Page 143 of The Moonborn's Curse

"I saw you with it down the other day," he said, leering now. "Like dark silk. So pretty."

She tightened her grip on the tray and turned, quickening her steps—

He grabbed her braid.

It yanked her head back, sudden and sharp. Not enough to hurt—but enough to shock.

Something splintered through her—memory.

A warm laugh, fingers in her hair, the gentle tug she used to pretend annoyed her.

Hagan.

She froze, paralyzed by the clash of past and present.

"C'mon, little one," the wolf murmured, seemingly unaware of her resistance. "Don't be shy. You wear sparkle for a reason."

The tray slipped from her hand, clattering against the floor.

"Let. Go," she said quietly, throat tight.

But his hand stayed.

And then—he yelped.

The wolf shifter writhed on the floor, gasping, one hand clawing at the sticky tiles, the other still half-reaching for Seren. Hands moved to his groin as he groaned on the dirty floor.

Ravaryn stood over him, eyes narrowed, black boot still raised from the impact.

"She's staff, pencil-dick," she snapped.

But Ryn wasn't done.

In one fluid motion, she pulled a wicked-looking knife —a dusky silver blade etched with runes, its edge saw-toothed like it had tasted blood many times and remembered—and pressed it to the man's crotch with lethal precision.

Her expression didn't change.

Just the slight tightness in her jaw. The flicker of something cold behind her eyes.

She snarled. "You touch her again, I'll gut you like the animal you pretend to be."

The bar went quiet for a heartbeat. Even the music seemed to mute itself.

The shifter whimpered.

Before he could even crawl away, a massive hand wrapped around the back of his shirt.

Griff.

He loomed like a thundercloud, eyes flat and voice gravelly.

"I see things are well in hand," he muttered, nodding toward the blade still at the wolf's groin.

Ravaryn didn't even blink. She just sheathed the knife , slow and deliberate.

Griff grunted, then hoisted the groaning shifter like a sack of potatoes—one arm slung over his shoulder, legs dangling, whimpering curses under his breath.

Without ceremony, he marched to the door and hurled the man bodily through it.

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