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Chapter 77: Prince Caius
Last Updated:
2025-06-09 14:02:04
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Forsaken Luna's Second Chance Chapter 89: I’m fine
BEATRICEThere’s no clock in the kitchen, but my body keeps its own—marked in burns, blisters, and the ache of forgetting what rest feels like.The banquet is three days away, but it may as well be tomorrow. Orders keep piling on like an avalanche—cakes with spun sugar towers, fruit tarts so delicate they collapse at the wrong breath, ceremonial pastries shaped like the Lycan crest. I’ve been here since before sunrise. I won’t leave until the stars are high.The oven heat clings to me like second skin. My arms are powdered with flour, my apron stiff with sweat. I don’t remember the last time I sat down. The back of my neck is damp. My knees are buckling every time I bend down to check on another tray, and I bite my cheek to stay grounded.It’s always the same rhythm—mix, shape, bake, cool, repeat.One mistake means starting over. One crack in a sugar shell means someone like me takes the blame.And someone like me can’t afford to mess up.I barely register the pain when it happens.A s
Forsaken Luna's Second Chance Chapter 88: Dream
MAXWELLShe reaches for me in every dream, and every time, I wake up before I can catch her hand.It’s always the same—Beatrice standing in the woods, her back to me, moonlight outlining her hair like a halo. I call her name. She turns. Smiles.Then she disappears into mist before I can move.I wake up choking on air, fists clenched, sheets tangled around my legs. My heart is racing like I’ve just run through the woods in wolf form. The scent of her always lingers for a moment—rosewater and flour—and then it’s gone, just like her.I’ve had this dream three nights in a row now.My wolf’s getting louder. He doesn’t understand patience, or boundaries. He only knows that Beatrice is ours and that we are failing her by pretending otherwise.I drag myself out of bed before sunrise. Training doesn’t help anymore. Even sparring feels dull. Every report, every meeting, every patrol feels like noise. All I can think about is her.And the way she looked last time I saw her—gaunt. Pale. Still smil
Forsaken Luna's Second Chance Chapter 87: She’s too tired
BAILEYThe coin is small, scratched at the edges, and still the most powerful thing I’ve ever held in my hand.I don’t cry when he gives it to me. Not even a little.Leo thanks me with this look in his eyes like I saved his whole world instead of just walking him home. His dad’s coin is real silver—not polished or fancy, but heavy, cold, and mine. He presses it into my palm like he’s scared I’ll refuse it. I don’t. I close my fingers around it and nod once, already feeling something shift inside my chest.I’ve scraped my knees three times this week. Took a hit to the ribs that still makes it hard to breathe when I run. I’ve told two lies a day, minimum, to keep Mom from finding out. And yet, none of that matters. Because this coin, this tiny scratched-up thing, means I did something real. Something that helped.It means I can give something back.I clutch the coin in my pocket all the way to the market. I could use it for food, maybe a better jacket for winter—but I already know what I
Forsaken Luna's Second Chance Chapter 86: You want to quit?
BEATRICESome cages don’t come with locks—they’re built with guilt, debt, and the sound of your name said like a burden.I don’t want to do this. Every cell in my body fights the words before I say them, but I’m already standing outside his office, hands damp with nerves, trying to steady my breathing. My shoulder throbs from yesterday’s double shift, and I’m still not fully recovered from collapsing last week. I can’t keep pretending my body’s invincible.I knock twice, gently, like I’m hoping he won’t answer.He does. “Come in, Beatrice.”His voice is always soft when he uses my name, like syrup coating poison.I step inside. His office smells like cigar smoke and old sugar. The windows are always closed, even when the kitchen feels like a furnace. He’s seated behind his desk, papers scattered in front of him, his tie half-loosened like he’s been so busy he didn’t have time to finish dressing this morning. It’s all part of the performance.He looks up, smiles like I’m his favorite em
Forsaken Luna's Second Chance Chapter 85: She isn’t mine
MAXWELLI’m buried in reports when Aria enters without knocking. She never knocks. Normally I’d snap at someone for that, but she’s not just anyone—and the look on her face makes me sit up straighter.“It’s Beatrice,” she says, dropping the name like a stone into still water.My pen stills mid-signature.“What happened?” My voice comes out lower than I mean it to, already threaded with the edge of something sharp. My wolf stirs, alert, pushing closer to the surface.“She fainted this morning,” Aria says. “At the bakery. Collapsed in front of the ovens. They said it took minutes to wake her.”Fainted?I push my chair back slowly, gripping the armrests to keep from exploding out of it. “Why wasn’t I told immediately?”“I came straight here,” she replies, calm. “But she was adamant you not be involved. Swore she was fine.”Of course she did.That woman would probably still insist she’s fine while dragging her own broken leg across a battlefield.My chest tightens. Not from anger. From som
Forsaken Luna's Second Chance Chapter 84: I'm fine
BEATRICEThe heat from the ovens isn’t what makes me dizzy—it’s the silence I’ve learned to endure just to survive.I’ve been up since before the sun. My knees ache from standing, kneeling, standing again. The dough is stubborn today—too dry, too dense—but I keep pushing through it like I always do. I lost count of how many trays I’ve filled, how many hours I’ve gone without water. Doesn’t matter. The real currency here isn’t time. It’s obedience.The bakery smells like cinnamon and melted butter and burnt sugar. The other workers keep their heads down. They don’t speak to me unless they have to. I’ve learned it’s better that way. Less chance for rumors to spread. Less chance they’ll notice how I wince every time I move my right shoulder.I’m on my knees again, elbows deep in flour, scraping dough off the floor because someone dropped a tray and blamed it on me. I don’t argue. I haven’t argued in months. I can’t afford the attention, and I sure as hell can’t afford to lose this job.My
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