His Silent Luna (Verity and Felicity) novel Chapter 15

CHAPTER FIFTEEN: RECOVERY

Verity’s Perspective

Once he had left, the heavy silence descended again—thicker and more oppressive than before.

Cassian’s presence had filled the space with an electric tension, a charged energy that somehow also felt reassuring. Now that he was gone, the room seemed emptier, almost hollow, as if the very air still held onto the shape of where he had been. I found myself fixated on the door, eyes locked, half-expecting it to creak open once more. But it remained stubbornly shut.

It was just me.

And the stillness.

Minutes—or maybe longer; time was slippery here—passed before a nurse finally entered. Her name tag read Mira, but she barely glanced at me, her eyes distant. She moved through the room with mechanical efficiency, adjusting the IV drip, checking the monitors, jotting notes on a clipboard. To her, I was nothing more than another piece of equipment.

She didn’t speak.

No one did, unless absolutely necessary.

I longed to ask her questions—Where am I? How long have I been here? Why can’t I remember anything? But the words caught in my throat, sharp and painful, like splinters I couldn’t swallow. Even if I had managed to speak, I doubted she would have answered me. Not out of cruelty, but because something deep inside told me she wasn’t permitted.

Her glances were soft, her hands careful and gentle, but she didn’t linger.

When she finished her routine, she turned to leave. My hand twitched involuntarily, a silent plea for her to stay, to say something, to recognize me as more than just a patient. But she paused only to tuck the blanket tighter around my waist. Then, with a small, practiced smile, she slipped out, leaving me alone once again with the quiet hum of machines.

I sank further into the bed, feeling the weight of solitude settle over me.

That night, sleep eluded me. My body drifted in and out of restless dreams—none of them kind. Shadowy figures reached out from the darkness. Voices whispered in languages I couldn’t place. I woke once, heart racing, breath ragged, as if I’d been fleeing some unseen terror. Yet when I looked down, my legs lay still beneath the sheets.

I didn’t cry.

I didn’t even try.

****

The following morning, a doctor finally came to tell me the truth.

She was older, with silver hair pulled into a tight bun. Her presence was both commanding and warm, a paradox that made her hard to read. Her white coat was immaculate, and her eyes held the weight of countless experiences—eyes that had witnessed too much and yet seemed detached.

I watched as she scanned my chart, then looked up at me over the rims of her glasses.

“You’ve been in a coma for five weeks,” she said, her voice as casual as if she were reporting the weather.

Five weeks.

Five weeks of my life wiped away, erased like chalk on a blackboard.

I should have felt shock. Fear. Something.

But all I experienced was a cold numbness sinking deep into my stomach, as though the news only confirmed what I already suspected: this body didn’t feel like mine because I hadn’t truly been living in it.

“I know you’re still recovering,” she continued, her tone softening. “Your vitals are improving. The worst of your injuries have started to heal, though you’ll still be sore for some time.”

I glanced down at my arms, now free of bandages. The skin was pink and tender in places—new flesh, fragile and unfamiliar. I hadn’t even noticed the healing taking place.

“You’re lucky,” she added. “With the extent of your injuries, you should have died before you arrived here. You’re lucky to be alive.”

Lucky?

Then came the part I sensed she had been avoiding.

“The healing process was… unusually slow,” she said carefully. “Slower than expected for someone of your kind.”

I blinked, confusion clouding my mind.

Her gaze sharpened. “You’re a wolf,” she said cautiously. “Or at least, you’re supposed to be. But your wolf… isn’t responding.”

There was no need for her to explain further.

Wolves healed quickly—broken bones mended in hours, deep wounds closed in days. Yet I had been unconscious for over a month, and only now was my body beginning to knit itself back together.

No fangs.

No claws.

No wolf pulsing beneath my skin.

Only silence.

I didn’t shake my head in denial, nor did I nod in acceptance. I simply stared, unable to process the emptiness inside me.

Three days later, I began to walk again.

It started with standing. My legs wobbled beneath me like those of a newborn fawn, and Mira hovered nearby, arms outstretched, ready to catch me if I fell. I hated feeling so weak, so dependent on someone just to take a few shaky steps to the window.

But at the same time, it was the first moment in weeks that I had any control. The first time I chose to move forward, even if only inch by inch.

I still didn’t speak. Couldn’t.

But when I was alone, I mouthed words—my name, my age, the few fragments of memory I clung to desperately.

“Verity.”

I repeated it over and over whenever I caught my reflection. This was who I was, the person I fought to remember even as the world tried to erase her.

***

On the fourth day, Nia helped me bathe. She didn’t say a word, humming softly under her breath as she gently scrubbed my skin, never lingering too long in one place. My skin had healed, but it felt strange—as if I were wearing someone else’s body, borrowing it, pretending it fit.

Afterward, dressed in fresh linen and dry, she helped me back to bed. As she tucked the blanket around me, I found the courage to form a silent question with my lips.

“Stay?”

She hesitated, finally meeting my eyes for the first time. Her mouth opened, then closed again. For a moment, I thought she would ignore me.

Then, quietly, she said, “I can’t.”

She lingered for just a heartbeat longer, then turned and walked away.

***

That night, the dreams returned.

Flashes of trees and screams. Fire and blood. A man’s voice shouting words I couldn’t understand. My own hands—smaller, dirtier—covered in something dark and warm.

I jolted awake, chest heaving, throat parched. The machines beside me beeped steadily, indifferent to the turmoil breaking inside my heart.

The room was empty.

No one ever stayed.