Page 93 of The Shadow Sanctum

A story enters my mind, told by Sawyer. His business partner was ruthless. Who reminded him of me.

That’s this man. And I can’t find the resemblance.

“I should hang you for it.”

“Luna,” Sawyer warns. His hand reaches between us and flattens against my chest. He tries to back me up, but I don’t budge. Angel stares into my eyes like he’s ready to accept whatever challenge I bring.

“Hey.” Sawyer snaps in front of my face until finally, I turn my head to him. He frowns. “This was an accident. No one intended for this to happen.”

I huff. “Intentions are a poor man’s currency. If⁠—”

“But this…” Sawyer gestures to a girl caught in a coughing fit. “This only goes on for as long as you let it. Their blood is on your hands. No one else’s.”

The words slice. I’ve lived my whole life holding myself accountable. For my actions, for my people, and for the safety of the Shadow Sanctum. Never until this moment has it made me sick.

My throat tightens, but I refuse to flinch.

“You’re the only one who can change this,” Sawyer finishes. Like he hasn’t already said enough.

Change this.

Like it’s simple.

“They need medicine,” Angel says at last. When I glare at him, he doesn’t glare back. “Fast.”

“Then get it for them, Mr. Billionaire. Because as of this morning, thanks to you, the Shadow Sanctum is broke. And broken.”

He turns to Sawyer. “Did you tell her everything?”

Sawyer opens and closes his mouth. He faces me.

“If Angel and I are the ones to get the antibiotics, will you let us administer them?”

Will I let them…

Why is it only now that he won’t do things behind my back? When I need him to most?

My head spins, reeling over the right thing to do.

If someone were to bring medicine to these kids… I’d close my eyes. The downfall of Western medicine is outweighed by the face of extinction.

What do toxins matter when the alternative is death?

But, of course, it isn’t that easy. Angel speaks before I get the chance to answer.

“I can’t get all of it,” he says, voice dipped low. Somber. “My guy can get ten doses. No more.”

Ten.

The number slams through me. Ten when I count more than a dozen girls in this room. Ten when even one lost is too many.

Sawyer watches me, silent but weighted. His look isn’t a demand, but it’s close. Like he’s waiting to see which version of me wins—the one raised by Aurelius Cox or the one who just promised a dying girl that she’d live.

I turn away from him, from both of them, and look out over the sick again. Small hands clutching thin blankets, chests rising shallow, lips parted around rattling breaths.

My stomach twists.

“Luna,” Sawyer implores. My name drips with love, but in this moment, all I feel is hatred.