Page 178 of The Moonborn's Curse

"Can't," he said simply.

After breakfast, she mentioned she had a photo shoot planned—a little trip to her favourite hidden trail on the edge of the city forest. Her tone was casual. Maybe even pointed.

Of course, Hagan wasn't having it.

"I'll come with you," he said, already clearing plates.

She rolled her eyes. "You don't even know where—"

"Doesn't matter. I'll carry your things."

Before she could argue, Threk looked up from his empty plate, still licking syrup from his thumb. "I could come too—"

Hagan turned his head slowly, deliberately.

The look he gave Threk was not just violent. It was a death glare iced in quiet promise.

Threk blinked. "Actually, I just remembered... the dojo's running drills. Gotta... help." He stood up, grabbed his mug, and scuttled toward the kitchen.

"Coward," Seren muttered.

"Pragmatist," Threk called back.

Hagan turned to her, all eager wolf. "Ready?"

"No. I need to change," she said, marching toward her room.

He followed, clearly intending to wait inside.

The door slammed shut in his face.

He grunted. "We'll work on that."

The bus ride was mercifully quiet, aside from the constant low hum of the city beyond the windows.

Seren sat stiffly against the glass, her camera bag on her lap. Hagan had followed her despite her telling him to get lost, short and brutal. He sat beside her, too close, thigh pressed against hers, arm slung along the seat back like he wasn't taking up too much space on purpose.

She edged away.

He edged back in.

"Personal space," she muttered.

"It's such a small seat," he said innocently, though his eyes sparkled with mischief.

When the bus rumbled to a stop at the forest edge—her secret spot, the one she hadn't shared with anyone but Threk—Seren jumped up and practically speed-walked off. Hagan, of course, followed with a long-legged stride, carrying her tripod, thermos, and snack bag with smug efficiency.

As they walked, the urban landscape gave way to green. The scent of bark and river moss settled in her lungs. Birds called overhead. She breathed deeper.

He was quiet beside her.

Not hovering. Not pushing.

Justthere.

She glanced at him.

Gone were the careless curls—his hair was cropped close now, highlighting the sharp angles of his cheekbones. His shoulders strained the thin grey shirt he'd changed into, the fabric clinging to muscle and power. He looked older, leaner. More dangerous. More beautiful.

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