SERAPHINA’S POV
The glass in my hand had long since gone warm, condensation slick against my skin.
I anchored myself in that sensation, fixed on that singular point, because everything else in this moment demanded precision. Control.
And control was Herculean when anger simmered beneath the surface.
Lunar Noire was quiet tonight.
Not the natural lull of a slow evening, but the deliberate, curated stillness of a place stripped down to only what we needed.
We had rented it out hours ago, cleared the staff, secured every entrance, layered ward upon ward until the air itself felt thick with intent.
A perfect trap.
Low amber lights cast a soft glow on polished wood and dark leather, shadows pooling in corners. Music played faintly in the background, slow and unobtrusive, just enough to make the space feel normal.
If you didn’t look too closely.
If you didn’t pay too much attention to the “patrons”.
