-Elara Voss:
Three months.
It had been three months since Ronan was turned.
Three months of anger. Three months of frustration. Three months of him barely tolerating us—of him barely tolerating me.
I knew he blamed Lucien. I knew he blamed me too, even if he never said it outright. He probably only tolerated me because I was pregnant, and he didn't want to upset me. He'd been… gentle with me so far. Careful. Even when his temper flared, even when he lashed out at Lucien, he never once raised his voice at me.
Lucien, though?
Lucien bore the brunt of it.
Every time Ronan needed to feed, it was a fight. A tantrum. He'd snarl and spit venomous words, call Lucien selfish, heartless, a monster. Every insult that crossed his mind, he threw it like a blade, and Lucien—Lucien just took it. He never snapped back, never raised his voice. He just listened. And then he tried to feed Ronan anyway.
It had been three months of this.
