The Alpha’s Moonbreather
Every breath scraped her ribs raw, each inhale a war.
Yet her eyes—her eyes still burned.
Luka knelt at her side, grinding herbs into a paste with slow, deliberate motions. His hands were steady, though his jaw was tight, his brow lined with shadows. The small clay lamp between them sputtered, its flame barely enough to hold back the dark.
“You should be dead,” Luka muttered at last, not looking at her. “Any other soul would be.”
Becky’s lips curled, though blood streaked her teeth. “But I’m not.” Her voice was a rasp, thin as smoke but sharp. “Do you see, Luka? Even the fire couldn’t take me. I was chosen in the flames.”
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