The Sacred Luna

Chapter 6

(Sanya's POV)

Tara Stone summons me an hour later.

I follow another servant—this one male, older, equally terrified—through hallways that all look the same. Portraits of dead Alphas watch my passage with judging eyes.

The kitchen is massive. All steel and stone, with servants bustling around like ants in a hive. They all stop when I enter, heads bowing in unison.

"Luna," they murmur.

The title still sounds wrong.

Tara stands at the center island, perfectly groomed even this early in the morning. Beside her: Marcus, silent and disapproving as ever. John, avoiding my eyes. Mira, smirking.

And Tyron. Leaning against the counter with his arms crossed, watching me with those calculating ice-blue eyes.

"Sanya." Tara's smile doesn't reach her eyes. "How lovely. I trust you slept well?"

"Yes, thank you."

"Wonderful." She gestures to the kitchen around us. "As the new Luna, you must prove yourself to the pack. It's tradition. Your first duty will be to prepare a dessert for everyone to taste."

Okay. I can do that. I'm a good cook—my mother taught me before she died.

"What kind of dessert?"

"Surprise us." Tara's smile sharpens. "But it must contain sesame and coconut. And you have one hour."

My heart sinks.

Sesame is fine. Easy to find.

But coconut? Fresh coconut?

"Mrs. Stone—"

"Tara, dear. We're family."

"Tara." The name tastes bitter. "Coconuts aren't in season. To get fresh ones, I'd have to drive to the human city. That's thirty minutes each way. I couldn't possibly—"

"Oh dear." She presses her hand to her chest in mock concern. "Is it too difficult? Should we give you something easier? Perhaps just coffee and toast?"

Mira snickers. John shifts uncomfortably.

Tyron watches in silence.

This is a test. Designed for me to fail. To humiliate me in front of the whole family.

Everyone knows it's impossible.

I open my mouth to argue, to explain that this isn't fair—

Then I remember.

My belongings. The boxes I packed for my life with Aaron. The ones currently sitting in storage somewhere in this massive house.

Aaron had insisted on packing certain things himself. Food supplies, he'd said. For our journey. For our new start.

He'd packed coconut.

I know he did. I watched him add the bag to our supplies, laughing when I asked why we needed shaved coconut of all things.

"You never know when you'll need it," he'd said, kissing my forehead. "Trust me."

Hope flickers in my chest.

"One hour is fine," I hear myself say.

Tara's eyebrows rise. "Really? You think you can manage?"

"Yes."

"Very well." She gestures to the servants. "Show the Luna to the supplies. And someone fetch her belongings from storage. She may have... personal items she needs."

The way she says personal items makes it clear she thinks I'm being foolish.

"One hour, dear," Tara calls sweetly as I turn to leave. "The clock is ticking."

I don't look back. Don't let them see the fear crawling up my spine.

But as I walk toward the storage room, I pray.

Please, Aaron. Please let it be there.

I run through the hallways, my new dress swishing around my legs, heart hammering so hard I can feel it in my throat. A servant guides me to the storage room—a massive space filled with boxes, furniture, belongings from a life I'll never live.

"Your things are here, Luna." He gestures to a corner stacked with boxes I recognize. My handwriting on the labels. My life, reduced to cardboard containers.

"Thank you." I'm already moving before he's gone, tearing into the box marked "Kitchen Supplies."

Please. Please be here.

My hands shake as I dig through bags of flour, sugar, spices Aaron insisted we'd need. He'd been so careful, planning every detail of our new life together. Our first meals, he'd said. Our first home-cooked dinner as a couple.

"Trust me," his voice echoes in my memory. That gentle smile. Those warm eyes. "I know what you'll need."

And there, at the bottom of the box, wrapped carefully in cloth—

Shaved coconut. Fresh, perfectly preserved.

A sob catches in my throat. He knew. Somehow, he knew.

Or maybe it's just luck. Coincidence. The universe's cruel joke.

But my hands close around the package like a lifeline, and for just a moment, I let myself pretend Aaron packed this knowing exactly what I'd face. That even now, even absent, he's still taking care of me.

The fantasy lasts three seconds before reality crashes back.

Fifty-four minutes left.

I grab the coconut and run.

The kitchen is chaos.

Servants rush around, preparing lunch for the family, cleaning from breakfast, managing a household that runs like a military operation. They all stop when I burst through the door, coconut clutched to my chest.

"The Luna needs space," one of them announces. An older woman with kind eyes and flour on her apron. "Everyone out."

"Sofia, we have lunch—"

"Out." Her voice carries authority despite her rank. "The Luna has one hour. Let her work."

They file out, some curious, some resentful. I catch whispers as they go.

"She'll never make it."

"Poor thing. The Mistress set her up to fail."

"Just like the last one."

The last one. The first wife who disappeared.

I shove the thought away. Focus. Fifty-two minutes.

My hands move automatically, reaching for ingredients I know by heart. This dessert—I've made it a hundred times. For Aaron, mostly. His favorite.

"More coconut, less sugar," he'd say, stealing tastes while I cooked. "I love tasting the natural sweetness."

The memory makes my eyes burn.

I crack eggs, measure flour, toast sesame seeds until they're golden and fragrant. The motions are muscle memory. Comfort, even here in this nightmare.

Sofia lingers by the door, watching.

"You know what you're doing," she observes.

"My mother taught me." I don't look up, focused on whisking egg whites to stiff peaks. "Before she died."

"She taught you well."

There's something in her tone. Approval? Pity? I can't tell.

The coconut smells like Aaron's kitchen. Like Sunday mornings and his laugh and the way he'd kiss my flour-dusted nose.

I blink hard. Tears will ruin the meringue.

Where are you, Aaron? Why did you pack these if you weren't coming?

The question circles endlessly, wearing grooves in my thoughts.

I fold the coconut into the batter with careful precision. Too much and it's overpowering. Too little and the flavor disappears. Aaron taught me that, actually. He'd experimented for weeks to get the ratio perfect.

The bitter irony isn't lost on me. His preparation saves me in the marriage he was supposed to save me from.

Forty minutes left. The dessert goes into the oven.

Now I wait.

Sofia hands me a cup of tea without asking. "Drink. You look pale."

"Thank you."

She studies me with eyes that have seen too much. "The Mistress won't be happy you succeeded."

"I know."

"She wanted you to fail. Wanted to humiliate you in front of the family."

"I know," I say again.

"And you'll succeed anyway?"

I meet her gaze. "Yes."

Something shifts in her expression. Respect, maybe. Or recognition.

"Good," she says quietly. "Don't let them break you. The ones who survive here are the ones who fight back."

"Is that what the first wife did?" The question slips out before I can stop it. "Fight back?"

Sofia's face closes. "I've said too much already."

She leaves me alone with my tea and the smell of coconut baking.

Thirty minutes. Twenty. Ten.

The timer goes off at exactly fifty-five minutes.

Perfect timing. Five minutes to plate and present.

I pull the dessert from the oven and the scent fills the kitchen—sweet, nutty, exactly right. For one moment, I let myself feel proud.

Then I remember who I'm serving this to, and the pride curdles.