Page 142 of The Moonborn's Curse

The regulars grew used to her. She learned which of them to avoid, who tipped well, who preferred silence. Ana taught her shortcuts. Ravaryn mostly left her alone, except for the occasional snap.

"Tripped on air again?"

"Nice shirt. From the pity rack?"

"You pour like a toddler on caffeine."

"That tray's winning, Useless"

Rhea started leaving herbal teas near her locker with sticky notes that said "Drink. Don't argue."

And in the rare quiet hours—Seren breathed.

She walked to the edge of the city, into the wildest part of the forest where the trees grew thick and the ground hummed under her boots.

The city fell away behind her.

She returned to her photography.

The forest embraced her—still, even now. Birds came close. A fox brushed past her ankle. The moss cushioned her steps like it remembered her.

For the first time in weeks, she didn't feel like she was unravelling.

She was still bruised.

Still hurting.

But she was standing.

And she was not thinking of Hagan. Of his smile. Of his breath on her neck. Of his fingers working her scalp, of the feel of him spooning her in the morning. She wasn't.

She memorised table numbers. Learned which customers tipped and which ones growled. She got better at carrying drinks and wiping down the disgusting bathrooms that reeked of things she never wanted to identify.

She cleaned vomit with a dead-eyed stare. Collected bloodied shot glasses without comment. Endured whispered slurs from snide drunk humans and shifter smirks alike.

And Ryn—Ravaryn—seemed to enjoy her suffering.

Snide comments. "Accidental" spills. The time she locked Seren in the storeroom for twenty minutes "as a joke."

"You're not special," she hissed once. "Just another runaway with a sob story."

Seren said nothing and endured with gritted teeth. She dreamt of turning Ravaryn into a warty toad.

But one night, a shifter—mean-eyed and stinking of whisky—grabbed her from behind. She was in a sparkly black top that Ana insisted made her "look like forbidden sugar," her hair in a braid, cheeks flushed from a fast shift.

A large hand cupped her behind.

"You're a pretty little thing," he slurred as he tucked a note into the cleft between her breasts. "Let it down for me, baby. I'll make it worth your while."

She froze.

Something in her mind reeled—back to a hand in her hair, a pull, a laugh.

Hagan.

She flinched and stepped back. "Excuse me," she said, calm but firm, edging toward the kitchen door.

But he followed.

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