Chapter 3

I woke up in a hospital bed.

For a moment I didn't know where I was.

Tubes ran into my arms. The heart monitor beeped slow and steady.

Every inch of my body felt like it had been set on fire and stamped out halfway.

"Luna!"

I shot upright. My elbow caught the edge of a tray. A bowl of broth went flying. Soup splashed across the floor.

Damian stood at the foot of the bed, wiping his sleeve. His face was tight — but not with anger. Something else.

Something I hadn't seen in a long time.

I grabbed his wrist with what little strength I had left. "Where is she? Take me to her."

"She's alive," he said quietly.

He didn't pull away.

"She's in surgery. You'll see her when she's stable."

"Surgery?" My voice cracked. "You put a ten-year-old girl on a firing range. You let that woman—"

"Iris didn't know the gun was loaded with real rounds." His jaw tightened. "It was a mistake."

"A mistake." I laughed. It came out like a sob.

He knelt beside the bed. Picked up a new bowl of soup from the nightstand.

"You need to eat. You lost a lot of blood."

I turned my head away.

He didn't get angry. Didn't throw the bowl. Just sat there, holding it. Waiting.

For three days, he stayed.

He brought me photographs of Luna in her hospital bed — bandaged, unconscious, but alive.

He spoon-fed me broth when I refused to eat. When I pressed my lips shut, he drank the soup himself and kissed me, forcing it down my throat.

I wiped my mouth on the back of my hand. Tore the bowl out of his grip and finished it myself.

He blinked. Surprised.

Then, slowly, he smiled.

For three days, he was the man I had fallen in love with.

I let myself believe him.

Iris Vale came to visit on the fourth day.

She walked into my room in a pale pink dress, hair curled, cheeks flushed. She looked like she'd just come from a garden party — not from nearly murdering a child.

She stood when she saw my eyes open. Smoothed her dress slowly.

Then she picked up the small crystal vase from my bedside.

It hit the floor and shattered.

She pressed her palm down hard against the shards.

I watched her do it.

By the time she lifted her hand, her palm was a mess of bright red and broken crystal. Tears she hadn't had two seconds ago were already streaming down her cheeks.

" Selene!" she sobbed. "Why would you push me — Damian, help —"

The door burst open.

Damian saw the glass first. Then Iris — on her knees, bleeding into the rug.

Then me. Half-upright in the hospital bed. Bandaged. Still hooked to the IV.

But hands empty.

"What happened?" He rushed to her side.

The man who had spent four days holding my hand at night vanished.

That man came back.

His head snapped toward me.

"Selene Ashford. Have you lost your fucking mind?"

He pulled Iris into his arms. Her cheek against his collar. His palm cradling the back of her head. His eyes — over the crown of her hair — were murderous.

"Apologize to her."

I stared at him. "I didn't do anything."

Iris tugged his sleeve. "Damian, please don't be angry with her. She's so sick."

He kissed her forehead. "You're too soft."

Then he looked at me. "Have I spoiled you? Been too fucking soft with you lately?"

His voice dropped. "You think you can defy me now?"

I didn't move.

"If you don't want me to pull the plug on Luna's ventilator — you will kneel."