THE FORSAKEN LUNA

SHAKEN BUT NOT BROKEN

CHAPTER THREE

After Marcel offered to pay me a penny, I was lost in thought, remembering the days when my late parents and I would work tirelessly for more than a week, doing chores and tilling the ground, just to earn half a penny.

The thought of finally having someone to talk to, someone to play with, made me smile all day.

After I did Marcel’s work, he got the same marks as me. Soon, more students started coming to me for help, but I always prioritized Marcel’s assignments.

One day, during our break, he asked, "Do you have a boyfriend?"

"Yes," I replied without hesitation.

His eyes widened. "Who?"

"You," I said simply.

He laughed before explaining what a boyfriend truly meant and that he wanted to be mine. I didn’t object. In my mind, I had always pictured myself marrying Sir John c**k. Even after discovering he had once been married to his bond mate but was later jilted, I still held onto the thought. Perhaps Marcel could be a good replacement, I mused.

The crowd pressing in on me in class had grown too much, and Sir John noticed it.

"Flora, from today onward, you will not assist anyone with their classwork," he sternly warned.

I nodded immediately, not wanting to displease him.

But Marcel’s demeanor toward me changed after that. He became distant, cold. I tried explaining, but he refused to listen.

One day, during our tea break, he invited me to a secluded part of the school.

"Flora, you are very beautiful," he said, staring into my eyes.

No one had ever complimented my beauty before, except my late parents. I felt elated.

He asked for a hug, and I gave it without hesitation.

Then, I felt his hand squeeze my waist, sliding lower.

I shoved him away with such force that he fell to the ground.

He stood up, dusting himself off. His eyes darkened with anger. "I will deal with you," he spat before storming off.

I felt bad—he had been my only friend, even though others had started talking to me. But he should have respected me.

Later that day, as I sat alone outside the classroom, I realized just how much I had gotten used to his company.

When I returned to class, Sir John c**k wore a long face. After everyone settled, he cleared his throat.

"Some students have reported missing items. If you’ve mistakenly taken something that isn’t yours, return it now before I begin searching."

I glanced around, surprised. Who would steal?

Sir John moved from desk to desk, searching bags. As he was about to move on, a voice called out, "You haven’t searched Flora’s bag."

My breath caught in my throat. I turned, meeting the accusing eyes of a student I barely spoke to. A sinking feeling gripped my stomach. Sir John hesitated before stepping toward me.

"Flora, open your bag."

With trembling hands, I reached for it. Something felt off. Why did my bag seem heavier?

Sir John pulled it open—and froze.

One by one, he lifted stolen items into the air: a jeweled bracelet, a finely crafted pen, a silk scarf.

Whispers erupted like wildfire.

"She stole from us?"

"I always knew she was trouble."

"Disgusting."

My heart pounded. "I didn't do it!" I gasped, looking around wildly. "I swear I didn’t put those there!"

Sir John's face darkened. "Flora," he said quietly. "Why?"

Tears burned my eyes. I couldn’t breathe. I wanted to scream, to demand justice, but the room had already turned against me.

"I didn’t…" My voice wavered. "Someone must have put them there."

But no one was listening.

By the time we returned home, my fate had already been sealed. Messengers from the pack arrived, their expressions cold. The verdict was swift—parade or prison.

My throat closed. I had no idea what prison would mean for me, but public humiliation? It couldn’t be worse than the betrayal I already felt.

"I'll take the parade," I whispered.

The moment I was stripped and forced onto the streets, shame and despair crashed over me. People jeered. Dirt and rotten scraps rained down. Someone spat near my feet.

"Thief!"

"Disgrace!"

I kept my head high, blinking back tears. I wouldn’t break—not here, not now.

Sir John c**k was waiting at home, clothes in hand. I expected disgust, disappointment. Instead, he handed them to me gently.

"I know you didn’t do it."

The words shattered me. Hot tears spilled down my face. He believed me.

I wasn’t alone.

One evening after class, Sir John sent me to the market to buy food supplies. I hurried through the crowded stalls, eager to finish quickly and return home. As I started my journey back, I searched for someone to walk with—anyone—but the streets had emptied, and I was alone.

My heart pounded as I walked briskly, whispering a silent prayer. The lonely path toward the Reserved Area stretched ahead, dark and eerily quiet. Then, I heard it. My name. A familiar voice.

I froze. At first, I thought it was my imagination. But then I saw them.

Marcel.

He stood ahead of me with three masked figures. My stomach dropped. Turning on my heels, I tried to run, but more figures blocked my path. Six in total. Trapped.

“Please,” I begged, my voice trembling. “Don’t do this.”

Marcel smirked. “When I begged you, did you listen?” He stepped forward, his presence suffocating. “Tell me why I should.”

He snapped his fingers. Rough hands grabbed me. I thrashed, kicked, screamed—but I was outnumbered. They dragged me into the bushes, my belongings scattering along the way.

“Leave me alone!” I shouted, fighting against the hands pinning me down.

“Shut up, you little slut,” Marcel hissed. “We know you give it to Sir John. We just want our share.”

Terror overtook me. No. No! This couldn’t be happening.

“I’ll go first,” Marcel announced.

Desperation surged through me. I struggled harder, but my strength was nothing compared to theirs. One of them yanked my arms above my head while another tried to force my legs apart.

I screamed.

“Nobody will help you here,” Marcel sneered.

Then, a whisper. Urgent. “Someone’s coming.”

In a twinkle of an eyelid, they scattered like shadows, disappearing into the night.

I lay there, trembling, my body throbbing with pain. My clothes were torn, my skin stung from the lashes of their horsewhips. Blood dripped from fresh wounds.

Two men emerged from the darkness, their faces etched with concern.

One knelt beside me. “Who did this to you?”

Tears blurred my vision as I whispered, “Marcel.”

The other man rushed into the bushes, returning with herbs. He pressed them against my wounds. A fiery pain shot through me, like fire searing my flesh. I winced, biting my lip to keep from crying out.

“Where do you live?” one asked gently.

“The Reserved Area… with Sir John.”

They exchanged looks, their eyes wide. One of them lifted me onto his shoulders while the other gathered my scattered belongings.

By the time we reached Sir John’s house, he was already outside, his expression turning to alarm as he saw me.

“What happened?” he demanded.

The man carrying me spoke grimly. “We found her bleeding in the woods.”

Sir John’s face darkened. He took me inside and rushed me to the clinic.

The nurse took one look at me and turned to Sir John. “I need to examine her privately.”