Page 2 of His Lost Lycan Luna

I nod, knowing how much she suffered. "More than my life," I repeat.

She knows exactly what I mean the second time I speak it. Those words mean more to us than any 'I love you' ever could.

“No, I won't allow it,” Abbie stammers, sucking in a breath. We have a pact, and she knows I will honor it no matter what.

“More than my life,” I tell her with finality.

Abbie wipes a stray tear and nods slowly, her bottom lip quivering as she looks at me.

"More than my life," she whispers finally before turning back to her task. Abbie says nothing more, and I suck in a shaky breath.

I finish stripping the beds and toss the sheets onto the pile on the floor. Abbie starts pulling back the heavy black drapes, cracking the windows open slightly and letting in the fresh air. It's cold this morning; the air brings in a frigid chill, but I know I'll be sweating by the time I'm done and welcoming that chilly draft.

Now that the bed linen is stripped, I start making the beds. The most challenging part is the top bunks. They can be a real bitch to get flat. Mrs. Daley doesn't like wrinkles in the bed linen, and she always checks while twisting her cane between her hands. She'll check each bed, looking for any reason to punish us while Abbie and I hold our breaths, waiting for the verdict; wrinkled sheets are a good enough reason for the cane she carries.

Heaven forbid she doesn't like something, or we do it wrong. I've lost count of the times my skin was welted by that cane or the thin whip wrapped around its handle. I will never forget the sting, and I have more scars on my back than bare skin from the lashings breaking the flesh when she would go too far.

“Pillows,” Abbie’s soft voice says behind me as I finish the last bed. Turning, she tosses them to me and I place them on each bed. We both look around nervously, ensuring no toys are forgotten and nothing is out of place, double checking the dark rugs are straight and the corners lie flat on the floor. We don’t have time to sweep, something I know Mrs. Daley will notice and make us pay for.

We still have five rooms and only two hours left before being called to the town square to learn our fate. We had both decided we would take the lashes for not cleaning; it would be better than showing up late to see the pack’s Alpha.

He is the one who decides what happens to us. This day has hung over our heads for eight long years, like a dark cloud threatening to rain down on us the closer it gets, and I know today it's going to pour down and drown us.

Rushing to the next room, we start all over again—the same routine every day. Once done here, we have to prepare sandwiches for the kids while praying to the Moon Goddess that we finish before 1 p.m. If we're late, I know he'll kill us. It's a great disrespect to the Alpha if you keep him waiting. The Alpha waits for no one, especially a lowly rogue.

By the time we finish, my arms feel like jelly and my legs burn, threatening to give out under me. Abbie clutches her knees, looking around at the sparsely furnished room. The fireplaces in the corner of each room provide the only heating, the windows the only cooling in this dreadful place. We both stare at the dust on them and sigh. The fireplaces create so much ash that settles on everything like yet another layer of dust, making our job even more problematic in the winter. There won't be enough time to tend to that.

At that point, Abbie is breathing hard, and we still have to make the lunches. Her green eyes stare at me knowingly; we're bound to be late. She knows as well as I do… today we will die. Her already pale face turns white as a sheet as she glances at the clock. We have forty-three minutes and over a hundred sandwiches to make for the resident children.

We hear the click of heels on the black, wooden floorboards heading in our direction. Straightening up, we flatten our aprons, fix our hair, and smooth down our long skirts. Just as we place our hands behind our backs, eyes straight ahead, she steps into the room. Her snakeskin stilettos are loud on the floor as she steps in with her round glasses perched on the end of her nose.

Mrs. Daley sneers at us, her lips pulling back over her teeth as she goes to each bed. With her trusty can in hand, she twists it in her fist before slapping it on her palm menacingly. Abbie’s eyes dart to me nervously. Her eagle eyes scan the room for anything out of place, looking for any excuse to punish us.

Her hair is pulled into a bun so tight on top of her head that it looks painful. Her high cheekbones and pointed, straight nose make her face crueler and sharper; she reminds me of a crow. She pushes her glasses up on her nose as she looks around.

Mrs. Daley is in her forties but looks more in her late fifties; the lines around her lips and deep wrinkles around her eyes give that impression.

We remain like statues, completely still except for our eyes scanning her every move.

She runs her fingers over the windowsill, and I see Abbie tense. My eyes flit toward it to see it covered in soot. Mrs. Daley clicks her tongue, holding her fingers up to show us. I swallow, my mouth going dry.

“What is this?” she questions, rubbing her fingers together. The ash falls to the floor and her eyes follow it. The kids had trekked dirt through the room, and she doesn't miss that as she glances down.

She purses her lips, which only makes her face wrinkle more.

“Who was supposed to do the windowsills?” she snaps at us, cracking the cane on her palm and lifting her chin.

Abbie raises her hand but says nothing. I can see the fear in her bright green eyes, tears already brimming.

“And the floors?”

I raise mine, my stomach sinking. I knew she wouldn’t miss it.

She points to Abbie with her cane. “You! You get three strikes, one for each windowsill.”

Abbie presses her lips together, holding out her hands palm down. Mrs. Daley shakes her head.

“Not good enough. We have important visitors today and I need to show them I don’t slack on discipline,” she says with venom in her voice. I watch as Abbie’s bottom lip trembles. The back is the worst because every move will sting for days.

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