All Chapters of MoonRiver’s Broken Luna: Chapter 11 - Chapter 16

Lillieth surfaced to late light, the room blue and quiet, the air warm with storm and clean soap. Her throat didn’t feel like razors anymore—more like bruised fruit. Her ribs ached dull. Her wrists pulsed under the wraps. But her mind… clearer. Enough to think past the next breath.Enough to think about doors.“Hey,” Draven said, low, the word shaped like care instead of command. He’d felt the change in her breathing; he’d been doing nothing else but listening. “How’s the world?”She tested a swallow, then a nod. “Less… spinning.”“Good.” His thumb traced the edge of her bandage. “Water?”She nodded again. Greta had left a cup. He held the straw, patient, counting the sips under his breath like a litany. When she leaned back, spent, he settled the cup aside and eased her against the pillows, careful as if the linen could bruise her.Lillieth looked past him toward the door.His chest tightened.“Say it,” he murmured.“I should… go back,” she whispered. “My room. Jane keeps it clean. I

The pack had grown quiet after Tomas’s execution.Too quiet.MoonRiver wolves were creatures of noise — growls, laughter, footsteps in the dirt, the hum of dominance through every hall. Now, the air inside the packhouse felt heavy, thick, listening. Every whisper died too fast, every door closed too softly.Draven could taste it in the air — fear, guilt, something else beneath. The pack was grieving its sins. But not all of them were sorry.That night, storms gathered again.Lillieth stood by the window, her long black hair — clean now, loose for the first time in years — falling around her shoulders like silk ink. The shawl her mother had once woven was wrapped around her arms. Its faint silver embroidery shimmered against the lightning.She felt different. Stronger. And something inside her chest pulsed faintly, a glow that had begun when she’d washed the last of the cellar dirt from her skin.Nyx, her wolf, stirred for the first time in weeks.A low, melodic growl slid through her

The night after the witch’s attack did not bring quiet.The pack slept in shifts, too afraid of the dark. The forest creaked, the wind never settled, and the moon hung swollen and low—pregnant with something that did not love them.Lillieth slept only in pieces.Not nightmares.Not memories.Visions.Her mother’s voice, her wolf’s voice, the witch’s laughter—all threading together through her skull like a song she should know the words to but didn’t.But when she woke—Draven was there.Sitting by her bedside, elbows on his knees, eyes on her like the world hinged on her lungs.“Water?” he asked softly.She nodded.He lifted the cup to her lips, his fingers steady even when his eyes were not.She drank, but she watched him.The storm-light through the window carved shadows along his cheekbones, caught the faint silver ring at his lip. His hair hung messy, damp still from rain or sweat—she wasn’t sure which. His shirt clung to him; he hadn’t changed since the fight.He looked dangerous