My throat closed. No words came out.
Seeing my silence, Myrielle’s eyes gleamed with victory. She stepped forward, pretending to reach for the bowl.
“Lunessa, you’re so kind,” she cooed. “Draven and I grew up together. You’re his mate—I truly hope we can get along.”
Her hand brushed mine—soft, fragile.
Then, hidden from Draven’s line of sight, she pressed my wrist onto the scorching rim of the moon-forged pot.
“Ah—!” White-hot agony shot up my arm. My knees almost gave way.
“What happened?!” Draven rushed toward us.
In that split second, Myrielle released me—and knocked the bowl over.
Scalding broth splashed across my arms and chest. I screamed. A few drops hit her skin, leaving tiny red marks.
“Ah!” she cried dramatically, collapsing into his arms. “Draven, I only wanted to apologize… but Lunessa grew angry—she said she’d rather spill the broth than let me taste it! If I hadn’t moved, I would’ve been burned much worse…”
She showed him her faintly reddened skin, trembling like a frightened pup.
Draven’s face hardened.
“It wasn’t me!” I cried, showing my blistered hand. “She grabbed me—she pushed my hand onto the pot!”
But he didn’t even look.