace to look away.

The guard who had spoken to me moved toward the inner door, then hesitated. For a second, his posture changed. He wasn't a guard. He was a man with a sister somewhere. He said, low, “You should go."

I shook my head. My feet wouldn't move. The corridor beyond him was a throat. I stepped past the counter before anyone decided to stop me. No one did. Maybe they thought I would break against the wall and that would be easier than carrying me out.

The inner hall was colder. Water made maps on the stones. A lantern swung and threw thin light across doors with small iron grates. Every sound was too sharp: a cough, a scrape, a chain settling. I walked until the hall turned and the turn opened into the courtyard.

The door to the yard stood open. The night was bigger there, and meaner. Two men hauled a canvas from a bench to a flat cart, the way you'd move sacks after a long day. The canvas wasn't thick enough to hide the truth. The shape under the first sheet had my father's shoulders. Broad, even now. The sheet clung where ribs rose and fell—no, where they didn't. The second sheet had my mother's small hand print in the middle, five pale ovals where the fabric had kissed her fingers and kept the shape.

I knew those hands. I knew those shoulders. There isn't a doubt when it's your own blood. There is shock, and there is a storm. There is not doubt.

“Stop," I said, or tried to. My voice didn't leave my mouth.

A man near the cart turned. He looked at me like he had been told to expect a ghost and here I was, doing what I was told. He didn't reach for me. He didn't lift his arms. He just said it, plain, because plain words hurt more.

“By order of the Alpha," he said. “Property of the court."

I took one step. The yard tilted and took two from me. My knees hit stone. My palms hit cold water. The lantern swung. The sheets didn't move.

I looked at the cart and saw my parents, and everything else—the noise, the cold, the men, the law—went away.

And that is the last thing I let myself see.