All Chapters of The Luna's Groom: Chapter 21 - Chapter 30

E L E A N O R It felt like the abyss I always fell into in my nightmares—endless, black, suffocating. A pit of despair with no light and no end. I let out a scream when my back slammed against the cold, damp ground—muddy, slimy, and worst of all, drowned in darkness. “See you outside, Eleanor,” Dolores’s voice echoes faintly from above, but my body’s already limp, drained of all energy from the fall. I close my eyes, trembling. I don’t want to sleep. I’m terrified that if I do, I won’t wake up. But deep down, I hope—desperately—that this ends tonight. That maybe, just maybe, it is just another nightmare. I could understand an ice bath. That would’ve been painful but logical in the twisted logic of their world. But locking me inside a dark, abandoned well? That crossed into a territory I couldn’t wrap my mind around. This wasn't like the training I endured at home. That was cruel, yes—but it had purpose. It was supposed to mold me. Here, every task felt like it was designed to dis

E L E A N O R Numbness. That’s what I think the body resorts to when it’s grown tired—no, exhausted—from bearing the weight of pain for too long. My eyes are far too drained to weep anymore, the tears dried up somewhere between yesterday’s heartache and today’s betrayal. My body has had enough of aching, and my heart? It’s bleeding—still bleeding—from the wounds carved by disloyalty. But beneath that torment, a fire burns: rage. Pure, sharp, unwavering rage. An overwhelming need to avenge all that had been done to me. Marina. She would pay the most. That sweet-tongued, double-faced traitor. A devil’s advocate cloaked in innocence, whispering loyalty while plotting ruin in silence. Waiting, lurking, for the perfect moment to strike. I hadn’t even processed what my father had chosen to do to me, hadn’t fully absorbed the weight of his betrayal, when Marina twisted the knife even deeper. Betrayal was a foreign agony to me until now—an ache I had read about in books, seen in stories,

E L E A N O R Perseus leads me to his room, the entire castle in chaos—shouts and hurried footsteps echo down the halls—but his expression remains stoic, thick with a rage that refuses to break. There is no trace of betrayal in his eyes, no sorrow, not even a flicker of pain. He is simply… angry. A raw, simmering anger. Instead of leaving me on the bed as I expected, he shuts the door behind us with a heavy thud, his movements deliberate. Without a word, he guides me toward the bathroom where a warm bath has already been drawn. The scent of lavender and the faint, soothing steam fills the room. As he sets me down on my feet, my legs wobble, too weak to support my own weight. His hands catch me, steadying me, and the warmth in his touch is oddly comforting. I lean into him, grateful for his support. A silence falls between us, heavy and thick. He doesn’t speak, doesn’t make a sound. I feel his breath against the nape of my neck, warm and unhurried. My pulse quickens, a flutter of

P E R S E U S I couldn't guarantee that I wouldn’t leave her again—not when the shattered pieces of Ravon’s Blade are still scattered across the Earth like cursed relics waiting to be found. My duty demanded my loyalty, my blood, and often, my absence. But my wife... my wife needed me. And I wasn’t there. Guilt had wrapped its hands around my throat the moment I found out she was in danger—getting hurt—and I hadn’t known. I hadn’t felt it. The silence between our bond had never been louder than in that moment. I had barely crossed the castle gates when a maid collapsed at my feet, her body trembling and her eyes wild. “My name is Anna,” she gasped between sobs, clutching at my trousers. “Thank the stars you’re here. I was going to get help. They’ll kill her—your wife—they’ll kill her if you don’t do something.” I had doubted Beersheba partially, until I heard the screams. The kind that shattered glass and clawed at your bones. They reverberated through the entire palace, thick wi

E L E A N O R I sit on the edge of the bed after placing the tray carefully on the bedside table, the silence in the room wrapping itself around me like a heavy cloak, forcing me to face my thoughts. He’s here. Not a figment of some fleeting dream I’d jolt awake from, not a cruel flicker of memory my heart replays just to torment me—he’s here. Perseus is lying on the bed, barely a foot away, asleep on his back, his breathing calm and rhythmic. He looks so at peace, almost boyishly innocent, nothing like the man who’d painted the night red just hours ago. I’m tempted: so tempted to reach out and tuck a few stray strands of hair behind his ear. But I bite down on my lower lip, forcing myself to stay still. My fingers graze over my lips instead, recalling how his had felt against mine. That kiss. The way it had ignited something deep within me. The kind of kiss that makes your stomach flutter and twist with hunger. Hunger for more. More of him. The only man I’ve ever kissed before th