The Alpha's Runaway Luna
The mint on her wrist flares, the key under it settles against her pulse like it’s listening.
“Primary here.” Her voice holds. “Secondary here and tertiary there. Cut last. If you cut first, you make a witch laugh.”
“That’s my girl,” Becky purrs in my ear, listening from the kitchen where she’s currently hacking city lights for practice. “Kaia, your baby is learning bombs.”
“She’s ours,” I say, and Olive’s mouth twitches, a shy predator showing teeth.
“Consent check,” I ask Olive. “You want the knife?”
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