All Chapters of Forsaken Luna's Second Chance: Chapter 81 - Chapter 89

MAXWELLThere’s a strange kind of silence that follows you when the world thinks it already knows what choice you’re going to make.The palace is quiet tonight, despite the chaos brewing beneath its marble floors. Staff bustle behind the scenes. Tailors rush in and out of chambers with bolts of crimson silk and polished gold buttons. Floral arrangements are inspected. Musicians rehearse in the west wing. Everything is being prepared for tomorrow’s formal announcement.A royal union.My royal union.Everyone assumes the Dragon Princess will be the one standing beside me.They see the way she moves through the court—regal, poised, already slipping into the role with terrifying ease. They see how well our territories would align. How her family’s magic could bolster Silverfang’s reach. How her beauty and strength match the image of a Luna Queen.They say it would be perfect.And maybe it would be.If I didn’t already belong to someone else.I walk the corridors of the palace alone, traili

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

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

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