The Banished Shy Luna Chapter 31

The bathroom smelled faintly of lavender and roses, the steam from the earlier bath still lingering in the air. I peeled the robe from my shoulders, letting it fall onto the bench before slipping into the silky pajamas Elder Thora’s butler had laid out for me. A soft tank top, whisper-light against my skin, and matching shorts that grazed the tops of my thighs. The fabric was cool and smooth, sliding across me like a second skin. For once, I didn’t feel weighed down by rags or shame. For once, I felt… comfortable.

I moved toward the mirror, hands trembling slightly as I reached for my bun. The pins came free one by one, and with each release, tension drained from my scalp. When the last strand fell, my long hair tumbled around my shoulders, curls bouncing loose and wild around my face. I stared at my reflection, barely recognizing the girl looking back. Her cheeks glowed faintly, her lips still swollen from a kiss that had stolen the air from her lungs, and her eyes—my eyes—were brighter than I’d ever seen them.

It felt like I had been holding my breath for years, and now I could finally exhale.

I touched the glass, watching the faint tremor in my hand. “Who are you?” I whispered.

Stepping out into the suite, I found the butler waiting patiently, as if time itself bent to his calm. He smiled faintly when he saw me. “This way, Miss Kira.”

He leads me into the adjoining suite. It mirrors Elder Thora’s: a sweep of polished floors, heavy velvet curtains pulled back from tall windows, a bed made up in pale silk with pillows stacked like clouds.

“This room is yours tonight,” the butler says. “Elder Thora will retire late. I’ll remain awake until she returns. If you need anything—” he taps two fingers against his chest with practiced elegance “—knock on the door between our suites, or call out. I’ll hear you.”

He turns to go. Something in me pulls taut.

“Wait,” I blurt, reaching without thinking. My fingers close around his sleeve, and he stops at once, facing me fully. His eyes are attentive, patient, the eyes of someone who has spent a lifetime noticing small things.

We stand in a pocket of quiet. I swallow. “I’m sorry. I just—” The words knot. “What do you think it means to… break apart a pack?”

He studies me for a heartbeat. Slowly, he takes both of my hands into his.

“Sometimes,” he says, “a pack ceases to be a pack. It becomes a cage. Leaders forget their duty. Wolves forget their names. Breaking such a pack is not cruelty. It is mercy.”

Tears sting hot at the corners of my eyes. “But the bonds—”

“Will ache,” he agrees softly. “Even good change aches. But ache is not the same as harm. Freedom has its own kind of pain, Miss Kira. The kind you grow around.”

I bite my lip. “If I help do this… does it make me a bad person?”

His fingers tighten, a gentle reassurance. “No. It makes you a person who can hold more than one truth at once. You could take revenge, easily, and sleep without questioning it. Many would. Instead, you’re weighing the lives of others—even those who starved you and struck you and told you to be small. That is not weakness. That is rare strength.”

A small, broken sound slips out of me. I shake my head, curls brushing my cheeks. “I don’t feel strong. Or beautiful. Or anything they say I am. I feel alone. I feel like I’m pretending to be someone who knows what to do and any second the whole world will realize I don’t. I don’t even know what I’m supposed to do at breakfast tomorrow.”

His mouth curves with the smallest hint of a smile, as if he’s been waiting for that confession. “Eat,” he says simply. “And be yourself.”

I huff out a shaky breath that could almost be a laugh. “What if myself isn’t enough? What if he sees me—really sees me—and decides he made a mistake?”

“The right ones never do,” he answers. “And if he did, then he is not the one you need. But I have watched that Alpha in rooms full of women, and I have never seen him look at anyone the way he looked at you tonight. Not once.”

The tears win. They slip hot and fast down my face. I try to wipe them away with my shoulder, awkward in silk, and he tuts under his breath, producing a linen handkerchief as if by magic. He dabs at my cheekbones with care.

“I’m sorry,” I whisper, suddenly exhausted. “I don’t mean to fall apart.”

“You’re not falling apart,” he says. “You’re unfolding.”

The word lands in me like a seed meeting warm soil.

I surge forward, wrapping my arms around him in a hug. He goes still in surprise, then returns it—careful, dignified, and somehow very real. When we part, he clears his throat, pretending to smooth his lapel.

“On your nightstand,” he says, back to business, “you’ll find a little tin of salve—arnica and comfrey. It will help any lingering bruises. There’s also a vial of lavender oil if your thoughts won’t quiet. A book, should you want words to sit with. And—” one corner of his mouth lifts “—a small box of lemon cookies from the kitchen. I noticed you favored the cake.”

Heat floods my cheeks. “You noticed… everything.”

“It is my calling.” He steps back to the door, then pauses and glances at me, softer again. “Sleep, Miss Kira. Tomorrow is large. You need not carry it tonight.”

When he’s gone, the room hushes around me. I pour a glass of water and drink, the coolness dragging the last threads of wine and adrenaline from my veins.

I move to the bed and draw back the covers. The sheets are smooth and faintly scented with something clean, like new snow. I slide beneath them and sink, the mattress holding me like a patient animal.

I click off the lamp. Darkness blooms, soft and velvety. My eyes adjust until the room becomes a wash of blue and silver.

But rest doesn’t come. My mind fills the quiet with faces and voices: Aleria’s sharpened smile, Lyra’s glittering envy, my father’s hands, Darin’s breath hot and foul. The elders’ eyes—measuring, weighing. Kira, if you step forward tomorrow, Lucas will fall. The sentence echoes like an incantation, like a door I could choose to open or lock.

They will hate me. Some of them will. Maybe most.

I roll onto my side, pressing my cheek to the cool pillow, and stare at the window’s reflected glow. The ache swells and swells… and then, unbidden, another face comes. Dark eyes like embers banked under ash. Hands that know how to hold and how to hurt. The taste of chocolate and lemon and something that was his mouth and mine together. The way the world narrowed until the only thing that existed was the heat between us and the terrifying relief of being wanted.

“Until morning,” he’d said.