To them, I wasn’t a wolf. Just something to mock.
I was about to snap when the door burst open. Draven strode in.
Myrielle’s eyes flickered. She hurried to me, draping a coat over my shoulders, her tone syrup-sweet.
“Lunessa, don’t hurt yourself, alright? If you want to apologize, say it properly.”
I was too shocked, too exposed, too raw to shove her away.
Draven’s brow furrowed. His voice turned sharp.
“What happened?”
Myrielle lowered her gaze, feigning innocence. “She came in crying, saying she wanted to tear off her gown to make it up to me. We all tried to stop her… but she wouldn’t listen.”
“That’s a lie!” I choked. “You forced them! Draven, check the scry-stones—there are runes in here!”
I knew there were. Every elite lounge had moon-etched recording sigils.
Draven didn’t even look at me. His lip curled.
“Lunessa, don’t sink this low. Stop framing Myrielle.”
My knees buckled. I opened my mouth, but nothing came out.
Myrielle sighed sweetly. “She probably didn’t mean it…”
Draven cut her off coldly. “Don’t blame her. She grew up feral—it made her cunning.”
I collapsed, fingers digging so hard into my palms that blood trickled onto the marble floor.