Four Years Later
"Momma?"
A tiny voice chimed behind me, soft and sweet like the chime of wind through leaves. I paused mid-stir, setting the spatula down on the counter before turning around.
There she was—my little moonbeam.
Lunara Andrew.
The name had come from my mother. She said it meant "A light born of the Moon's blessing." My aunt—Gabriel's mom—called it "ethereal and grounded, like a child born between realms." Andrew liked it. So did I. Choosing her name had been the one decision in our chaotic lives that felt purely, utterly right.
Her nickname, Luna, felt even more fitting. In the werewolf world, a Luna was more than a title—it was reverence. Power. Grace. She carried it like she'd been born to rule kingdoms.
"Yes, Luna?" I crouched down to her level, and the sight of he
