Page 155 of The Moonborn's Curse

But even with her growing independence—her job, her friends, her strange roommate of a bear-turned-bouncer—he still came to her.

Hagan

Always in dreams.

Sometimes, it was his touch—a brush of fingers down her spine that made her wake with her chest heaving. Sometimes, it was just his voice in the dark, whispering her name like a prayer soaked in regret. In the worst ones, he was standing at the edge of her vision—close enough to reach but never quite there.

And every time, she woke with an ache in her chest, pressing a hand to the faded scar along her forearm.

The bond was gone. She was sure of that. Why would he wait for her when he had Lia? She had been gone for two years now.

But some part of him—of them—still clung to the corners of her subconscious, digging in with claws made of memory and what-ifs.

At her lowest, weakest moments, she would find herself staring at her phone. Wondering. Hoping. Regretting.

It had stayed off for more than two years.

She hadn't spoken to her mother in just as long. She sent messages through Talis—small updates, reassurances—but she never let her mother hear her voice.

Because she was angry.

Still angry.

At everyone.

The wolves. The oracle. Her mother. Even the crone, sometimes, for dying before she could give her all the answers. They had all decided for her. Her path. Her mate. Her purpose. All mapped out, and she had walked it because it was what was expected. The prophesy that ruled her life.

No one had asked her what she wanted.

No one had let her choose. Until she took matters into her own hands.

And that fury, once a spark, had settled into something low and simmering. A slow burn of resentment that tinted everything—every interaction, every breath of relief she felt when she realized she was finally living a life of her own making.

Even if it was messy. Even if it still hurt.

Warlocks and wandering shifters flirted with her—charmed smiles, little gifts, and invitations to shows. But her heart never lifted.

It's not broken; she told herself. Just... sleeping.

Until one of them—a soft-eyed warlock named Riven—wore her down with gentle insistence and polite attention. He made her laugh. He asked her about her photography. And he was beautiful in a way that any woman would look twice.

One evening, after he had coerced her into having dinner with him, he leaned in and kissed her gently on the corner of her mouth.

And... nothing.

No jolt. No flutter.

Only silence.

She'd smiled tightly, mumbled something about a long day, and let him walk her back to the steps of her apartment.

The streets were mostly empty when she distractedly climbed the stairs to her third-floor apartment and fumbled with her keys. The ancient elevator was a health and safety hazard, and the resident phantom liked high-speed up-and-down rides. Through the open window on the landing, the hush of the night air drifted across her skin, carrying the elusive aroma that haunted her dreams. Her fingers trembled faintly—not from the cold.

A voice, never forgotten—soft and hoarse—whispered behind her.

"Seren... it's me—Hagan."

She went still.

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