Page 2 of The Shadow Sanctum

When I open the door, my mind is not surprised by the smoky wood, but my stomach… clenches. As if struck.

With a blink, I form a crack between my lips and breathe through my mouth.

“I apologize for the smell,” I say, though I seriously doubt Mr. Sanchez finds it unpleasant or has any idea what I’m talking about. “I had someone prepare your room, but the previous guest was a bit of a slob… I’ll have it disinfected right away.”

“That’s not necessary.” Mr. Sanchez slides past me and tucks his hands in his pockets while he wanders the room, chin arching this way and that while he takes it in. I try to see it through his eyes—bars on the window, rickety bed, a scuffed table. The newly stained ring on the nightstand probably goes unnoticed, but for whatever reason, it holds my gaze.

“How recently did the previous guest depart?”

As though I needed his voice to grant permission, I break from the stain and turn to Sanchez. His head is tilted, body leaned forward to peer beneath the table at an abandoned sock. It wouldn’t be Sawyer’s room if it wasn’t disheveled.

It isn’t Sawyer’s room.

I crouch by Sanchez’s shins and retrieve the sock.

Enough of the comparisons.

“Forgive me for being forward, but… Are guests allowed to have women in their rooms?”

I nearly crash my head on the table. “Pardon?”

“Women,” he says as if that’s a clarification. The bed squeaks as he sits on the edge, and he looks down at the noisy mattress as if to scold it.

“This room is temporary. By the time you find a mate, I assure you, you’ll be plenty comfortable in your own⁠—”

“Of course.” He smiles to soften the interruption. “I’m not referring to long term arrangements. I was under the impression that you had um…” He looks up as if thinking of a word. My chest deflates when I realize what that word is.

Slaves.

“Seraphs? Is that what they’re called?”

I turn away before my face screws into something resembling disappointment. A pointless effort. Wasted on a man so vile, women’s emotions must hardly register anyway.

Cotton scraping beneath my thumb brings my attention to the sock. I didn’t even realize I was rubbing it.

I try not to think of him.

But there’s his voice: It’s a trafficking ring, Luna.

“Do you have a preference for physical attributes?” I ask because… Because there’s millions of dollars at stake, and Father’s trust for me has been slaughtered. Without it, I can achieve nothing.

“Yes… I prefer an athletic build. Brown hair. Tan skin… I also like a little bit of sass, if you have that.”

A man who knows what he wants. Charming.

My mouth opens, but a tiny screw slotted between two floorboards jumbles my thoughts. It’s hidden beneath the table, there for who knows how long. I scrape it free with my nail and give a sharp search for its home, but...

Where does it go? What is its purpose?

Nothing. It’s a loose screw. Trash. It doesn’t matter—its function is negligible, this room is intact, the table is standing. And yet, awareness of my heart sharpens. Moments ago, it was invisible. Now, it’s in my ears. It thumps against my chest.

Father’s voice: Don’t be dramatic.

“Do you have anyone like that?” Mr. Sanchez asks. I don’t even remember what he requested.

It has to have come from the table.

I crawl beneath the laminate and search the metal joints, but everything looks in place.