Page 77 of Unveil

Luna hadn’t wanted me to leave without her, sassing me that I was overprotective about her sprain. But there was nothing for it. No matter how many times she insists, her ankle isnotfine.

So when I return around one A.M., I don’t expect to see my little bird fluttering around, twirling in the firelight.

She’s shoved all the furniture aside, and the cast-iron stove radiates a halo around her as she spins, arms above her head. Her tattered tutu lifts, revealing the sexy tattoo I designed for her, and her satin slippers are frayed to mere threads while her bodice slips low on her perky, round tits.

I stop in the doorway, awestruck. She’s hypnotic as she dances, though a little off-kilter, like the broken ballerina in my mom’s old music box. But unlike the little figurine, Luna’s legs are cut up and bruised, her tangled curls bounce down her back, and she clutches a jug of moonshine in one hand. She whips out fouetté after fouetté, just like herBlack Swansolo. Each one is perfect, controlled, and I count out of habit.

… Twenty-nine.

Thirty.

Maybe her ankle’s better than I thought.

Thirty-one.

Thirty-two…

Wait, she’s still going.

Thirty-three?—

She sways on the extra turn, laughing, and I drop the machete and crossbow to lunge just in time, catching her before she cracks her head on the mantel behind the stove.

Her giggles are infectious but seem pressured, her smile is too bright, and the firelight flickers in her pupils, so wide I can barely make out their clear blue rings.

Something’s off with my girl.

“Luna,” I say gently. “Doesn’t your ankle hurt?”

“Nuh uh,” she chirps, leaping out of my hold before I can set her upright. She points her toes, showing off the tight bow at the top of the tulle-wrapped limb. “See? I even made it cute.”

“So you did,” I chuckle, peeling off my sopping wet shirt and hanging it on a rafter. “I was worried?—”

“Well, don’t be,” she snaps.

My brows shoot up.

“Okay…” I scratch the back of my head. Cold droplets roll down my nape, making me shiver. “Uh, it’s kinda late to be up, isn’t it? I’m assuming you ate dinner?”

I don’t actually assume that, since I cooked her trout before leaving earlier and the ceramic plate still sits on the stove with tin foil over it.

“Nope.” The word pops on her lips. “Couldn’t sleep. Wasn’t hungry.”

I force a smile. “Aw, even though I picked the bones out for you and everything?”

But she’s already humming to herself, off somewhere else in her head as she sways again. That’s when I see the mason jars by the hearth, the jug that rolled out of her hand when I caught her.

I run my tongue over my teeth. The jug’s corked, but I can’t tell if it or the jars have been cracked open. Honestly, given what I’ve put her through, I wouldn’t blame her for taking the edge off. I’ve never seen her quite like this, though, the franticness in her eyes much different than her normal party buzz.

“You been drinking, Luna?”

She grins. “Nope.”

I hesitate. “You sure?”

Her jaw clenches before she grits out, “I’m sure.” Her smile is brilliant except for those eyes, accusing and sharp. “Yourbabyis fine.”

“Jesus.” My chest cracks. “It’s not about that.”