The Lycan King’s Broken Mate
I whispered, not knowing if I spoke to myself, to them, or to the moon.
By the time I stepped out, my skin was fragrant, my hair lay damp along my back. I drew on a thin silk robe and went to the coronation dressing room. The hush there was deeper than usual; the wolves’ shadowed silhouettes on the walls seemed to echo the tread of the ancestors. Beside the dais my gown awaited: Luna attire, silver and midnight. Soft in its fall, unwavering in its carriage. Moon-embroidery at the breast, a belt set with moonstone cinching my waist. A sheer mantle lay over my shoulders, sparking with each movement like pure moonlight.