And then—God, I wish I could make this part up—some of them actually laughed.
Laughed.
Like it was a comedy special.
Like I was the punchline.
One of them—the baldest one, with this veiny neck and a voice like dry gravel—shook his head and actually said it. Loud. Disrespectful. Like I wasn’t even standing there.
“You must be a clown, Alpha Damon.”
I blinked.
He went on.
“Are you blind? This girl looks like she’s still playing with sand. She’s a child. This is the Luna you claim? Is this a joke to you?”
And I swear, something in me snapped. Not quietly. Not sweetly. Not like a twig in a forest. No. It snapped like a rib cage being crushed under a feral shift. Like dignity being ripped from your throat and spat on by men who thought they owned the air.
Because how dare they?
How f
