Page 70 of Of Shadow and Moon

“Barely.” I grit out, my voice hoarse, a mere whisper, as if someone has dragged it over bits of broken glass. My throat is tight, my mouth dry, and I attempt to raise myself up, but she lays a cool hand on my shoulder and presses me back.

I let myself sink back into the bed. The exhaustion clawing at me, making it hard to resist. My gaze drops to her hands as she binds the wounds on my arms with ease; each touch is carefully made. There's no anger in her eyes anymore, just a quiet intensity that makes my chest ache in a way I don't quite know how to explain.

For a long time, neither of us says anything, the silence stretching between us, filled with all that has been left unsaid. I close my eyes then, wondering if I have made a mistake, if revealing who I am will only bring more pain. But deep down, I know I had little choice. It was this or die in the cold, alone, with my secrets buried with me. For the first time, I didn't want that. I wanted someone to know, someone to understand.

“How long?” Nasarea's voice cuts through my thoughts, soft but laced with something I can't quite place. Her hands still, resting gently on my arm as she looks at me, her gaze unwavering. “How long have you been…” She gestures with her hand in an up and down motion towards me.

I hesitate, the weight of the truth heavy, but there's no point in hiding anymore. She's seen the truth. “Since I started having a memory,” I confess in barely more than a whisper. “I've been killing since I was old enough to hold a blade. Honestly, since I've had my first memory, I have been the property of Alexander Joaquin de la Cruz.”

Her face doesn't change, but in her eyes, there's aglimpse of…something. Sadness, maybe, or understanding. She starts working again, and her hands move with a silent grace. I feel a welling wonder of relief, as if the confession has taken some burden off me that I wasn't even aware I was carrying.

“Did you ever… did you ever want to stop?” she asks, her voice timid.

I swallow. “I never wanted to start, Nasarea,” I say, my gaze dropping to the floor. “This life was chosen for me before I could understand what it meant. Every mission, every death… it's what Alexander expects of me.”

She nods, a silent understanding falling like a veil over her features and I suddenly know she, too, has been sculpted by forces beyond her control, pressed into the mold of a life unwanted. Once again, I see the pain reflected in her eyes that mirror my own, a shared understanding.

“I know you didn't kill my mother, Selestina,” she says in a low tone. Her expression is a reflection of her words, a sadness mixed with a resolution dancing in her eyes.

A sad smile tugs at my lips, hesitant, as if it might shatter under the weight of her gaze. Relief consumes me.

In her eyes, I find a truth that I've been desperate to believe?that I am not beyond redemption, that maybe there is something more to me than the blood on my hands.

Her hands move to my side, gently tending to the wound there. I bite back a wince, the pain radiating throughout my body. She looks up, her eyes searching mine. “Your secret is safe with me,” she says quietly, her voice steady. “Whatever you've done, whatever you are… I won't betray you.”

A lump forms in my throat, the relief almost overwhelming. “Thank you,” I whisper. I try to keep my mask in place, but I know I can’t hide my relief.

She nods softly. The fire crackles beside us.

We sit in silence, the fire dancing across the walls with gentle shadows, and for one brief moment, I let myself believe there can be a future beyond Alexander, a life where I am more than the Shadow Reaper.

Chapter 40

Selestina

Iwent the rest of the night, in and out of sleep. I don’t even remember the moments that I was awake.

I wake and the room is quiet.

Nasarea's still sleeping across from me. I slide out from under the covers quietly, my feet touching the cold floor. In the little mirror by the wardrobe, I catch a glimpse of my reflection and wince. A dark bruise splashes across my cheekbone from when my face caught my fall, a reminder of last night's encounter. Other bruises line my arms and disappear under my shirt, a map of where each blow landed.

Breakfast is out of the question. The last thing I need is to go into the dining hall and have every pair of eyes turn to me, the whispers creeping up when they notice the marks. I slide my things together, toss a dark cloak over my shoulder, and head out early to class, crossing my fingers that the halls will still be relatively empty.

By the time I get to Magical Theory, the room is just starting to fill, the low hum of conversation a blanket of sound easy to slip into.

I slide into a seat at the back and hope that from here, I can blend into the dim edges of the classroom. Every bruise and ache begs me to lean back, to shut my eyes and sleep for ten days straight.

But even the faintest hope of hiding is shattered as the door opens, filling the room with an abrupt silence. I don't have to look to know who it is.

I feel him, and I know that scent.

Against my better judgment, I look up, meeting Nazriel's gaze. His eyes lock onto mine instantly, fierce and unforgiving, and for a heartbeat, he's utterly still, his expression inscrutable. Then his gaze sharpens, moving over my face, tracing the edges of bruises and scrapes as his features harden. I watch his jaw clench, his fists curling at his sides, the anger bursting from him in tangible waves.

He does not stop at the edge of the room. Nazriel strides towards me. Each step is an act of will, as though some compulsion born from that anger carries him forward. His gaze doesn't break; he watches me like he’s afraid he will lose me by the time he walks over here.

As he makes his last step towards me, I can feel the weight of the whole class staring at us, whispers dying down like they could sense the air was thick with tension around him, fire coiled tight in his eyes. He comes to a stop inches away, his heat radiating to mine while his eyes bore brazenly into my skin, almost making me flinch.

“Who. The. Fuck. Did. This. To. You?” he growls out in a low, guttural tone, every word a harsh demand.

---