Chapter 54 Bathroom Confrontations
Malia's POV
It’s a blessing to find the bathroom empty as I slip in between classes.
For three days, I’ve been avoiding the Moonfall brothers—three days of refusing to answer their texts, going to class a different way, getting lunch with July and Freddy off campus. Three days I've been trying to make sense of my mind's turmoil.
That's not happening.
When I shut my eyes, I think of Aiden's battered face. Rowan's shredded face. Cian’s penetrating grey eyes, too sees too much, knows too much.
I dab at my face with a cold cloth, hoping to rinse away some of the fatigue.
Despite the cozy bed and lavender-scented sheets, I haven’t been sleeping well in July’s room. The bond tugs at me all the time, a relentless ache in my chest that won't let me forget what—who—I'm fleeing from.
The bathroom door opens beneath a slap that strikes the wall.
I glance up, and I see Lydia's reflection in the mirror, with her constant shadows—Dina and Beretta. They swim in, like predators on a hunt, exiting the doorways behind me before I can make it to the door. I can’t even think about turning back. Thoughts: They swim like a pack now, predatory and coordinated, blocking the exits as I approach the doors.
“Well, well,” Lydia says, her voice oiled with mock sweetness. “Isn't it the scholarship girl? All by herself. How convenient.”
My stomach lurches, but I tell myself to breathe. To not show fear. “I don’t have time for this, Lydia.”
“Oh, I think you do.” She takes a step closer, Dina and Beretta now angle out so that I’m enclosed on all sides. “So you must be mighty tired of playing house with my future mates by now. I’m sure you can find the time for a chat.”
The artificial sweetness in her voice vanishes like smoke, revealing a chill and a malice that could put your eyeballs on fire.
“Your future mates?” I turn to look at her directly and fold my arms. “Last I checked, they don’t care about your delusions.”
Her eyes flash, and I know I’ve made a mistake. Messing with her pride on the other hand from my little cell here with her and her minions was dumb, irresponsible.
But I’m just so tired of being scared.
“Delusions?” Lydia’s laugh is like a razor cutting through. “That's rich, coming from a pathetic little hybrid who's clinging to the Moonfalls like a life raft. Do you really think they want you? That any of this is real?”
“More real than anything you’ve dreamt up,” I say sharply, my own anger bubbling over.
Beretta snickers from where she’s by the door, and Lydia’s smile turns preditorial.
“Let me break something down for you, because you’re clearly too dumb to get how things work here.” She takes another step forward, pinning me to the sink. “You’re a charity case. A novelty. The second they grow tired of playing with their little rescue project, you’ll be back in whatever gutter they picked you out of.”
“At least they picked me,” I say, my voice calm even while my heart races. “Instead of you doing yourself to them for decades and getting nothing but denial.”
It’s so fast I don’t even register the slap.
My head snaps to the side, my cheek stinging, and for a second the bathroom is spinning. I taste blood as I bite down on my inner lip.
“You don't get to talk to me like that,” Lydia hisses, her fingers digging so tightly into my arm I know I’ll have bruises. “You’re nothing. A pitiful bit of hybrid who doesn’t even have a pack to call home. You think you’re special just because you happened to luck into a bond? You’re just a convenience in the sack.”
She shoves me hard against the sink, the edge of the porcelain cutting into my lower back.
And something inside me just… snaps.
All the fear and the uncertainty and the frustration of the past three weeks—it’s all boiling down into rage, so pure, so white hot.
I shove back. Hard.
Lydia stumbles backwards, her eyes growing wide with what seems to be genuine surprise.
Obviously she thought I was going to just take it, to cringe, to let her abuse me however she want to.
“Don’t touch me,” I growl, and there’s a part of me that doesn’t even recognize the sound of my own voice.
“You little bitch—” Lydia charges at me, and then we're fighting.
Actually fighting.
It’s not graceful or clever or anything. There’s no technique, no training. Just two girls who want to damage each other, and who have weeks of unresolved tension and hatred to fuel their fight.
Lydia yanks on my hair, a tug so fierce it brings tears to my eyes. I drag my nails down her arm and draw blood through the barrier of her luxe cashmere sweater. She slaps at my face and I catch her arm, twisting her wrist until she gasps in pain.
We crash into the wall, dislodging a paper towel dispenser. Dina and Beretta are yelling out something, but I can’t hear them with the roaring in my ears and the furious screams of Lydia.
I rip off her designer blouse as I find my footing and she pushes me back against the stall doors. The impact makes the metal shake and creak.
I taste blood—hers, mine? I don't know. My lip is split, my scalp is burning where she’s still gripping a handful of my hair. But I don’t care. I’m beyond giving a damn about any of this. Every punch. Every scrape. Every second of this ugly, brutal brawl feels like a relief valve that’s been over pressurized for too long.
"What the hell is going on here?!"
The voice emerged from the tumult like a whip crack. We go stiff, Lydia’s hand still tangled in my hair, and my nails buried into her shoulder.
