The Sacred Luna

Chapter 8

(Sanya's POV)

For the next few hours, I linger in my room, wanting to stay out of sight.

My body still aches from last night, the belt marks on my back throbbing with every movement, but lying in bed won't make this situation any better. If anything, it'll give Tara and Mira more ammunition to use against me. More reasons to call me lazy, worthless, a burden on this family. I force myself to stand. To walk to the bathroom and splash cold water on my face.

To pretend I can wash away the humiliation that clings to my skin like a second layer.

The mirror shows me a stranger with hollow eyes and pale lips. A bruise forming along my jaw where my face hit the ground last night. I touch it gingerly, wincing at the tenderness, and for a moment I let myself remember what life used to be before all this.

I used to smile easily. I used to laugh without fear catching in my throat. Aaron loved my laugh. He said it sounded like wind chimes on a summer day, light and free and full of joy.

That feels like a lifetime ago now.

I dress carefully, choosing clothes that cover as much skin as possible, hiding the evidence of Tyron's rage from last night. The servants don't need to see more than they already have. They watch me with pity in their eyes, but pity doesn't help me. Pity doesn't stop the belt from falling or the insults from cutting deep. Pity is just another word for helplessness, and I've had enough of feeling helpless to last me several lifetimes.

By evening, I can't put it off any longer. I have to go downstairs and face them.

The family is gathered in the living room when I descend the stairs, each step feeling like I'm walking toward an execution.

Tara sits in her usual chair by the window, her posture perfect, her expression cold as winter frost.

Mira lounges on the sofa beside her, filing her nails with deliberate precision, each stroke of the file sounding unnaturally loud in the quiet room.

John stands near the fireplace, staring into the flames like he wishes he could disappear into them.

And Marcus—Alpha Marcus, Tyron's father, the former Alpha of this pack—sits in the leather armchair that probably cost more than everything I owned in my entire life, reading a newspaper like nothing in the world could possibly disturb his peace.

Tyron isn't here. I don't know where he is, and I'm grateful for that small mercy. Facing his family is hard enough without having to see the disgust in his eyes again, without having to remember the way he looked at me like I was something dirty he'd stepped on and couldn't scrape off his shoe.

Tara sees me first. Her lip curls with disgust, her entire face transforming into something ugly and cruel, all the polished elegance she usually wears like armor falling away to reveal the viciousness underneath.

"So the w***e finally shows her face," she says.

The word hits me like a slap. I've been called many things in my life—stubborn, foolish, too trusting—but never that. Never something so degrading, so deliberately meant to strip away whatever dignity I have left. My hands clench into fists at my sides. The nails dig into my palms hard enough to leave marks, but I force myself to stay calm. To keep my face blank. To not give her the satisfaction of seeing how deeply that word cuts.

Mira laughs, the sound high-pitched and dripping with mockery. As if this is all just entertainment for her. Like my humiliation is the most amusing thing she's seen all week. "Did you think you could hide your past forever?" she asks, setting down her nail file to give me her full attention. "Did you really believe no one would find out about your little boyfriend? About how you gave yourself to another man before marriage?"

"I didn't—" I start, but my voice comes out weak, barely more than a whisper.

"Didn't what?" Mira leans forward in her seat, her eyes gleaming with malicious delight. "Didn't love him? Didn't plan to run away with him? Didn't betray our Tyron by giving yourself to another man first?"

I don't respond. There's no point. They've already decided what kind of person I am, already written the story of my sins in their minds. Nothing I say will change their opinion. So I keep my head down, focus on breathing. In and out. In and out.

Just keep breathing, Sanya. That's all you have to do right now. Just breathe and endure.

Tyron's father, Alpha Marcus, stands suddenly, the movement sharp and decisive, his newspaper crackling as he folds it with precise, angry movements. He looks at me with cold eyes, the kind of cold that goes bone-deep and makes you feel like you don't even deserve to exist in the same room as him.

"I'm leaving for a few days," he says, his voice carrying unquestionable authority. "I can't stand to look at her."

And just like that, he walks out without another word. Doesn't even glance my way as he passes and walks out. To him, I might as well be invisible. I'm not even worth acknowledging. The door closes behind him with a soft click that sounds impossibly loud in the sudden silence.

My eyes sting. But I won't cry. Not here. Not in front of them.

Tara and Mira approach me, their movements synchronized like predators who've hunted together before. Who know exactly how to corner their prey. Their eyes gleam with malice, and a joy darker than simple cruelty. I can tell they're taking pleasure in my suffering, genuine enjoyment at seeing me brought so low.

"You need to be purified," Tara says, her voice dripping with false concern, like she's doing me a favor, like this is for my own good.

Before I can react, before I can even process what she means, Mira grabs a bucket from behind the sofa—when did she get that? how long have they been planning this?—and throws dirty water on me.