Chapter 3 — THE GIRL WHO SMELLS LIKE THE FULL MOON (1)

The next day, Luna sits in the most expensive café in Blackmoon City, across from the gold-rimmed glasses of the Cross Family Foundation.

His name is Eliot Cross. He introduces himself in a warm, unhurried voice, and he smiles like the host of a late-night interview show — the kind who makes you forget he's interviewing you until halfway through. He knows her foster family. He knows her tuition gap to the dollar. He knows how many cafeteria vouchers she used last week. He knows about the crescent mark on the inside of her left wrist.

"You're very observant." Luna smiles her polite smile. "I thought you only cared about my bank account."

"I care about all of you, Luna." Eliot slides a latte across the table. His fingertip traces the rim of the cup, slow, deliberate. "Your file is the most fascinating one I've ever read."

"Does my file mention I'm O-negative?"

Eliot's smile deepens. "It mentions you're worth considerably more than that."

He pushes a contract across the table. The terms get more ridiculous with every line: full tuition. A penthouse in Blackmoon City's best tower. A private driver. And, buried halfway down: Party B agrees to cooperate with Party A in periodic health examinations and blood sample collection.

Luna reads the whole thing like a woman reviewing a lease she's been burned by before. Her inner annotation runs as she turns the pages: full tuition — sure. penthouse — that's called kidnapping with a nicer font. private driver — oh, flattering. health examinations — absolutely not. blood sample collection — congratulations, you played yourself.

She reaches the last page, closes the contract, and slides it back across the table with her polite smile intact.

"You can have my blood, but never my obedience."

Eliot's smile pauses — half a second, a hairline crack in the porcelain — and then he laughs, delighted, like she's just told him the best joke he's heard all year. "Interesting. You're even more... appetizing than the rumors."

Luna doesn't flinch. She reaches for the sugar jar and drops three spoonfuls into his coffee, stirring once, gently.

"Eat something sweet. You've got a bitter note in your voice."

Eliot lifts the cup, inhales the steam, and takes a sip without flinching. "You know," he says, "three spoonfuls of sugar and I still can't taste it. I've had sweeter things."

"That's either flirting or a medical condition," Luna says. "For your sake, I hope it's the second one."

Eliot laughs — genuinely, warmly, like she's the most amusing thing he's met all year. Luna files him under: charming, and about as safe as a knife with a smiley face drawn on it.

The café door opens. The bell doesn't even finish ringing before a tall black shape is at the table, and a hand closes around Luna's wrist.

"Let's go."

"Kane." Eliot doesn't stand. He stirs his now-sickeningly-sweet coffee with great patience. "I thought you were still running pack errands. What — the captain of the Nightveil Guard now works as a chauffeur?"

"My business isn't yours to schedule."

"I'm just curious." Eliot looks up, smile intact. "What do you plan to do with her? Hide her? Until the full moon? Surely even you aren't naive enough to think you can hide her."

"Miss Hayes." Eliot turns to Luna before Kane can answer, voice soft as a party invitation. "On the night of the full moon, my family hosts a moonlight gala. Everyone who matters in this city will be there. I'd like you to be my guest of honor — as an invited guest, not as prey."

Luna's eyes narrow. "'Prey.' That word doesn't sit right with me."

"Forgive me. I should phrase it more elegantly." Eliot's smile widens. "Prey, after all, is simply the word we use for something worth chasing."

Kane doesn't answer. He pulls Luna to her feet and steps in front of her, and the motion is so automatic it's like breathing.

Luna stands between the two of them, looks at both of them, and raises her phone.

"Would you two mind if I posted this to the campus forum? Title: two of Blackmoon City's hottest guys fighting over a transfer student. Viral material. Guaranteed to blow up."

Eliot: "..."

Kane: "..."

"Silence means consent." Luna pockets the phone and turns to Kane. "Let's go, stalker boy." She glances back at Eliot over her shoulder. "Oh, and — those three spoonfuls of sugar were my free consultation fee."

In the black limousine, Eliot watches them walk away, and the warmth drains out of his smile by degrees. He dials a number and says, in the same gentle voice, "Bring her to the altar before the full moon. Whatever it takes."

Kane's safehouse is in the old part of town, the top floor of a gray apartment building that looks like it's been apologizing to the sky for years. Inside: minimal, all black, furniture so sparse it looks like someone moved out and forgot a few things.

Luna surveys the living room. "Your place looks like a realtor blacklisted it."

"It's safe," Kane says. "No one can trace it here."

Luna does a slow spin. There's exactly one chair in the living room, facing the door. One lamp. A bed in the corner, folded to military dimensions. On the kitchen counter, one mug, washed and set upside down. "This is either a safehouse or the apartment of a man who has never had a guest," she says.

"Both," Kane says.

"So you brought a girl you just met — correction, you brought a girl to a place no one can trace, with the door locked, and the curtains drawn. Logic? I'd love to hear it."

"There are people looking for you." Kane locks the door, pulls the curtains, and says it flat. "Starting today, you stay here."

"Why should I trust you?"

"Because you're still alive."

Luna stares at him for a long moment, then walks to the kitchen to find something to drink. She opens the fridge.

She freezes.

The fridge is full of snacks. Not just any snacks: the spicy chips she'd lingered over at the campus convenience store and put back because they were overpriced. The viral chocolate bar she'd mentioned once, to nobody in particular. The mango sparkling water she'd said she missed from her last city.

She turns around.

"When did you buy these?"

"Last week."

"Last week? I only transferred last week."

"Mm."

"...You started stalking me last week?"

"Protection." Kane corrects her. "It's called protection."

Luna stands in front of the open fridge and doesn't know what to say. She thinks about nineteen years of dinners eaten alone. Nineteen years of "happy first day of school" delivered over the phone in a voice that sounded like a utility bill. No one has ever heard the things she says without saying them. No one has ever written them down.