The Sacred Luna

Chapter 15

(Sanya's POV)

"You don't have to apologize—"

"Yes, I do. You were right. I should have told someone. Should have been more careful." I pause at the door. "I really am sorry. For scaring you. For making you think I'd run."

"Why didn't you?" The question stops me. "Run, I mean. You've tried before. Why stay now?"

Because the suppressants are the only thing keeping me hidden. Because running would expose me faster than staying. Because I have nowhere else to go.

Because somewhere in the past two weeks, this cage started feeling less like a prison and more like... something else.

"Because I made a promise," I say instead. "At that altar. In front of everyone. For better or worse. Until death."

"You don't strike me as someone who cares much about promises."

"I care about my word." I open the door. "Even if no one else does."

I leave him standing in his reorganized study, looking lost in a way that perfect, controlled Alphas aren't supposed to look.

In my quarters, I lock the door and spread out my gathered herbs. My hands shake as I brew the suppressant—grinding, mixing, heating. The familiar ritual calms me.

I've been doing this for years. I can do it for years more.

I have to.

The suppressant is ready within an hour. I drink it and feel the familiar burn, the divine light receding back into hiding.

Safe. For now.

But as I wash the dirt from my hands and change into clean clothes, I think about Zaiden's face when he admitted being terrified. The way his hands shook. The raw fear in his voice.

He cares.

Somewhere beneath all that control, all those walls, all that rigid protocol—he cares.

About me.

The unwanted bride. The inappropriate Luna. The nobody from the Gray Zone who keeps destroying his perfect order.

He cares.

And that's more dangerous than any Iron-King spy in the forest.

Because caring means attachment. Attachment means vulnerability. And vulnerability means that when—not if, when—he discovers what I really am, it won't just be political disaster.

It'll be personal betrayal.

I look at my reflection in the mirror—clean now, presentable, the perfect image of a Luna who definitely isn't hiding a divine aura.

"You're playing a dangerous game," I tell my reflection.

My reflection doesn't argue.

Outside, the compound returns to its normal rhythm. Guards resume their patrols. Servants complete their tasks. The Northern Pack continues functioning with military precision.

And I stand in my borrowed life, wearing borrowed clothes, pretending to be someone I'm not.

Pretending that the man sleeping on the other side of our massive bed doesn't make my suppressant magic flutter every time he looks at me.

Pretending I don't care that he was terrified when I disappeared.

Pretending that "for better or worse, until death" doesn't feel less like a prison sentence and more like a promise I actually want to keep.

The lies are getting harder to maintain.

It's past midnight, and Zaiden is finally asleep after spending the entire evening working in his study. I listened to him through the door—the scratch of pen on paper, the rustle of reports, the occasional frustrated sigh. He works himself to exhaustion every night, then collapses into bed like a man surrendering to defeat rather than rest.

I waited until his breathing evened out before slipping from the bedroom.

The compound kitchens are empty at this hour, just dying embers in the massive hearth and shadows dancing across stone walls. I light a single candle and spread out my gathered herbs on the worktable.

The suppressant I brewed earlier will last maybe three days. Four if I'm careful. But I need backup batches. Need reserves in case something goes wrong. Need to stay ahead of the inevitable moment when my magic fails completely.

I start grinding moonbell root, the mortar and pestle creating a rhythm that soothes my racing thoughts. This is familiar. Safe. I've done this a thousand times in Varon's dingy apothecary, surrounded by fake cures and desperate customers.

At least then, I was only lying to strangers.

Now I'm lying to everyone. Including the man whose bed I share. The man who admitted being terrified when I disappeared. The man who's starting to feel like something more than just the Alpha I was forced to marry.

The moonbell root becomes pale powder. I add silver sage leaves, crushing them carefully to release their oils. The scent fills the kitchen—sharp and clean, like winter mornings.

"What are you doing?"

I nearly drop the pestle.

Zaiden stands in the doorway, wearing loose sleeping clothes I didn't know he owned. His hair is disheveled from sleep. His eyes are heavy with exhaustion.

He looks human. Almost vulnerable.

"Making headache remedy," I lie smoothly, gesturing at the herbs. "Couldn't sleep. Thought I'd use the time productively."

"In the middle of the night? In the kitchens?"

"The healers' workroom is locked. And yes, in the middle of the night. Insomnia has to be good for something." I return to grinding. "Go back to bed. I'll be quiet."

Instead of leaving, he crosses the room. Pulls out a stool across from me. Sits.

"Show me," he says.

I pause mid-grind. "Show you what?"

"What you're making. How it works." He gestures at the scattered herbs. "You disappeared for six hours to gather these. You're brewing potions at midnight. I want to understand why."

It's not a request. But it's not quite a command either.

I study his face, trying to read his intention. Is this suspicion? Curiosity? Some test I'm failing to recognize?

"It's not that interesting," I say carefully.

"Everything about you is interesting." The words seem to surprise him as much as they surprise me. "Even when it's inconvenient. Maybe especially then."

I don't know how to respond to that, so I return to grinding. "Fine. But don't blame me when you're bored to death by herb properties."

"I'll risk it."

I push the ground moonbell root to one side and reach for the silver sage. "This is silver sage. Grows in rocky soil, prefers high altitudes. Most people think it's just decorative, but the leaves contain compounds that suppress certain... reactions."

"What kind of reactions?"

"Inflammation. Fever. Overactive responses." All true, technically. Just not the whole truth. "The key is in how you prepare it. Crush it wrong and you destroy the oils. Crush it right and you concentrate them."

I demonstrate, grinding the leaves in small circles, releasing their sharp scent.