Rise Of A Shattered Luna (Natalie) by Kave Derry novel Chapter 242

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MA

Chapter 242 Quit Crying, I Said Quit

Chapter 242 Quit Crying, I Said Quit

Jensen POV

“Jensen? Where are you going?”

She scrambled forward, her good hand reaching out to grab my arm, unease creeping through her scent.

“Let go!” I snapped.

My eyes were as cold as ice.

Sharon’s heart skipped a beat.

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She recoiled slightly, but the fear of being left alone in this house with my mother was greater than her fear of my temper.

“You’re just going to abandon me here?” she cried, her eyes rimmed red, the tears flowing faster now. “Jensen, I’m your wife! I’m carrying your heir! You can’t just walk out!”

She looked as pitiful as always, her face a mask of sorrow that had worked on me for a decade.

But today, the performance was failing.

I looked at Sharon and felt a wave of revulsion so strong I had to physically pull away.

I shoved Sharon off me, not enough to hurt her, but enough to make the point clear.

“Sharon, quit crying,” I said, my voice dropping into a low, terrifying register. “I said quit.”

She choked on a sob, staring at me in shock.

“Letting you live here is already the biggest courtesy I can give you,” “I said flatly, my eyes boring into hers. “If you know what’s good for you, focus on your pregnancy. Stay out of my business, stay in your room, and don’t you dare do anything I don’t like. Especially regarding Natalie. If I find out you’ve so much as whispered her name to a reporter or a servant, I’ll make sure you pay for it in ways my mother can’t protect you from.”

I didn’t wait for her to respond.

I strode off toward the garage, my mind a chaotic storm of memories.

I needed to see Natalie.

I needed to see her hand

“Jensen!”

Her voice echoed through the foyer, but I was already gone.

As I slid into the driver’s seat, I pulled out my phone with a hand that trembled almost imperceptibly.

Fneeded to see.

I needed to know if the suspicion gnawing at my gut was true.

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11:55 am

MA

Chapter 242 Quit Crying, I Said Quit

dialed Hansel.

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“Hansel,” I barked the moment he picked up, my voice sounding ragged even to my own ears. “The comeback project. Natalie’s newest releases. Send me the high-resolution files of the recent transcriptions. I want to see the original manuscripts and the digitized final versions.”

My request caught Hansel off guard.

I could hear him shifting in his seat on the other end of the line.

“The transcriptions, sir? You mean the ancient pack lore she’s been archiving for the Blackridge Pack? Alpha Jensen, we aren’t involved in that project. Why do you need-”

“Just get them, Hansel!” I roared.

“Every Scribe has a fingerprint. Every stroke of the pen, every curve of the ancient script is unique. I want to see what she’s putting her name on.”

“… I understand, sir. I’ll pull the promotional previews and the leaked archival samples. Give me five minutes.”

I sat in the dark interior of the car, my heart hammering against my ribs.

I had been with Natalie for five years.

I had watched her hunch over her desk at three in the morning, her delicate fingers moving with the grace of a weaver as she transcribed the oral histories of the Nightfang Pack.

No one knew her Scribe’s touch, her specific rhythm of ink and parchment, better than I did.

My phone chimed.

A series of screenshots and PDF files flooded my

inbox.

I opened the first one, my eyes narrowing as I zoomed in on the intricate script of an old Southern ballad she had allegedly restored for her new studio.

I froze.

The lines were too perfect.

The weight of the ink was uniform, lacking the subtle, human variation of pressure that a Scribe’s hand naturally creates.

It was clean.

It was precise.

It was computer-generated.

I scrolled through the next five pages.

My blood turned to ice.

It wasn’t just that it was digital; it was the content itself.

Chapter 242 Quit Crying, I Said Quit

recognized a specific flourish on a capital ‘L’ in the third paragraph.

I recognized a slight correction in the margin that she had made years ago.

This wasn’t a new transcription.

It was a digital reconstruction of a work she had finished before the fire.

She wasn’t transcribing anything new.

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She was repackaging her old brilliance, using Al to mimic her own historical style because her hands could no longer hold the pen.

I remembered her telling me, back when we were happy, that she could only find her soul when she felt the friction of the quill against the grain of the parchment.

She used to say that a Scribe who used a computer was just a typist, that the wolf’s spirit could only be captured through the physical act of creation.

The realization hit me with the force of a physical blow.

She truly couldn’t transcribe anymore.

Sharon hadn’t just broken her hand; she had severed Natalie’s connection to her purpose.

She was demanding five years of design and transcription fees from me because she knew she couldn’t rely on her talent to survive anymore.

She was a Scribe who had lost her ink.

My chest tightened with a suffocating, visceral ache.

Raze let out a mournful howl in the back of my mind.

What have I done?

Not only had I allowed Sharon to destroy her, Natalie those five years of chat records.

I had thought that it would be an excuse to see her.

I thought looking back at our “love” would soften her.

Was I insane?

yesterday, I had followed my mother’s orders like a loyal lapdog and sent

That wasn’t a gesture of care; it was pouring acid into her wounds.

I was reminding a woman who had lost her livelihood and her physical grace of the very man who had watched it happen and done nothing.

The thought made me want to strike myself.

“Hansel,” I said into the phone, my voice cracking. “Can we take back the files? The ones we sent to her studio email? Can we recall

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