Chapter 2

"Keep moving, Lumina. Just one more step," she whispered to herself. Her breath came in ragged gasps that felt like hot coal in her throat.

The forest was dark, but the voices in her head were much louder than the wind. He rejected you, Lumina. He threw you away like trash. You are nothing but a common healer with dirty hands. "Shut up," she growled, her knees buckling as she hit the edge of the highway. "I am not nothing. I am more than he will ever be."

Each step toward the flickering neon sign of the motel felt like a knife twisting in her chest. This wasn't just a broken heart; it was the rejection sickness. It was a physical poison that worked its way through the blood of werewolves who lost their fated bond.

"You knew," the voice in her head hissed. "You knew something was wrong when he wouldn't look at you. You just didn't want to see it."

"I said shut up," she growled again, louder this time. A passing car slowed down briefly, the driver peering at the woman talking to herself on the side of the road. Lumina didn't care. She kept walking.

She pushed open the heavy glass door of the lobby. It smelled of old cigarettes and wood rot. Lumina leaned her weight against the counter, her skin cold and covered in a sickly sweat.

The clerk didn't look up from his small TV until she slapped two wrinkled twenty-dollar bills on the wood. He looked at the money, then up at her face. His eyes went wide.

"Miss? You look like you're about to fall over," the man said, standing up. "Are you in trouble? Do you need me to call your pack? Your Alpha?"

"No," Lumina wheezed, her voice sounding like it had been scraped with sandpaper. "I'm alone. Just give me the room key. Now."

"I can call an ambulance," the man offered, his hand hovering over a desk phone. "You're shaking like you've got the palsy. I don't want someone dying in my rooms."

"I said no!" she snapped, her eyes flashing a dangerous gold for a split second. "I don't need a doctor. I don't need an Alpha. I just need a bed and a door that locks. Do you want the money or not?"

The man hurried to hand over the tarnished key. "Room 104. End of the hall on the left. Just... try not to make a mess, miss."

"There's a vending machine at the end of the hall," he added quietly as she turned away. "In case you haven't eaten."

Lumina paused. Her stomach was completely empty. She couldn't remember the last time she had eaten. "Thank you," she said, and she meant it, even though the word felt strange in her mouth right now.

She dragged herself down the hall, her body convulsing with every step. She barely made it inside the room before falling onto the thin, scratchy bedspread. The fever hit her like a tidal wave, making her blood feel like it was boiling in her veins.

"Please," she choked out into the dark. "Moon Goddess, if you're listening... please make it stop."

Silence.

"Of course," she rasped, closing her eyes. "Of course you're not listening. You're the one who put me in that courtyard in the first place."

She fell into a dark, heavy sleep, but the nightmares followed her there, too. She was back on that stone platform. She saw Ethan laughing as he draped a Luna's cloak over Morgana's shoulders. The crowd was cheering, their faces twisted into masks that mocked her.

Lumina woke up screaming, her throat raw and her chest heaving. The room was freezing, but she was soaked in sweat. The self-loathing was a physical weight on her lungs, making it hard to take a full breath.

"I could go back," she whispered into the shadows, the thought creeping in like a snake. "I could crawl to the Riverside pack house. I could beg for a place in the kitchens or the laundry. I could tell Ethan I was sorry for making a scene. If I'm just near the bond... the pain will stop."

She stared at the ceiling for a long minute, watching the shadow of the ceiling fan spin.

"Go back," the broken part of her whispered. "Just go back. The pain stops if you go back."

"And then what?" she asked the ceiling. "Then I spend the rest of my life watching him build a life with her? Watching her wear the title that should have been mine? Watching him look through me like I'm made of glass?"

Then, she bared her teeth in a snarl.

"No. I am not a beggar," she told the empty room. "I won't go back. I won't beg that coward for anything. I'd rather die in this motel room than live as his shadow."

She was a healer. She had saved so many lives, pulling people back from the very edge of death. Now, she had to save herself. She closed her eyes and reached for the spark of her power. It was hard to find through the layers of grief and black ice, but she pushed her energy into her shattered chest.

"Heal," she commanded her own body. "Knit the wound. Fight the poison. Survive."

"You can do this," she added through gritted teeth. "You have done harder things. You pulled old Mr. Fenwick back from the edge of death with nothing but your hands and your will. You can heal a broken bond. You can survive this. Heal."

She stayed in that room for seven long days. Every hour was a battle against the darkness. Whenever she felt like giving up, she would picture Ethan's arrogant face and Morgana's cruel laugh. That anger became her fuel.

On the third day, she dragged herself to the vending machine and bought crackers with coins she found at the bottom of her bag. She sat on the floor of the hallway and ate them one by one, staring at the wall.

"One day at a time," she told herself between bites. "Just one day."

On the fifth day, the clerk knocked on her door. "Miss? Just checking you're still alive in there."

"Still alive," she called back, her voice steadier than it had been in days. "Unfortunately."

"That's the spirit," he said through the door, and she heard him walk away, chuckling softly.

On the seventh morning, the fever finally vanished. Lumina stood in front of the small bathroom mirror and splashed cold water on her face. She looked like a ghost, her skin was sallow, and her eyes were bloodshot, but her gaze was hard as flint.

"Lumina Cole is dead," she told her reflection. "That girl who waited for a boy to love her is gone. I won't be a pity project in Riverside. I'll go where no one knows my name."

She picked up her phone from the bedside table. The lock screen was a photo of her and Ethan at the summer bonfire. They were both laughing, and his arm was wrapped around her waist.

"You don't exist anymore," she said to the screen.

She hit the delete button. Then she found his contact information. Block. Delete. She did the same for every person from the pack who hadn't stood up for her.

"Gone," she whispered with each one. "Gone. Gone. Gone."

She took a stack of physical photos from her bag and sat on the floor by the metal trash can. She struck a match and watched the flames take Ethan's face.

"Goodbye, Ethan," she murmured as the paper turned to black ash. "I hope the silk you chose feels like thorns on your skin. I hope your wedding wine tastes like ash in your mouth."

She watched the last photo curl and blacken. "And I hope," she added quietly, "that every time you close your eyes, you remember exactly what you threw away."

She counted her money. Eighty-three dollars left.

"It's enough for a bus ticket," she said, standing up straight. The dizziness was mostly gone. "Crestwood. It's a big city. I can hide there. I can be Lumina the Healer. Not Lumina the Rejected."

An hour later, she stood at the dusty bus stop outside the motel. Her body still ached, but the despair had been replaced by a grim determination. A large Greyhound bus pulled up with the destination sign flickering: CRESTWOOD.

"One way, miss?" the driver asked as she climbed the steps.

"One way," Lumina replied. She didn't look back as she handed over her cash.

She took a seat at the very back and pressed her forehead against the cool glass of the window. As the bus hissed and pulled away from the curb, she watched the forest disappear into the distance. She was leaving the broken girl behind. She was ready to rebuild herself, stone by stone.

If only she knew what awaited her in her new beginning, maybe she would have made a different decision.