The Sacred Luna

Chapter 7

***CONTENT WARNING: SCENES AHEAD MIGHT BE DISTURBING TO SOME AUDIENCE. READER DISCRETION ADVISED***

(Sanya's POV)

I wake up slowly, my body screaming with pain.

I try to move. Every muscle in my body protests. The dress—that ridiculous medieval princess dress—clings to my skin, soaked through with freezing water. Heavy with the weight of last night's humiliation. My back throbs with a dull, persistent ache that makes my breath catch.

I don't know how many times he hit me. I stopped counting after the first ten strikes.

I reach behind me, wincing as my fingers brush against my back. They come away sticky.

But it's not blood.

It's ointment. Thick. Soothing. Cool against my burning skin.

I freeze.

Who applied this on me?

I struggle to sit up. The movement sends sharp pains shooting through my shoulders, down my spine, across my ribs. Everything hurts. My knees are scraped raw from when Tyron threw me on the ground. My arms are bruised. My face feels swollen.

But my back—the part that should hurt the most, the part where his belt struck me, over and over, until my body gave out and everything went black—feels better than it should.

Someone treated my wounds while I was unconscious.

I was unconscious all night, lying here in the cold and on the wet grass while the household slept in their warm beds.

If someone came...

It had to be Tyron.

My heart stutters at the thought. Maybe he regretted it. Maybe after his rage cooled, he came back and saw what he'd done and felt guilty.

I need to find him. To thank him for the ointment. To explain about Aaron. To make him understand that nothing happened between us. That I'm still pure. Still a virgin.

I drag myself to my feet. My legs shake. My ankle throbs—I must have twisted it when he shoved me. But I can walk.

I stumble toward the house. Each step sends pain radiating up my spine. The wet dress weighs me down, heavy and cold against my skin. My hair hangs in tangled ropes down my back, dripping water onto the stone path.

The back door is unlocked. I push it open and step inside.

The house is quiet. Too quiet. Like everyone is still asleep. Or maybe they're awake but staying in their rooms, pretending they didn't hear my screams last night. Pretending they don't know what happened in the garden.

I make my way through the hallways. Servants appear in doorways, their eyes widening when they see me. They stare at my soaked dress, my bruised face, my limping gait.

And look away. They don't offer to help, don't even ask if I'm okay. They disappear back into their rooms or continue with their chores. As if I don't exist.

Or worse—as if I'm something shameful they don't want to acknowledge.

I find Tyron in his study. The door is slightly ajar as he sits at his desk, pouring over a stack of documents. His hair is perfectly styled like always, his suit immaculate.

My heart pounds as I step into the doorway.

"Tyron," I whisper.

He doesn't look up.

I take another step forward. Water drips from my dress onto his expensive carpet.

"Tyron," I say again. My voice is stronger this time. "Thank you. For the ointment."

He looks up slowly, his ice-blue eyes meeting mine.

And they're cold. So cold.

There's no warmth in them. No regret. No guilt for what happened last night.

Just disgust.

"Do you think I'm crazy?" he sneers, his voice quiet. Controlled. Which somehow makes it worse than if he were shouting.

"What?"

"Do you think I'm crazy?" he repeats. "To treat the wounds of an impure woman like you when I can't even stand to see your face?"

The words hit me like a slap to the face.

"But... but the ointment—"

"I didn't put any ointment on you." He stands, walking around the desk toward me. "Why would I? You're not worth the effort. You're not worth anything."

He stops in front of me. So close I smell his expensive cologne. It makes my stomach turn.

"Then who—"

He shoves me. Hard.

I don't have time to catch myself. My feet slip on the wet carpet and I fall backward, my arms flailing uselessly.

I land hard on my side. My already-twisted ankle bending at a wrong angle. Pain shoots up my leg, so sharp and sudden that I cry out.

Tyron stands over me. Looking down at me like I'm an insect. Something disgusting he found on the bottom of his shoe.

Then he spits.

The saliva lands on my cheek. Warm. Wet. Humiliating.

I lie there. Frozen. Unable to move. Unable to think.

"Stay out of my sight," he snarls, his voice still quiet. Still controlled. "Every time I see your face, I'm reminded of the shame I carry. A used woman like you became my wife."

He steps over me. Like I'm not even human and just an obstacle in his path, and walks out of the study.

I hear his footsteps receding down the hallway. The sound of a door closing.

He doesn't look back. Not even sparing me a backward glance.

I lie on the floor. Tears streaming down my face, mixing with the spit on my cheek.

If Tyron didn't put the ointment on me, then who did?

But it doesn't matter. Nothing matters anymore.

My brothers forced me into this marriage to preserve the family honor. To cover the news of their sister being abandoned by a rank-less man. To silence the gossip, the whispers, the judgment that would shame our parents memory.

And look at me now.

Lying on the floor of my husband's study. Covered in his spit. Bruised. Broken. Humiliated.

Is this honor? Is this what they wanted for me?

I force myself to sit up. Every movement hurts. My ankle throbs with a pain so intense it makes my vision blur. But I grit my teeth and push through it.

No. I will not give up. I will not let this break me. I have to preserve this marriage to protect my family's name.

My past mistakes... I will not let them ruin my parents hard-earned reputation.

I loved Aaron truly. Deeply. With everything I had.

But we never crossed the line. We never did anything that would make me "impure." I'm still a virgin. Still untouched by any man.

Tyron doesn't believe me. He won't even give me a chance to explain.

But I will make him believe this. I will regain his trust. I will prove to him that I'm worthy of being his Luna.

I will save my marriage. No matter what it takes.

I grab the edge of Tyron's desk and pull myself to my feet. My legs shake. My ankle can barely support my weight. But I stand and limp out of the study. Down the hallway. Up the stairs.

Each step sends pain shooting through my ankle. I have to grip the railing to keep from falling.

When I finally reach my bedroom, I collapse on the bed.

My body aches. Every part of me hurts.

But my heart aches more.

I keep replaying Tyron's words in my head.

Do you think I'm crazy? To treat the wounds of an impure woman like you when I can't even stand to see your face?

Stay out of my sight. Every time I see your face, I'm reminded of the shame I carry.

The shame he carries.

As if loving someone before him makes me dirty. Unworthy.

I peel off the ruined medieval gown, the one that made everyone laugh at the reception, the one Tyron dressed me in like I was his doll. It falls to the floor in a soggy, jeweled heap. I'll probably be blamed for ruining it. Added to my list of crimes.

I stand in front of the mirror in just my undergarments and turn, craning my neck to see my back.

The ointment has done its work. The wounds are still there—angry red lines crisscrossing my skin like a map of last night's violence—but they're not bleeding anymore. They're not as swollen. Whoever applied this knew what they were doing.

But if not Tyron, then who?

The servants? No. They won't even look at me.

Tara? I almost laugh at the thought. She'd sooner pour salt in my wounds than heal them.

Then who?

I touch one of the lines gently. It hurts, but not as much as it should.

Someone cared enough to come out to the garden in the middle of the night and tend to my wounds.

But who?

And why?