Page 1 of The Shadow Sanctum

CHAPTER 1

LUNA

It’s been eight months since I first laid eyes on Sawyer—in a white-background portrait with cheeks too tight and a smile that looked dazingly forced. A businessman, the photo tried to say, but Sawyer… Sawyer is a pleasant chameleon who rides undetected and achieves youthful lovability from his laugh, his kind eyes, and his attention.

He is not a businessman. He is a charmer, and I have no doubt he gets his way ninety percent of the time, even without the intimidating prowl of a male accustomed to being dubbed the most dominant in the room.

Mr. Sanchez, however, fits the part at first sight.

His squeeze of my hand is firmer than most, and as he leans into the shake, I get a whiff of leather and a hint of something sweet. I can’t say what the sweetness is—amber, perhaps—but I like it. And I do not have a sweet tooth.

Thorne is going to hate him. I can already tell.

The scent lingers when he pulls away, and I get the oddest urge to catch it in my fist and rub it on my pillows that no doubt smell of smoked pine. Pine that makes me squirm, whereas this… It grounds.

I’m giving this way too much thought.

“Pleasure to meet you, Luna,” Mr. Sanchez says in this deep, baritone voice that is way too sure of itself to carry lies. I bet he doesn’t know how. I bet he’s never thought it useful.

He didn’t even consider that he shouldn’t use my name.

“You as well.” I dip my chin. “We welcome all our prospective initiates with joy, but you should know, we’re especially pleased by your arrival. Our society is one of great bounty and our peaceful way of life is something I’m certain you’re going to enjoy. However, some struggle with certain adjustments to their previous way of life. If there’s…” I trail off as he pulls out a handkerchief and holds it out to me.

When I don’t take it, he smiles. “I’m sorry, I’m a little distracted. You have a bit of…” He points to his chin.

Blood.

I haven’t cleaned up since the fight. I’d forgotten I allowed Alaric to make me bleed.

I peer at the handkerchief—stark white, edges perfectly folded, not a single crease out of place. It looks too perfect to smear with blood, but Mr. Sanchez’s hand is steady, his smile smooth. No hesitation, no disgust. It’d be rude to refuse.

“Pardon me.” I take his offering and dab at my chin, ruining the cloth with blood stains. I don’t explain my face. I can’t even begin to think of how.

“You were saying?” he asks.

I clear my throat and lower the cloth, my hands cupping in front of me. “Any needs or grievances you may have regarding your accommodations can be taken directly to me. You’ll be staying in a spare bedroom in my quarters until your initiation test, which will take place tomorrow or the day after, depending on the weather.”

“The weather?” He quirks a brow.

“Our society demands strength from its members. Initiates are divided into groups based on their usefulness, and in your case, that makes you a cultivator. You’ll spend a great deal of time in nature, so we’re going to let nature decide if you’re worthy.”

He blinks at me but doesn’t make me elaborate. Cultivators aren’t allowed time to prepare for their tests, so of course I never tell them what will take place. For initiates like Mr. Sanchez, it isn’t typically a problem.

We’ll be loading him in an SUV tomorrow morning and driving him ten miles away from the compound. He’ll be given a map, a compass, a knife, and a firestarter and told to find his way back.

If he can’t figure it out with all those tools, he wouldn’t fit in here anyway. Most initiates given this challenge are taken twenty-five miles out, told it’s only fifteen, and given absolutely nothing. They wear explosive collars around their necks, so if they go off a certain path, they automatically fail.

No initiate has passed that version of the test.

“Well… I look forward to the challenge.” There’s something cryptic under his words, something playful or maybe even arrogant.

I force my eyes neutral when they itch to narrow.

My hand splays as I gesture to the entryway. “Let me show you to your room.”

Mr. Sanchez follows behind while I lead the way through the Keep. The back of my neck tingles while I climb the stairs, feeling eyes on my back—strange; the man is too arrogant to be a threat.

But the closer we get to the guest bedroom, the more my attention drifts away from my four-hundred-milllion-dollar prize, and instead turns to the previous tenant.