THE LUNA THEY’LL NEVER LOVE

32: SIGHTS FOR SORE EYES

PHEEONA.

I'd been in bed all day, recovering.

My head still throbbed where the stitches pulled tight against my temple, and every time I moved too fast the room tilted a little. So I stayed put, propped up against a mountain of pillows, flipping through the dozens of books lined up on the built-in shelves across from the bed.

Some were old histories of Ashenbane, thick and heavy with details about conquests I probably didn't want to read too closely right now. Others were poetry collections or novels that looked like they'd been picked specifically to keep someone entertained during long, boring days. I lost myself in them for hours, letting the words push back against the memories of last night.

Anyssa had been in and out, buzzing with energy. While I hid between pages, she was downstairs making friends with the palace staff. She'd already charmed the younger maids and gotten the head cook laughing over tea.

It wasn't just for the gossip, though she was definitely enjoying that part.

I needed people on my side here in Ashenbane. Real ones. The kind who might whisper things to me instead of straight to my husbands.

I wasn't sure how the hell that was supposed to work. Most of these people had worked for the Torvains for years—maybe their whole lives.

They probably saw me as the outsider princess who'd shown up and complicated everything.

Still, Anyssa was trying, and right now that felt like the only move I had.

By evening my body finally felt clean enough to function. I ran a bath, sank into the massive tub until the hot water loosened the knots in my shoulders, then went through my skincare routine slowly, almost on autopilot. Toner, serum, the little rose oil that was a non negotiable staple. It felt normal. Familiar. Like I could pretend for a few minutes that I still had some control over my own life.

I was finishing up by the window, lathering lotion up my arms and shoulders, when something outside caught my eye. The sun was dipping low, throwing long shadows across the gardens. I drew closer to the frame, peering down.

Across the way, tucked under some flowering trees, Vizellan sat on a wide wooden swing arrangement. It looked more like a daybed than a regular swing—sturdy, built for lounging.

He was alone, one leg braced on the ground, rocking it slowly while a knife turned over and over in his hands.

He flipped it casually, caught it, flipped it again. Pressed his thumb flat against the blade. Shifted it smoothly from one hand to the other. The movements were practiced, almost absent-minded, like the knife was just something to keep his fingers busy while his mind went somewhere else.

I took him in.

That pale hair he'd cut short for the wedding still caught me off guard every time I saw him. It sat tight against his skull, making his features stand out even more.

He was striking. His face had this intensity to it—high cheekbones, pale blue eyes, everything edged in a way that made it hard to look away even from two stories up.

Today he was dressed down, looking more casual than I'd ever seen him. He wore a black long-sleeved shirt that hugged his lean frame, and matching black slacks. No formal jacket or coat, no royal bullshit.

He shifted on the swing and shoved the sleeve of his shirt up his elbow with a sharp, irritated motion. The fabric bunched there, revealing the pale skin of his forearm.

My stomach tightened.

He pressed the sharp edge of the knife to his arm.

Even from here I could see the skin bubble up red instantly.

Holy mother of the goddess. The knife was real silver?

The blade hissed faintly against his flesh, drawing a thin line of blood that welled up and started to trickle. He didn't flinch or pull away. He just held it there, his eyes distant, like the pain was something he was choosing.

Like… he needed it.

What the hell was he doing?

I couldn't look away. The bond stirred low in my chest, uncomfortable and warm at the same time, pulling me toward him even as my brain screamed that this was none of my business. These men had made it very clear what I was to them—a title, a hole, nothing more. But watching Vizellan hurt himself on purpose twisted something inside me I didn't want to name.

Movement on the garden path pulled my attention.

Crowen strode up toward the swing, boots eating up the distance. Vizellan didn't notice him at first, too focused on the knife and whatever dark place his head was in. Crowen got close, reached down without hesitation, and grabbed the knife straight out of his cousin's hand mid-cut. In one angry motion he hurled it across the garden. It skidded hard across the grass and disappeared into the hedges.

Vizellan looked up slowly.

Neither of them said a word.

Crowen looked livid—jaw locked tight, shoulders rigid, every line of his massive frame coiled like he was barely holding himself back from something.

Vizellan just stared back at him, expression bored, completely unbothered, like this was routine.

Like they'd done this dance a thousand times before.

But neither of them broke the silence.

Neither of them looked away.

I was genuinely scared to breathe up here, frozen at the window, certain that even the smallest sound might carry down and shatter whatever was happening between them.

They stayed locked like that for a long, suspended moment. The air between them felt thick enough to cut.

Then Crowen turned on his heel and walked away, shoulders stiff, without a single glance back. He disappeared around the hedges, leaving Vizellan alone on the swing.

Vizellan watched him go, eyes tracking his cousin until he was out of sight. For a few seconds he just sat there, the swing rocking faintly. Then he leaned back, scrubbed a hand roughly over his face, looking more humane than I'd ever seen him look.

When he dropped his hand and lifted his gaze, it locked directly onto mine.

My heart slammed against my ribs.

I jerked backward from the window so fast I nearly tripped over my own feet, pressing myself flat against the wall beside the frame. The lotion bottle slipped from my fingers and hit the floor with a soft thud. My pulse raced, loud in my ears.

He'd seen me.

There was no way he hadn't. Our eyes had met dead-on.

I didn't move, much less dare look back out the window.

My heart kept racing as I wondered if he knew exactly how much I’d seen.