Bastiel was taunting her.
And goddamn it… it was working.
Luna was shaken—rattled down to her bones. Not just by fear, but confusion. It was a chaotic swirl of emotions she couldn't pin down. Rage. Helplessness. Dread. All of it churning violently inside her as they walked.
And all for someone she'd only known for a day.
But she knew enough.
Ravhiel, the strange, quiet werewolf in a wheelchair who smiled too gently and spoke too softly. The one who took the pain of others—literally. Who carried others' suffering on his shoulders without complaint. She had never sensed any bloodlust or cruelty from him. Not once.
Not even when she was at her weakest.
That's enough, she told herself. That's enough to know the kind of person he is.
She was being dragged now—Bastiel's grip on her arm relentless, Rhyxen silently matching their pace. Luna's eyes fixated on the looming wooden structure ahead, growing larger and darker with every step. The closer they got, the heavier the air became.
