Page 23 of Luna

And there is no way in hell I’ll be strong enough to escape him; I couldn’t fight back even if I wanted to.

I’m weak, and he knows it.

After all, he’s been watching me, hasn’t he?

How long for, I have no idea. Did it start after his first visit to the bookshop? Was I too friendly? Or was he following me before that?

He says he brought me here to protect me. But he also said he’d force me to stay if I tried to leave.

I bite my lower lip. I cannot cry. Not here, not now.

Think, Luna. Think.

I brace my hand on the door and stand up slowly. My body seems to preemptively hurt. I took my pills this morning; I shouldn’t be suffering this much already.

But I can’t just lie down and accept the fate Lucien has in store for me. I have to fight. For once in my life, I have to fight back. And if I can’t use my strength, I’ll have to use the one thing I do have: my brains.

He might be incredibly good looking. He might make my mind and my body race in a way that no one ever has, and I might feel like I can trust him.

But I learned a long time ago that I can’t trust my feelings.

My head is telling me to get out. So, that’s what I’m going to do.

I am not going to be the girl who convinces herself a vampire won’t hurt her just because he has a sexy smile or an intoxicating laugh or muscles for days.

I stand in the center of the room and examine my surroundings. A large four poster bed, which looks like something from a period drama. White, billowy drapes, deep red blankets, and pillows that are temptingly fluffy.

There are wooden floors, and a large rug.

Dark walls. It’s hard to tell exactly what color they are because the only light is candlelight, which, honestly, is a bit of a cliche.

Why couldn’t he have had a suave, modern, minimalist place? Polished concrete floors and expansive glass windows?

I turn around slowly, taking in all four walls.

There are no windows here. Not one. Just huge, ugly paintings. One of a polar bear, standing on its haunches, with a bright white light surrounding it.

A couple showing old fashioned portraits of people I assume are Thornfield’s relatives.

And a phoenix. A glittering, red and gold and orange phoenix.

This one intrigues me. It is in the same, old, gilded frame as the others. But it looks more modern. The brushstrokes are more liberal, more free. The paint thicker. I press my index finger to the canvas, half expecting Thornfield to appear behind me and tell me off for touching.

I am staring at the initials scrawled in the corner of the canvas, LT, when I notice a small freckle of light on the wall beside the frame.

I move sideways.

It’s more than a freckle.

It’s a long, thin sliver of light.

And it’s coming from behind the painting.

What time is it? Could it be sunrise already?

I stretch my arms wide, and grab hold of the side of the frame. It is huge, and thick, and heavy, and my arms are already straining with the effort of stretching so wide.

With every ounce of strength I possess, I groan loudly as I lift it up, freeing it from its hanging, then pull it away from the wall.