Rejecting My Contracted Luna

Emma’s POV

“You’re late.”

My father’s voice slices through the air the moment I step inside the house, sharp and full of venom. I freeze instinctively, my shoulders tensing as if bracing for impact. Slowly, I lower my gaze to the cracked watch strapped around my wrist, the glass spiderwebbed from the last time he’d thrown it across the room in a fit of rage.

“Five minutes,” I mutter, my voice already exhausted. “I am five minutes late.”

“If you would stop whoring around,” he roars, his voice echoing through the narrow hallway, “you wouldn’t be late.”

Before I can react, his hand comes down hard across my face. The sound of skin slapping skin is loud and sickening. Pain explodes across my cheek, right where an old bruise is already blooming purple and yellow. I gasp as stars burst behind my eyes, and I feel the warm, unmistakable trickle of blood sliding down my skin.

“Go get yourself cleaned up,” he growls, as if I’ve inconvenienced him. “You have a job tonight.”

My jaw clenches. I don’t dare argue. I never do.

I shove past him, my shoulder brushing his arm, and head up the stairs toward my bedroom. Each step feels heavier than the last, my body aching in places I try not to think about.

“I can’t,” I mutter, my voice breaking as I climb. “I have a shift at the diner.”

“You can do both,” he calls after me, a cruel smirk in his tone even though I can’t see his face.

My stomach drops.

“Right,” I whisper to myself, dread curling tight in my chest.

I know exactly what his jobs mean. I always do. It means I won’t really sleep tonight. It means I’ll wake up tomorrow sore, violated, and covered in new bruises layered over old ones. It means scrubbing myself raw in the shower and pretending nothing happened. Again.

I slam my bedroom door behind me and lean against it for a second, my breath coming in shaky gasps. The room is small and bare, with peeling wallpaper and a bed that creaks every time I move. It’s the only place in this house that feels even remotely mine, though even here, I’m never truly safe.

I strip out of my school clothes quickly, my fingers trembling as I tug fabric over tender skin. My reflection in the mirror makes me wince. Bruises dot my arms and collarbone. My cheek is swollen and split. There is no hiding all of it—not really.

I pull on my diner uniform: a short skirt that always feels too short and a short-sleeved blouse that does nothing to conceal the marks on my arms. My chest tightens with anxiety. Customers stare enough as it is.

I stare at myself in the mirror for a long moment before sighing and slipping the blouse back off. Digging through my drawer, I find a plain white long-sleeved T-shirt. I slide it on, then carefully pull the diner blouse over it, hoping Randy won’t yell at me again for “breaking dress code.” He’s been lenient before. Sometimes.

“Please let it slide,” I whisper to my reflection.

I gather my unruly curls into a messy bun, fingers catching on tangles I don’t have the patience to work through. My face looks pale, hollow. I dab foundation onto my cheek, layering it carefully, trying to hide the bruise and the small cut where my skin split. It doesn’t disappear, but it dulls enough that maybe—just maybe—people won’t ask questions.

I tilt my head, studying myself critically.

This is as good as it’s going to get.

My stomach growls loudly, the sound echoing in the small room. I press a hand against it, a dull ache reminding me that I haven’t eaten all day. I consider sneaking downstairs for something—anything—but the thought of facing my father again makes my skin crawl.

“I’ll eat at the diner,” I murmur. “I’ll add it to my tab.”

Randy usually lets me. I hope he doesn’t mind tonight.

I grab my bag and rush down the stairs, intent on getting out of the house as fast as possible. My hand is already reaching for the doorknob when my father steps directly into my path.

“I thought we could talk for a minute before you leave for work.”

The smile on his face is wrong. Too wide. Too pleased. Every instinct in my body screams at me to run, but he’s blocking the door, and I know better than to try pushing past him.

He grabs my wrist painfully and drags me into the kitchen. My heart slams against my ribs as I stumble to keep up. That’s when I see him.

Another man sits at the kitchen table.

My breath catches.

He looks exactly like the type of men my father associates with—rough, unkempt, with hard eyes that linger far too long. His gaze crawls over me slowly, deliberately, and I fight the urge to cover myself, to shrink into the floor.

I stand awkwardly near the counter, my arms wrapped tightly around myself, waiting. My father grabs a glass from the cupboard and pours whiskey into it—far more than a single serving. The smell burns my nose.

He slides the glass toward me.

“Drink this,” he orders.

I laugh nervously, my throat tight. “I—I don’t think I should be drinking before work.”

He shoves the glass closer, his eyes darkening. “Drink. It.”

The finality in his voice leaves no room for argument.

My hand shakes as I pick up the glass. I bring it to my lips and take a small sip. The whiskey burns instantly, my face twisting as it hits my tongue. It tastes awful—sharp and bitter.

“Finish it,” he snaps.

I inhale shakily, pinch my nose, and force myself to gulp it down as fast as I can. The liquid burns all the way down my throat, my eyes watering. I gag near the end but swallow hard, refusing to throw up. When the glass is empty, I slam it onto the counter and look up at him.

He looks satisfied.

That’s when the room starts to tilt.

The edges of my vision blur. The lights seem too bright, then too dim. I blink rapidly, trying to focus, but my head feels heavy—wrong.

“What did you put in that?” I ask, but my words come out slurred, thick.

“This,” my father says calmly, gesturing toward the man at the table, “is Rick.”

Rick smiles, slow and unpleasant.

“You belong to him tonight,” my father continues.

“No,” I whisper, panic surging. I spin toward the door and try to run, but my feet tangle beneath me. My legs give out, and I hit the floor hard, pain shooting through my knees.

I try to push myself up, but my arms won’t cooperate. The world spins violently.

My father and Rick loom over me, their faces swimming in and out of focus. They’re smiling. Grinning.

That’s the last thing I see before everything goes black.