Page 76 of Fool Moon First Aid

“Hello, Daddy,” I say, offering a kiss on his cheek in a gesture that feels more like a diplomatic obligation than a display of affection.

“Ava,” he replies, his voice detached, as if we’re actors reading from a script that’s lost its meaning.

Sebastian starts the car, and we’re off, navigating through the cityscape as the silence between us builds. Dad sits there, an enigma in his tailored suit, while I’m left wondering why we keep up this charade, dancing around the topics that should be at the forefront of our conversation. It’s a familiar routine, yet beneath the surface, questions and possibilities swirl, hinting at bridges yet to be built, paths yet to be explored.

The car slices through town like a knife through butter, heading toward the cookie-cutter kingdom, where mansions sprawl on manicured hills, each a mirror image of the next. They loom like giants, stripped of personality, a parade of wealth frozen in an endless loop of sameness.

“I expect you to be on your best behavior.” Dad’s voice cuts through the silence, as rigid and cold as the iron gates we pass. Bast turns onto a driveway that spirals up to a mansion that could be the twin of its neighbors, each a shrine to pristine white walls and sandblasted stone, devoid of any spark of life or color. My heart sinks. It’s as soulless as a mausoleum, and nothing like the home my guys put together.

Mine. The thought strikes me. When did I start thinking of them as mine?

I slowly swivel to face Dad, offering him a smile sharpened with a hint of defiance. “I often am,” I retort, my sass veiled under a thin layer of politeness. He doesn’t bite. He doesn’t even twitch. It’s like he’s been replaced by an automaton, all his human warmth siphoned off and leaving nothing but a shell, yet his ice-blue eyes flicker with unspoken thoughts. They are a stark contrast to his robotic exterior, whispering secrets and silent judgments that dance on the edge of my consciousness.

I realize I’ve been skirting around the truth of who my father really is, wrapping myself in a blanket of ignorance, but as Bast brings the car to a halt in front of the mansion, my stomach knots with anxiety, each flutter a prelude to the impending confrontation.

Bast exits the car with a precision that speaks of years of service, but instead of ushering us out, he pauses—an action so out of character, it sends my pulse racing. Dad turns to me then, his gaze sweeping over me with the chill of a winter’s dawn. “Ava,” he begins, his tone flat, “the Castellon family expects a certain level of decorum from you. Do you understand?”

Swallowing the fear that threatens to choke me, I nod in reply, reduced from a confident adult to a child. My compliance is automatic—a conditioned response to his authority.

“You will speak only when spoken to,” he dictates, as if I’m nothing more than a puppet in his hands. A tiny nod is all I can muster, my rebellion quashed under the weight of his expectations.

Then, something within me stirs—a fiery blend of anger and courage. “No,” I state, my voice trembling but determined. “I didn’t agree to be here. I didn’t agree to an arranged marriage. I’m here under duress because you threatened everything I love.” It’s a declaration of war, my words a defiant flag raised against the tyranny of tradition.

“Your agreement is irrelevant, Ava.” His response is alarming, a stark reminder of the power he wields. “You’re walking the path I laid out for you, just as your mother did before you.”

My mama? Anger swells inside of me. I hate him more in this moment that I ever have.

As Bast opens the door and Dad emerges with the grace of a predator, it hits me—the real danger isn’t the unknown or the paranormal beings I’ve faced. It’s the man who raised me, the one who believes he can sell me off, even though I’m an adult.

Frantically, I text Ethan—my last beacon of hope.

Me: Something’s wrong. Dad’s motives aren’t clear, and I think I’m walking into a trap.

Ethan: Get the fuck out of there.

Torn between the urge to flee and the desire to stand my ground, I hesitate.

Me: I need to tell him how I feel, and then I’m coming home.

Ethan: Just say the word, and I’ll kill anyone who dares to keep you from me.

Me: Keep your engine running.

I step out of the car, and it feels like I’m entering a lion’s den, with only my wit and a shred of hope as my armor. I hastily tuck my phone into the depths of my purse, clutching onto it as my secret hope for an emergency exit plan. Bast gives me a look, piercing and knowing, as if he’s read every secret thought I’ve ever had. It’s unsettling, this feeling of being exposed, as if he’s glanced into the shadows of my life.

With a grace that I muster up from who knows where, I place my hand in Bast’s. Despite the pain of my recent injuries and my period, I manage to step out of the car without a hint of instability. It’s a small victory, but given that my period is usually a three-day whirlwind, I’ll take any win I can get.

“One day down, two to go,” I mumble to myself.

Suddenly, the matron of the Castellon family materializes around the car, her presence announced by a high-pitched squeal that cuts through the evening air. “Oh, there she is!” Mrs. Castellon exclaims, her excitement palpable as her heels click a determined rhythm on the pavement. The matriarch of the Castellon empire is not at all what I expected. “Oh, aren’t you just a beauty?”

Her compliment, if it can be called that, earns a polite smile from me. Up close, Mrs. Castellon is…surprising. Her attempt at elegance is overshadowed by a style reminiscent of a bygone era, complete with bleached blonde hair and a jumpsuit that screams politician’s wife trying too hard. The blue eyeliner, a relic from the past, does her no favors.

Comparing my current state, complete with a broken ankle and crutches, to her meticulously curated appearance, I can’t help but feel like the embodiment of a hot mess express.

“Goodness, my Elijah is just going to adore you,” she proclaims, her voice reaching a pitch that almost qualifies as another squeal. Internally, I’ve already nicknamed her Miss Piggy, though that’s a thought I’ll guard closely. Expressing such a sentiment aloud isn’t in the cards. Well, maybe later.

Before I have a chance to stabilize myself with my crutches, she hooks her arm through mine, dragging me with her. My balance immediately teeters to the side, and her sudden movement nearly sends me sprawling—a tactical maneuver on her part, no doubt.

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