Chapter 2 Two

Anastasia’s POV

The voices spill through the crack of the restroom door, wet slaps of skin, muffled gasps, and moans that grow filthier with every second. Each sound is a blade slicing through my chest.

No. This can’t be real. Not Penelope.

I hover at the threshold, frozen, trembling. My brain claws for any excuse, maybe it only sounds like her. Maybe it’s some stranger, some faceless whore Damon found. Maybe I’m imagining it.

But then the words come, coated in a voice I know better than my own.

“I can’t believe Anastasia had this sweet dick all to herself. She’s such a greedy bore.”

The walls tilt. My heart crashes.

It’s her.

And Damon, the monster I’m bound to, snarls back between grunts, “I can’t believe a hottie like you is her best friend. How do you even put up with her boring ass?”

The confirmation detonates inside me. My knees buckle. Sobs tear free as I crumple against the cold wall, clutching my chest like I can hold the pieces of my heart together with trembling hands.

Penelope. My Penelope. The girl who wiped my tears when my mother died. The sister I never had. The anchor that kept me from drowning in Damon’s storms. She’s in there on her knees or on her back laughing, moaning, betraying me in the filthiest way imaginable.

A voice cuts through my misery.

“You don’t want to collapse here. That’ll be even worse.”

I spin around, startled, and nearly choke on my gasp.

Victor. Damon’s father.

His storm-gray eyes are unreadable, but I can tell he knows. He knows exactly what’s happening behind that door. He knows who’s inside. And the way he stares at me, jaw clenched, hands shoved deep into his pockets, makes me wonder if he’s holding back his own rage or enjoying my unraveling.

Humiliation burns hotter than my heartbreak. I bolt. Past him. Past the moans. Past the suffocating hallway. My heels hammer against the marble as I run.

The main hall is suffocating with laughter and clinking glasses, a thousand oblivious eyes. I shove past them, through a side corridor, until I find the back door. Cold night air slaps me in the face as I burst outside, fumbling for the valet.

Keys. Car. Engine. Escape.

I slam onto the dark road, headlights cutting through the blur of tears. My hands choke the steering wheel, knuckles white, as sobs wrack my chest.

Why? Why Penelope?

Memories slam into me. Penelope sneaking snacks into my backpack when I went hungry. Penelope holding me through nights when my father’s drunken rages shook the walls. Penelope promising I’d never be alone.

Lies. Every moment with her was a lie.

The road blurs too much to see. I pull over, forehead pressed to the wheel, and scream. My throat rips with the sound. My whole body shakes until I collapse into silence, breathless and raw.

Twenty minutes pass. Maybe more. Eventually, I start the car again, not caring where I’m headed. Anywhere but back there.

Neon lights slice through the darkness—a nightclub. I pull into the lot like I’m on autopilot, drag myself inside, and plant my broken body at the bar.

“Whiskey shots,” I rasp. “Line them up. Don’t stop pouring.”

The bartender hesitates, then obeys. One, two, three—burning liquid slides down my throat, each swallow scorching, numbing, dulling. But grief doesn’t drown. It claws its way back up, tangled with the taste of whiskey and tears.

What do I do now?

With Penelope gone, who will hold me when Damon beats me again? Who will whisper strength into me when his fists and betrayals tear me apart?

Not my father. Never him.

He’s too drunk, too high, too deep in the pit Damon funds for him. The last time I dared to talk about leaving, Damon sicced him on me. My father dragged me home, called me worthless, sneered that Damon was the only good thing I’d ever given the world. My stepmother chimed in with her venom, laughing as though my misery was entertainment.

Family? I have none.

Friendship? A lie.

Mate? A curse.

I am utterly, devastatingly alone.

“Damn you, Damon,” I whisper, gripping my glass so tightly I think it might shatter. “Damn you, damn you, damn you.”

But hatred doesn’t soothe. It festers. It hungers. For the first time, I want vengeance. I want him to feel the hollow ache gnawing me alive. I want him broken the way he’s broken me.

A sharp sound pulls me back—footsteps. Heavy. Purposeful.

I glance up—and freeze.

Victor Pierce.

My heart lurches. He strides toward me, darkness wrapped in a tailored suit, the club’s neon casting wicked shadows across his face. He’s too magnetic, too dangerous, and right now—too close.

And gods help me, I can’t stop staring. My eyes flick lower, against my will, and shame ignites as I linger on the bulge straining his pants.

What the hell is wrong with me? Is it the whiskey? Is it the years of suppressed, forbidden longing finally snapping? Or am I just insane enough to let the one man more dangerous than Damon tempt me to destruction?

Victor stops in front of me. Slowly, deliberately, he takes the glass from my hand. His throat flexes as he drains the last of my whiskey in a single swallow. The glass clinks back onto the counter.

I don’t breathe.

He sits, close enough for our knees to brush, his storm-gray eyes burning into mine. “You shouldn’t drink alone, Anastasia. Let me join you.”

My pulse skitters wildly. I grab another shot, then a second, letting the fire drown his voice. But it doesn’t work. His words curl through me, deep and resonant, impossible to shake.

“I’m sorry about my son,” he says at last, his tone low, rough, almost… regretful. “There’s no excuse for the way he treats you.”

Something inside me snaps. I laugh bitterly, the sound jagged. “All men cheat, right? So I should shut up and deal with it. Even if it’s with my best friend. I should smile and stay quiet. Isn’t that what a good Luna does?”

The sarcasm slices, reckless and raw. Maybe I want him to leave. Maybe I want to burn down this dangerous pull before it consumes me.

But he doesn’t leave.

Instead, his hand lifts. Rough fingers brush my hair back, exposing my throat. I gasp, the heat of his body, his scent, wrapping around me. My pulse hammers so hard I swear he can hear it.

Then his lips graze my ear, his breath scorching as he whispers:

“I’m not just talking about him cheating. I’m talking about the bruises you try so hard to conceal, Anastasia.”