The Scentless Luna

"Drink it now."

The ceramic bowl hit the table hard enough to send a wave of dark liquid over the rim. Boiling tonic splashed across the back of my hand.

Pain flashed white behind my eyes.

I jerked away, cradling my burned hand against my chest while my other arm wrapped instinctively around my eight-month belly. The baby kicked once, hard, as if protesting with me.

"Watch what you're doing," I snapped.

The servant did not apologize. Nina had been assigned to the South Wing three months ago, and each week she grew bolder. Today she folded her arms and looked at me with the bored contempt people reserved for a problem no one important intended to solve.

"The Alpha ordered you to take your supplements. I'm not leaving until the bowl is empty."

"Then you'll be standing there awhile. I'm not drinking it while it's boiling."

Her mouth curled. "You think you still get to make choices?"

I looked at the welt rising across my knuckles. "I'm still Luna of Blackthorn."

Nina laughed.

The sound hurt more than the burn.

"You haven't been Luna since Alpha Lucian locked you in the South Wing."

A year ago, that sentence would have been unthinkable. I had sat beside Lucian at council dinners. I had carried the Blackthorn crest on my cloak. I had known the names of every patrol captain and every widow receiving winter provisions.

Then the Elders decided a scentless Luna was an embarrassment.