Page 141 of The Moonborn's Curse

Seren learned. Slowly. Painfully.

By the end of the first week, Seren had had enough.

Shifters were snarling at her, baring teeth over spilt drinks and late orders. A witch on her third cocktail accused her of tampering with her charm. Someone called her "prey-shaped." And now—this one—a feral-eyed shifter of unknown origin was snapping at her heels, his voice rising with every complaint.

"Too slow. Too clumsy. You've got foxblood, don't you? That explains the twitchy little fingers."

She clenched her jaw, trying to breathe through it, but his voice grated like broken glass.

"You'll never last in this place, fresh blood. No bite in you."

And that was it.

She turned, tray still in hand, and said loud enough for the nearby tables to hear:

"Do you want your friends to know about your tryst behind the bar cooler last night?"

The shifter froze.

Several heads turned.

His face darkened—first with shock, then with rage.

"How did you... What the...You little—"

He lunged toward her.

But before claws could flash, Griff appeared, moving with unexpected speed for someone so massive. One meaty hand clamped on the back of the jackal's neck.

"Out."

"But she used—"

Griff didn't let him finish. He hauled the man off the floor like he weighed nothing and threw him toward the exit without ceremony. The door slammed shut behind him.

Then he turned back to Seren.

His jaw worked. "Don't."

She swallowed.

"I didn't cast anything—"

"I don't care," he said flatly. "No magic. No tricks. No games, little witch. You hear something? Keep it in your pocket. This bar's a no-magic fly zone."

"But he was—"

Griff's voice lowered, rumbling. "I saw. And I handled it. Just don't let it happen again."

Seren's hands shook a little as she picked up her tray, anger and humiliation bleeding under her skin like bruises.

"Understood," she said quietly.

He gave a gruff nod and retreated, leaving her burning.

But things got better in week two.

Slowly.

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