In that moment, something worse than Myrielle’s cruelty became clear.
It was Draven’s blindness.
His devotion to her.
His betrayal of me.
A bitter, cracked laugh tore from my throat.
“So this is how lowly you see me, Alpha Draven,” I whispered, voice scraping like gravel.
“In your eyes… I’m truly nothing more than that kind of she-wolf.”
Tears finally spilled, dripping onto the moonstone tiles beneath my feet.
Something flickered across Draven’s expression—a faint crease of confusion, a hint of sensing my inner turmoil through the weakened bond—but before he could speak, Myrielle’s melodic voice sliced in.
“Draven,” she cooed, threading her arm through his. “Everyone’s gathered. Why don’t we head to the training grounds? It’s my name-day. We should do something spirited.”
The guests chimed in instantly.
“Yes! A run with the spirit-steeds sounds perfect!”
“Let’s go!”
Whatever Draven had been about to say vanished.
“Fine,” he said curtly. Then he glanced at me. “Change into something proper. Let’s put what happened earlier behind us.”
I didn’t respond. I pulled away from his hand, turned my back and changed into the garments his attendant delivered.