Page 8 of The Shadow Sanctum

“It was hard to watch you fight this evening… I hate to see you hurt.”

My eyes close. A sharp pain pierces my tongue as my canine digs a dent.

We’re pretending now. The bruises I knew he’d be sorry for are no longer his doing, but Alaric’s. Or mine.

Breathe slower.

“I know, Father… But the cause was worthy.”

“It sounded like you were challenging me.”

“No.” My head snaps toward him. “I could never challenge you. I was…” I relax my brow and let my head dip for a long moment, grateful for the strands of hair that fall. “I was trying to get your attention.”

I look him dead in the eyes and force my mouth to soften. Not too much. I am not an emotional creature, and he’s aware of that. But enough to stroke the ego he holds most dear. “I know I’ve been acting out, and I beg your forgiveness. I’ve just… I’ve been … lonely. Thorne is my mate, but he isn’t…”

“Me,” Father finishes.

I nod.

Father’s knee drags onto the couch as he twists to face me fully. “And I suppose Sawyer Hansley reminds you of me. The way Persephone reminded me of you.”

My stomach rolls, nausea lurching up my throat as my neck flushes.

Sawyer reminds me of no one.

No one but myself.

“Yes.”

His shoulders rise and fall before he looks off and combs fingers through his beard. My mouth feels dry, which is odd because I have the strong urge to spit.

“I’m sorry, my sweet.” He lets his hand lower only to raise it again to my shoulder.

He touches me softly, hesitantly, with one finger that he drags down my arm and back up again.

“I realize now that I’ve neglected you.”

“I forgive you, Father.” I hold perfectly still. It isn’t hard. My muscles seem to seize like they know what to do without my mind commanding them.

“Luna, my love… We’re alone. You don’t have to call me that.”

When his arm wraps around me and squeezes me to him, I close my eyes and hold my breath. His new scent is like a stamp on my brain. Frankincense. The smell of a man who fears aging.

He used to smell like wood polish and whiskey, just like his study. I think I hate frankincense even more.

I suck in when my lungs no longer humor my refusal for air, and I smell it again. Potent. Deep. Nauseating.

“Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.” The whispered words brush my temple, a gentle sweep that spreads tingles to my ears. Goosebumps down my arms.

He pulls back my hair so he can press his lips to my neck. I angle it for him but don’t open my eyes.

“I’ve missed you,” he goes on as he guides me back against the couch.

I swallow. When the rehearsed lines spill from my mouth, they’re as sweet as rotten fruit—and taste just the same.

“I’ve missed you too, Daddy.”