Page 19 of The Shadow Sanctum

“Oh God!” My body heaves with another sob, this one deeper, more despairing.

Sawyer’s hand rubs my upper back in gentle strokes while he carries me from the training room, my cries echoing off the halls. If anyone hears me outside, I think they know it’d be better to let me die than come to my rescue. I don’t know how I’d ever live with that humiliation.

He lays me on the bed and pulls the covers over me. My tears draw a bath for me to lie in, and I should feel the humiliation of it. Instead, it’s a dull ache, overshadowed by the crushing weight of something held until the muscles snap. I don’t think it could ever be the same with anyone else.

Only for the man who thinks me delicate as a flower can I feel so vulnerable.

I close my eyes as he climbs beneath the covers behind me. When he strokes my hair, I flip over and turn my face into his chest, seeking solace in the warmth of his body, the steady beat of his heart.

“It’s not your fault,” Sawyer says to me, his arms squeezing me tight. “It’s never been your fault.”

I clench my eyes shut and pretend I don’t know what he’s talking about.

My cries continue on and on, a broken faucet trying to drain the ocean.

I don’t know how long it takes to stop. More than minutes. Hours maybe.

Eventually, with Sawyer’s hand petting my hair back while he hugs me tightly to him, my chest shakes for the last time.

And I cry myself to sleep.

CHAPTER 7

SAWYER

Bright morning light warms a curved path between cheek and ear as I rouse from sleep. Too bright—we should’ve closed the curtains. As soon as I attempt to open my eyes, they slam shut again, hand lifting to block the unforgiving rays, as though the sun rose just outside the window.

I groan and roll to my side with my arm stretched toward Luna. I find a vacant pillow instead.

First emotion: disappointment.

But as soon as I remember what—who—is waiting for her at the Keep, my heart leaps.

I shoot up in bed, eyes snapping wide. “Luna?”

I twist left and right, but sure enough, she isn’t crouched on the floor. She isn’t standing at the window.

Bathroom?

I throw off the comforter and shake the sleep from my arm after laying on it all night. I stride to the door with an urge I tell myself isn’t fear. She’s fine. There was no need to warn her about Angel because…

Because.

“Luna?” I peek my head out the door.

Nothing.

I go to the bathroom—find it empty.

“Luna!”

My heart thumps in the silence, the sound a constant banging against my eardrums.

When I return to the room for my clothes, the smell of greasy eggs catches in my nostrils. I search for its source until I land on a foil-wrapped burrito on the nightstand. A folded note is tucked beneath.

I go to the nightstand and unfold the note.

In the neatest handwriting I’ve ever seen: Sorry.