Professor Marissa is at the door, her face a blend of shock and rage. She’s one of the most rigorous professors at Lunar Ridge and well-known for her zero-tolerance policy on violence.
We're so screwed.
"Both of you, separate. Now." Her voice leaves no room for argument.
Lydia and I peel away from each other slowly, panting. My reflection in the mirror is a mess—hair wild, lip bleeding. Lydia isn’t much better. Her high-end blouse is ripped at the shoulder, there are scrape marks on her neck, and her perfectly coiffed hair is disheveled.
"Dina, Beretta, out," Professor ᗰα𝗋𝗂𝗌𝗌α commands, and the other girls scatter like rats from a sinking ship.
"I can explain—" Lydia begins, instantly transforming into the innocent victim persona.
"Save it," Professor ᗰα𝗋𝗂𝗌𝗌α tells her. "Whoever initiated that doesn't matter. You’re both going to detention. Two hours. Today. And you ought to consider yourself lucky I don’t bring this up to the Dean.”
“But Professor—" I start.
"Not another word, Miss ᖇ𝖾𝖾ᑯ. Both of you, go clean up and be at my office. Right now."
—----
Detention takes place in Professor ᗰα𝗋𝗂𝗌𝗌α's 𝖼ᥣα𝗌𝗌𝗋ⱺⱺꭑ, a confined with stark fluorescent lighting and rigid chairs that look like they're meant to render students as unhappy as possible.
Lydia is sitting on the other side of the room, as far from me as she can get. Her ripped blouse is covered by a jacket that she’s borrowed of one of her numerous lovers, but she can’t conceal the scratches on her neck, or the murder in her eyes every time she looks at me.
I can feel my lip swelling, I taste blood every time I swallow. My scalp still stings from where she yanked my hair, and I’m fairly certain that I’m going to have some spectacular bruises by tomorrow. Worth it, a vindictive part of me whispers. Too good to pass up.
My phone vibrates in my pocket. Then buzzes again. And again.
I slide it out surreptitiously, holding it under the desk so Professor ᗰα𝗋𝗂𝗌𝗌α won’t see. I slide the phone out from under the desk, unseen, so Professor ᗰα𝗋𝗂𝗌𝗌α doesn’t catch a glimpse.
Aiden: What happened? I heard there was a fight.
Rowan: Malia, please tell me you're okay. They said you were bleeding.
Cian: Campus gossip has it you’re in detention. Care to tell us why?
Aiden: Who hurt you? Give me a name.
Rowan: I’m coming to get you.
Aiden: If someone touched you, I swear to god—
Cian: We’re giving you your space, but if you’re in trouble, that’s another thing.
Messages pour in, with such frequency that they are demands and threats and worried questions all arrayed in one shifting tide. I can almost feel their restlessness through the bond: three separate flavors of protective anger that squeeze my chest.
I type out a quick response: I’m fine. Just a detention. Don't come.
I send it to all three of them and immediately put my phone on silent as the replies start flooding in. Lydia, across the room, is still looking down at her phone, her expression smug even with the scratches and torn clothing. She types something and then looks up at me with a smile that makes me want to run.
“Texting your beloved Moonfalls?” she asks, her voice syrupy sweet. “Telling them how you came after me out of nowhere?”
"Shut up, Lydia."
"That's what I told Aiden, you know. That you went crazy. Started scratching and hitting for no reason. I was just trying to talk to you, and you lost it."
My hands are in fists. "You're lying."
"Am I?" She tilts her head, looking at her nails as though she has not a worry in the world. "Who do you think they're going to believe? The girl they've known their whole lives, or the scholarship hybrid they've had a few weeks?"
Honestly, the worst part is that she might be right.
"You two, silence," Professor ᗰα𝗋𝗂𝗌𝗌α snaps from her desk, never looking away from her stack of papers. "I don't want to hear another word from either of you for an hour and forty-three minutes."
Lydia smirks at me before turning to look out the window like she’s the picture of innocent.
My phone continues to vibrate quietly in my pocket. I can see the texts, the demands to know what happened, who was involved, if I’m okay.
Part of me is tempted to tell them everything. So that they could handle Lydia the way they likely want to—with power and intimidation and the full force of the Moonfall name.
But the other side of me, the side that’s been getting stronger for three days now, won’t.
This is my fight. Confrontation. There are advantages to get up for myself, instead of hiding behind three overprotective alpha heirs.
I took on Lydia, and I’m not sorry.
Even as I sit here in detention with a split lip and the hint of bruises blossoming all over my body, even knowing I'll have to pay for this and answer a million questions and probably get another lecture from my brothers about safety—I'm not sorry.
It was the first time in weeks that I had done something just for myself. For the bond, not for them, not to please anyone else.
Just me, deciding to fight back.
The hour looms longer and quieter before me, with Lydia like a toxic presence at the other end of the room, and my phone is buzzing with messages that insist I respond, but I'm not ready to answer.
But I sit there, posture rigid, not giving in to weakness.
Maybe I'm in detention. I could be battered and bloodied and facing all sorts of consequences.
But I’m not broken.
And right now, that feels like enough.