CELESTE’S POV
The whiskey burned down my throat like liquid fire.
I slammed the glass onto the counter and motioned for another. The bartender hesitated—probably because I’d already had too many—but one glare from me and he poured anyway.
Bass thumped through Luna Noire's overhead speakers, vibrating against the wood and metal like a pulse I couldn’t silence.
Around me, laughter and wolf-scent mingled thickly with alcohol and desperation.
I hated it. I hated all of it. The stench of weak wolves pretending to matter. The way they looked at me now—like I was just another pretty mess, not the Lockwood princess I was. Not the Blackthorne Queen I was supposed to be.
My reflection in the mirror behind the bar looked like a stranger—smudged lipstick, dark-ringed eyes too bright, too sharp, too furious. I barely recognized myself.
My mother’s words still rang in my ears, louder than the music.
