Morana.
She remembered that name. She remembered the girl that night in her club, the night she had almost ended her life. He had been there. Her brother had been right there, and she hadn't even known. Instead, she had gone up to her room and overdosed herself.
The messed up situation messed with her head. She put the phone down, drawing in short, sharp breaths to calm herself.
Tristan and Morana were together, and they were taking care of Xander. That was good. That, at least, was the biggest relief she had felt in a long time. She didn't know what she was going to do, didn't know how she was going to process anything, but she was glad from the glimpse of them she'd had that they'd seemed good, good enough to raise her baby boy.
The waiter brought her tea and pastries, and she just looked at them blankly, unknowing about the outside world.
Her brother, Tristan, was looking for her, for the sister he'd lost. But she wasn't that girl anymore. She wasn't Luna, and she didn't know how she could meet him, didn't know how she could put her broken self out there. What if she didn't live up to who he had in his mind? What if she wasn't enough? What if she fell short? Would he be disappointed that he'd spent so much time looking for her? Would he be frustrated and try to make her into someone else? And after all this time, would she be able to trust anyone on the outside? What did she even know about family? And what about Xander? What would she even say to him? If he was happy and settled, how could she ever destroy that?
As the self-sabotaging thoughts filled her mind, she closed her eyes and snapped the hair tie on her wrist.
It didn't work.
Thoughts and questions swirled in her head, drowning her, and she breathed through her mouth, trying to calm herself down.
It didn't work.
The phone in her hand vibrated, an unknown number calling. Focusing on her breathing, she picked up, staying silent.
There was silence on the other end.
She looked down to see if the call was still engaged, and put it back to her ear. There was a dark chuckle on the other end. Slightly creeped out, she bit her lip.
"Luna Caine," a man's deep voice, evil voice said over the line. "The bane of my existence for twenty years."
She gripped the phone in hand. "You've got the wrong number."
"No, little girl," the familiar voice spoke. "I've got the right number. Do you remember me?"
Her heart began to pound, old, old memories washing over her mind.
'Such a pretty little girl.'
She began to shake.
"I'm going to kill your lover, sweetheart," the evil voice told her. "The Shadow Man will die. Your brother will die. I've let you all live for too long. And then, when he is finished, I will take you for myself just like I did when you were younger. Do you remember?"
Bile rose in her stomach, climbing her throat. She swallowed it down, reminding herself she wasn't that scared little girl anymore, tat she was a grown woman, one who had just murdered one of her demons.
"Wrong number," she said, before hanging up the phone. She looked around the little place, noticing some people looking her way but unable to discern if it was dangerous. There were too many people.
She needed to get out.
Paying for the untouched order, she ran outside the shop and hailed a cab, giving him the name of the hotel.
As the city flew by, she closed her eyes, giving herself a moment of respite before everything crashed around her again.
Chapter twenty-sevenLyla
He was waiting for her when she entered the room, his elbows on his knees, his eyes on the door.
Looking at him, after the space she'd taken, everything she'd been holding together crumbled.
He was up and around her before she could blink, his arms holding her tight, his chest against her face, and she breathed him in, shaking, shivering, sobbing.
"I'm so mad at you," she told him between hiccups.
"I know, flamma," he spoke quietly, his words against her hair. "I know."
"And I'm mad that your plan worked," she grumbled into his chest.
He pressed a soft kiss to her head, before pulling back, pressing an even softer one to her lips. "I don't regret doing what I had to do for us to be here."
"Do you regret anything at all?" she asked him, their eyes locking together.
"I regret that you were hurt."
That was all. But she didn't know why she was surprised. She knew who he was, how he operated, how his system worked. Somehow, in the midst of his extreme and her extreme, they'd struck a balance—where he took from her what she gave and she took from him what he gave. She couldn't forget that. But she was still mad, and she needed him to be mad, to work this anger out of herself in some way.