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Chapter Four: Running From Shadows
Luna scrubbed the restroom tiles so hard her fingers went raw. Every corner, every crack—cleaned until it gleamed.
It had been three days since that moment in the CEO's office.
She hadn't seen him since. No strange orders. No messages. No suspicious glances from staff. Maybe he'd already forgotten. Maybe he'd dismissed her as just another disposable girl.
That would be best.
She couldn't afford attention—especially not from someone like him.
Not when her stepmother was waiting at home with a list of fresh insults and new chores. Not when her brothers whispered behind closed doors about selling her mother's old jewelry. Not when the attic window leaked and her coat had holes.
Luna didn't need kindness.
Kindness cost too much.
But even as she tried to focus, she felt it—like eyes on her back, like heat in the air. That strange, primal pull still lingered in her bones.
She didn't believe in magic.
Didn't believe in fate.
But something had shifted.
And it terrified her.
---
Elsewhere in Valemont Tower…
Damian stalked down the corridor of the 49th floor, tie loose, temper tighter. His assistants scrambled to keep up, bombarding him with questions he didn't care to answer.
"Tell the board I'll review the merger after I return from Romania," he said sharply. "And reschedule the charity gala."
"Yes, Mr. Nightborne."
He paused at the turn—his eyes flicked to the janitor closet.
Her scent was faint. Fading. But unmistakable.
His jaw clenched.
He should stay away. She was human. Weak. Fragile. Too soft for a world like his.
And yet…
Every time he closed his eyes, he saw her face. Not just the beauty of it—there was that, yes—but the wound in her gaze. The quiet kind. The kind he recognized.
He had seen it in the mirror.
We don't need her, he told himself. She's not ready. She'll fear you.
But the wolf didn't care.
The wolf wanted her.
---
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Later that night...
The house was too quiet when Luna returned that night.
She opened the door slowly, bracing herself. The air smelled of cheap wine and cigarette smoke. The television blared from the living room where her brothers sat lazily, feet on the table, eyes half-closed.
No one looked at her.
Not until Miranda emerged from the kitchen, a half-empty bottle in hand, her painted lips twisted into a sneer.
"Well, look who finally dragged herself home."
Luna didn't answer. She set down her bag and headed for the attic stairs.
"Excuse me?" Miranda said sharply. "You think you're too good to speak now? Maybe you should stop stealing my food and start earning more, you useless little—"
"I worked a double shift," Luna murmured without turning around. "I'm tired."
Miranda moved fast—suddenly in front of her, blocking the stairs. "Tired? Oh, poor thing. You think you're the only one tired in this house?"
One of the boys chuckled from the couch.
"You know what's tiring?" Miranda hissed. "Feeding a stray mutt who eats our food and brings in crumbs for a paycheck."
Luna gripped the railing. "You take my wages. Every week."
"What did you just say?" Miranda's voice rose sharply.
Luna's chest heaved, fury catching in her throat. But before she could reply, Miranda raised her hand—slap!
The sound cracked through the room. Luna stumbled into the wall, cheek burning.
"Go on then!" Miranda snapped. "Run up to your rat nest. Be grateful I let you breathe under this roof."
Luna didn't speak.
Didn't cry.
She simply climbed the stairs in silence, her hand trembling against the banister. In the attic, she collapsed onto her mattress. Her cheek throbbed, but she barely noticed.
Her soul hurt more than her skin.
And yet, even now… even in this cold darkness…
Her thoughts drifted to amber eyes.
To the way he looked at her like she mattered.
To the quiet moment of being seen.
She hated herself for remembering it.
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