Read His Lost Lycan Luna by Jessica Hall Chapter 1 – The orphanage headmistress, Mrs. Daley, was in an excellent mood this morning. The old hag was excited because the Lycan king would be visiting the orphanage today. He hasn’t been here once in the eight years Abbie and I have lived here; we didn’t know what to expect. Mrs. Daley, however, did. She expected perfection and not a thing out of place. Giving Abbie and I more tasks than usual, so many chores we both knew would never be done in time for his arrival.
Abbie and I had been dreading this day, not because the Lycan king was visiting but because today is the day we find out if we get to live another, or if it is the day it all ends. My life was anything but easy, being born a rogue. Growing up, I longed to have what my parents told me about packs, unity, and family, other kids to play with besides Abbie; her family lived with us before her parents were k****d along with mine, then both of us were brought here.
Thankfully though, because of some law all packs strictly live by, I was shown mercy or a version of. It was against the pack law to k**l Rogue children. They call it mercy, but in reality, it is anything but. My parents were rogues. We lived a life on the run, but we were free. That all ended when I was ten. Now I live in the pack orphanage, Abbie and I are the only two rogues that reside here.
Abbie rushes into the room, her red locks swishing past me as she dumps the fresh bed linen on the bottom bunk. There were six bunks in every room, and there were twelve rooms. We had to have each room cleaned and made up before starting lunch. Breakfast was something I hadn’t had in years, same as Abbie. There was just no time; time was something we were already running out of in more ways than one.
I start stripping beds, tossing the sheets on the floor in a pile. Abbie goes over, ripping the heavy black drapes open and cracking the windows open slightly, letting in the fresh air. It was cold this morning, the air had a cold chill, but I knew I would be sweating and welcoming that cold draft in around twenty minutes.
Once the bedlinen is stripped, I start making beds. The most challenging part was the top bunks. They could be a real b***h to get flat. Mrs. Daley didn’t like wrinkles in the bed linen, and she always checked, twisting her canes between her hands while she checked each bed.
Heaven forbid she doesn’t like something, or you made it wrong. I have lost count of the times my skin was welted by that cane or the thin whip wrapped around its handle. I will never forget the sting and have quite a few scars on my back from the lashings breaking the skin when she would go too far.
behind me as I finish the last bed; tossing them to me, I place them on each bed. We both looked around, ensuring no toys were forgotten, nothing out of place. The dark rugs were straight, and the corners were flat on
learn our fate. We both decided we would take the lashes; it would be better than
heads for eight long years, like a dark cloud threatening to rain down on us the closer it got,
day. Once done here, we have to prepare sandwiches for the kids and pray to the Moon Goddess we finish before one. If we are late, I know he will k**l us. It is a great disrespect to
jelly. My legs b**n, threatening to give out under me. Abbie clutches her knees looking around at the sparsely furnished room. The fireplaces in the corner of each room were the only heating, the windows the only cooling in this dreadful place. The fireplaces created so much dust, ash that would settle on everything making our job more problematic in
knew as well as I did, today we d*e. Her already pale face turns white as a sheet as she looks at the clock. We had forty-three minutes and over
aprons, fixing our hair, and smoothing down our peasant skirts. We place our hands
as she goes to each bed. Abbie’s eyes darted to me nervously. Mrs. Daley enters with her trusty cane
bun so tight on top of her head it looked painful. Her high cheekbones and pointed straight nose made her face crueler, sharper; she reminded
more in her late fifties; lines around her lips and the deep wrinkles
statues, our eyes following her, yet
and I see Abbie tense my eyes flitting toward it to see it covered in soot. Mrs. Daley clicked her tongue holding her
“What is this?” She asks, rubbing her fingers together, the ash falling to the floor when her eyes dart to it. One of the kids had walked dirt through the room, and she did not miss it.
She purses her lips clearly unhappy.
“Who was supposed to do the windowsills?” She snaps before cracking the cane on her palm.
Abbie raises her hand but says nothing; I could see the fear in her green eyes, tears already brimming.
“And the floors” I raise mine, my stomach sinking. I knew she wouldn’t miss it.
“Abbie, you get three strikes, one for each windowsill,” Abbie presses her lips together, holding out her hand’s palm down. Mrs. Daley shakes her head.
“Not good enough, we have important visitors today, and I need to show them I don’t slack on the discipline,” She snaps. I watch as Abbie’s bottom lip trembles. The back was worse because every move would sting for days.
