Lost Russian Luna

Chapter Seven

The water is a brutal shock. The hot water from the shower, which was working perfectly, hit my skin, clearing away the memory of the cleaners and bleach. I heard others by the door, pretending they weren’t keeping an eye on me. This standard bathroom had the personality of a white box: white tiles, a glass door, and no personality. Even the towels match the white on white. But the whole thing was fantastic, a place where I didn’t have to clean and could enjoy the shower.

I turn it down to a manageable temperature that I can stand, then I numb out to the enjoyment of water and the idea of being clean. Each rivulet finds the scars, bruising, and any other sore spots I had, including the fresh, broken bruising. My body maps the pain, the places where the teeth ripped into me, chains destroyed me, ribs, and more. I hated my body, and it returned the feeling. I felt ancient in this shower to the point I wanted to cry, but it wasn’t worth it.

There is a shelf of toiletries: hotel miniatures, labeled in French, still sealed. I open one and scrub until the skin on my arms peels, until my hands look raw. I use the whole bottle. I do the same with the shampoo, then the conditioner, then another bar of soap to clean again. I want to erase myself, or maybe reveal what’s underneath.

When I step out, Amelia has laid out clothes on the closed toilet seat: a pair of grey sweatpants, a t-shirt with a faded UVA logo, and a hoodie that is at least two sizes too large. I dry off with a towel that smells faintly of cedar and something more feral, a note that makes my wolf stir for the first time in months.

She waits for me to get dressed. The sweatpants hang on me, cinched tight and still threatening to slide off with every breath. The shirt is a tent, the hoodie a portable shelter. I look like a scarecrow, but I am clean, or as close as I get.

Amelia replaces the wrap over my ribs with quick ease. “You’ll need to keep them dry,” she says. “I’ll change the dressing tonight.”

She hands me a cup of the herbal tea from earlier, still steaming. “Drink it all,” she says.

I do.

She leads me back to the bedroom, silent. I follow, because I do not know what else to do. My legs wobble on the stairs, my body already craving the calories in the tea, the heat in the fabric, the memory of safety.

The room is unchanged, except now the window is open half an inch, letting in a slice of blue-black air and the smell of night. The stone lamp is still on, casting a crescent shadow on the wall.

Amelia gestures to the bed. “Sit,” she says, then leaves.

I sit, shivering, hands wrapped in the sleeves of the hoodie, listening to the empty house.

It doesn’t stay empty long.

Duncan arrives, his footsteps distinct from the others: heavier, deliberate, but with the subtle give-and-take of a predator holding itself back. He fills the doorway, a silhouette against the hall light, arms crossed over his chest. His eyes flick over me, head to toe, and something inside me shrinks, then curls in on itself.

He says nothing at first, stands there, breathing me in. I can feel his scrutiny, like static against my skin.

He steps into the room, closing the door behind him. The bed creaks under his weight as he sits, still leaving three feet between us. The silence is a living thing.

Finally, he speaks. “You’re safe here. For now.”

I nod. The words mean nothing, but I file them away, just in case.

He regards me for a long moment, then says, “I need to go back to the hotel. To clean up the mess.” His mouth tightens, a flash of something like guilt or calculation. “There are guards posted here. You’ll see them if you try to leave.”

I stare at the floor. “I won’t.”

He leans in, elbows on knees, hands clasped. “If anyone tries to hurt you, tell them I’ll take their skin for a rug.”

The threat is a comfort, in its way. I nod again.

He stands, towers over me for a beat, then turns to go. At the door, he pauses. “You should eat,” he says, “Amelia will bring food. Don’t waste it.”

He leaves, and the room folds back into silence.

I sit for a long time, arms wrapped around my knees, eyes trained on the blank TV across the room. The house is never truly silent. Through the thin drywall, I hear the thud of footsteps, the grind of a coffee grinder, the clink of glass, and the muted hum of a football game on low volume. I map the movements: three men, one in the kitchen, two in the living room. Sometimes they switch places. Sometimes they argue, low and guttural, the words blurred by drywall and distance.

Then, voices. Sharp, urgent, leaking through the hallway and straight into my brain.

Then, voices. Sharp, urgent, leaking through the hallway and straight into my brain.

“…don’t care if she’s starving, she’s still a liability—”

“—not a spy, she’d be dead already if she was—”

“Duncan says to keep her alive. That’s the plan.”

A scuffle of feet, then a slam. I flinch, but no one comes for me.

Instead, I listen. I always listen. It’s what kept me alive, back when silence was the only currency I had left.

The names slip through the walls: Tyler, the tall one. Eric, the one with the deep voice. George, the driver. Duncan’s name is spoken like a curse, a title, and a threat in one.

Once, late, I hear Amelia return. She and Duncan argue in sharp whispers. Something about “New England” and “the Luna.” About “broken treaties” and “a cover-up.” My wolf perks at the word “Luna,” but the rest is noise, not relevant yet.

Amelia brings me food: a sandwich, some chips, and a banana. I eat in slow, mechanical bites, the way you learn to when food is both a gift and a danger. It tastes like nothing, but I finish it.

I use the bathroom twice, counting the steps and the seconds between guard patrols. I note which doors are locked and which are merely closed. I find a fire escape at the end of the hall, but it’s wired with an alarm. I run every possible route in my head, and every one ends with a bullet or a bite.

So I wait.

When the night is at its thinnest, I hear the guards switch. Their voices are rough, tired. I hear one of them say, “I bet she doesn’t make it till next week.” The other grunts. “I bet she does. The Alpha likes his strays.”

They both laugh. I press my fists into the mattress until I can’t feel my fingers.

At dawn, the house quiets. I lie on top of the covers, staring at the ceiling, mapping the hairline cracks, the flicker of streetlights through the window. I wait for the next thing, whatever it is.

I think about the hotel, the casino, the blood on the carpet, and the way Duncan’s eyes found me. I think about the snowy graveyard I left behind, the family erased, the long line of girls who didn’t make it out.

I think about Amelia, the only one who doesn’t look at me like I’m already a ghost.

Mostly, I think about the wolves. Not the ones who run in packs, but the ones who run alone.

I count the hours. I listen. I learn the rules.