Azura sat on the bench outside the milk tea shop, her drink halfway to her lips, frozen in place like a statue of existential confusion.
In front of her, Caroline was slapping someone.
Not a gentle pat. Not a playful tap. A full, open-palmed, echoing SLAP that made the poor victim's head snap to the side like a bobblehead doll.
Azura took a slow sip of her milk tea.
How did we get here?
Two hours ago, everything had been fine.
Vincent had dropped them off at the shopping district like a dad letting his kids loose at the mall, muttering something about "not causing an international incident" before speeding off to the border like he was fleeing a crime scene.
And Azura—who for the past four days in this novel's world had only traveled between her house and the pack house in trips that lasted less than ten minutes—finally got to see what this place actually looked like.
And it was huge.
