Shadows of the moon - Book 2 in the Moonlight series

I once believed that survival was the hardest part. That clawing my way out of that nightmare meant victory. Freedom. That I’d leave it all behind in the dark corners where it was born, buried with the men who kept me chained to their hell. But I was wrong. Survival is just the beginning. Living with the aftermath—that’s the war I never saw coming. When I escaped, I thought I’d won. I thought the shadows would dissolve, left to rot with my captors and decay like the rust on those shackles. I was foolish. Because the past doesn’t simply die. It festers. It creeps into your bloodstream like poison, slow and insidious, until it owns you. It waits—silent, patient—until you think you’re safe. Then it strikes, and you realize the real prison isn’t the one you escaped from. It’s the one it built inside you. That first night home, I thought I could finally breathe. My mother’s arms wrapped around me, pulling me close enough to feel the warmth of her tears against my neck. SJ’s voice, light and teasing, coaxed me to smile like we were kids again. For a fleeting moment, it felt like none of it had ever happened, like I could step back into the life I’d lost. Almost. And then the nightmares came. They don’t creep in like whispers, soft and timid. No, they come for me with teeth bared, ripping me apart in my sleep. Vicious. Unrelenting. I’m there again. The dark is alive—thick and smothering, pressing into my lungs, suffocating me. My wrists are bound in silver shackles, their icy bite searing into my skin like liquid fire. The metal burns, eating into flesh, leaving behind a raw, relentless sting that never fades. I can hear the sound of my breath, shallow and frantic, mingling with the ominous rhythm of footsteps. Slow. Measured. They echo, sharp and deliberate, a countdown to something I can’t see but know is coming. My screams are locked somewhere inside me, strangled before they can escape. And then the air is gone, the walls are closing in, and the terror swallows me whole. I always wake up screaming—a raw, guttural sound, animalistic and primal. It rips through the house like a warning siren, dragging everyone from their sleep. At first, they all came running. My mother, her face pale and tight with fear, would pull me into her arms, her hands trembling as they stroked my hair. SJ would sit on the edge of my bed, gripping my hand so tightly it hurt, whispering over and over, “You’re safe, Scar. You’re home. You’re safe.” Like if he just said it enough times, it might overwrite the truth. But the truth doesn’t go quietly. After a while, they stopped coming all at once. It wasn’t a choice, I think—it was exhaustion. Grief. They started trading off, unspoken shifts in the dark. Most nights, it’s Ryland. I don’t know how he does it, but the moment my scream splits the air, he’s there—silent as a shadow, steady as stone. He slips into my room like he’s answering some invisible call, his presence solid and grounding. He never panics. He doesn’t fumble with reassurances that don’t mean anything. He just takes my hands in his and anchors me with his voice, low and calm. “You’re here, Scarlett. You’re safe. Just breathe. Breathe with me.” But sometimes, breathing feels like the hardest thing in the world. When the terror grips me, I lash out—blind and desperate, my fists pounding against his chest as if he’s the one keeping me trapped. In those moments, my mind can’t see him. All I know is the darkness, the shackles, the footsteps. But Ryland never lets go. His strength doesn’t falter. He holds me tighter, grounding me with his presence until the storm passes. I used to think he pitied me. That maybe they all did. But there’s something in his eyes, something quiet and raw, that tells me otherwise. I see it in the way his jaw tightens, in the shadows that linger long after I’ve stopped shaking. He’s haunted, too. Maybe by me. Maybe by something else. When it’s not Ryland, it’s SJ. Or Darren, his broad frame and quiet strength filling the doorway before he sits beside me. Griffin comes, too, though he rarely speaks. He just sits there in the dark, silent and steady, like he’s guarding me from something only he can see. Kara, with her sharp edges and haunted eyes, comes less often. She doesn’t touch me, doesn’t say anything. She just sits, close enough that I can feel her presence, as if her ghosts have found mine and they’re sitting vigil together. They try. God, they try. But they can’t fight this for me. So I run. When the house falls silent again and my body stops trembling, I slip out of bed and into the night. Ryland’s hoodie—soft and faintly smelling of him—becomes my armor against the cold. The air bites at my skin, sharp and unforgiving, but I welcome the sting. It reminds me I’m alive. It keeps me tethered to something real. The forest becomes my refuge. Beneath the tangled canopy of shadows and silver moonlight, I push my body harder than it should go. The branches claw at my skin, leaving tiny, burning welts in their wake, but I don’t stop. I can’t. The silence is a predator, always on my heels, and running is the only way to keep it at bay. My lungs scream. My legs burn. But it’s better than feeling the memories hunting me. One night, Ryland caught me. I don’t know how long he’d been waiting, but when I stumbled into the clearing, there he was. Pale moonlight softened the sharp lines of his face, but his eyes burned with an intensity that made my chest tighten. “Scarlett,” he said, his voice like steel wrapped in velvet. “What the hell are you doing out here?” I couldn’t answer. My chest heaved with sobs I didn’t want to feel, and the way he looked at me—equal parts anger and worry—made me want to disappear. “You can’t keep doing this,” he said, stepping closer. There was no judgment in his voice, just quiet determination. “You’re not running away from it. You’re running straight into it.” I wanted to argue, to shove him away and tell him he didn’t understand. But I couldn’t. Because he did. He always did. “When I stop running,” I whispered, my voice fractured, “it’s like I’m back there. It doesn’t let me go.” For a moment, he just looked at me, his face softening as something flickered in his eyes—pain, maybe. Or recognition. Then, he reached out, his hand brushing against mine, solid and warm. “You’re not there anymore, Scar. I promise you, you’re not.” He stayed with me that night. We walked back through the woods in silence, his presence a barrier between me and the darkness pressing in from all sides. But even with him there, I feel it. The shadows, the weight, the hollow ache of something that refuses to die. It’s in the trees, in the quiet hum of the wind, in the pounding rhythm of my own heartbeat. It’s everywhere. And it’s inside me. Some nights, I think this battle will never end. That no matter how fast I run, no matter how hard I fight, it will always be there, waiting to pull me back. But then SJ knocks on my door, his voice stubborn and full of love, daring me to give up. Or Ryland finds me in the gym, his silent presence a challenge I don’t know how to refuse. Or Kara sits beside me in the dark, her silence an offering I didn’t know I needed. And I remember: I’m not alone. I’ve survived worse than this. I will survive this. The nightmares might never let me go. The memories might always linger, like scars etched into my soul. But the darkness doesn’t get to win. Not while my heart still beats. Not while there are people who refuse to let me drown, even when I can’t find my way to the surface. For now, that’s enough. And if it’s not—then I’ll run faster.