The Heartbroken Luna's Choice Banish Love novel Chapter 17

**Where Soft Light Shines, Darkness Fades From Tired Hearts by Evan Holt Crane**

**Chapter 17**

**Trista’s POV**

As he drew nearer, I felt the warmth of his presence enveloping me like a soft blanket. He gently lifted the edge of the duvet, tucking it tenderly beneath my collarbone, a gesture imbued with care. “No,” he stated firmly, his voice cutting through the stillness of the room.

The clarity of his refusal hung in the air, stark against the tenderness of his actions. It was a contradiction that left me momentarily disoriented.

With a flick of his wrist, he extinguished the bedside lamp, plunging the room into a comforting darkness that felt like a heavy curtain falling to signal the end of a performance.

He drew me closer, wrapping his arms around me over the blanket, and I could sense his soothing pheromones, usually potent, now muted to an almost undetectable level.

“Get some rest. I’ll accompany you to see Ulva and Randolph this weekend,” he murmured, his voice low and steady.

It was as if he were merely outlining a schedule, devoid of warmth, rather than offering solace to someone teetering on the edge of emotional collapse.

I squeezed my eyes shut, desperately hoping for sleep to take me, but it eluded me like a fleeting shadow.

The rhythmic thump of his heartbeat resonated in my ears, each pulse a reminder of his vitality, a stark contrast to the turmoil roiling within me.

On the surface, everything appeared meticulously arranged.

He honored my parents, he cleared the Silverlight Pack’s debts, and he provided me with status and wealth.

These gestures of goodwill, though seemingly generous, felt like a polished shell, concealing the intricate mechanisms that lay beneath.

I could see the cogs turning in my mind, calculating cost and benefit, weighing allocation and order.

Yet, amidst this mechanical precision, I felt myself being crushed, caught in the relentless gears of his plans.

In the days that had passed, I had buried my pain deep within, stifling the low whimpers of my wolf, convinced that I could achieve a clean break.

But the truth struck me like a cold wave: he held all the power in this dynamic.

To him, I was a mere afterthought. Samantha and her son were the focal point of his world—the core that required protection and elevation on the priority list.

The realization sent a jolt through my stomach, a sinking sensation that echoed like a tide receding from the shore, revealing the jagged, bleached coral beneath.

Then, from the depths of my heart, a heavier emotion surged forth, cold and suffocating.

Despair was creeping in, and I recognized the familiar feeling from a time long ago—my first “Initial Howl Night.”

That night marked the first lesson for young wolf pups: approach the tree line after dusk, expand your chest, summon your breath, and let your voice rise to the moon.

It wasn’t a joyous celebration; it was a rite of passage—an initiation so the pack could identify your unique howl amidst the chaos of storms or migrations.

As howls rose and fell around me, I noticed how all the pups instinctively gravitated toward the familiar calls of their mothers.

But I was different. I was drawn to another howl, one that was colder and steadier, a sound that wove through the flickering firelight and dancing shadows.

I found myself at his feet, gripping his pant leg tightly, my heart racing.

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