The Heartbroken Luna's Choice Banish Love novel Chapter 180

Chapter 180 

Third Person’s POV 

Cassian stepped into her space, looming over her. “As your mate, I have a responsibility to look out for you. I’m telling you one last time–Isaiah is a loose cannon. He’s unstable and unpredictable. Keep your distance.” 

Right on cue, Trista’s comm–stone flickered to life. 

She glanced down at the screen, then looked up at Cassian, her voice as flat as a clinical report. “Alpha Isaiah might be a ‘loose cannon, but he’s also my patient. And more importantly, he’s the one currently paying my bills.” 

With that, she turned her back on him to take the call. 

Cassian stood frozen, forced to listen to her professional, poised voice as she coordinated a time and place to meet Isaiah. Every word felt like she was intentionally widening the canyon between them. 

When she hung up, she grabbed her bag, ready to head out. 

“Are you forgetting something?” Cassian’s voice was low, strained. 

Trista stopped. She turned around, walked back to him, and stood on her tiptoes to press a feather–light kiss against the corner of his mouth. 

It was a textbook move–standard, polite, and completely devoid of warmth. It was social etiquette, nothing more. 

Cassian’s face darkened even further. “Trista, you didn’t change my bandages last night.” 

Trista tapped her forehead as if she’d just realized she’d missed a minor chore. 

She’d actually forgotten he was even injured. 

The wounds were near his shoulder blade; every time his aura flared, the underlying muscle would pull tight, like tiny hooks raking through his flesh. 

She set her bag down and led him into the bedroom without a word of apology or comfort. 

She pulled the medical kit from the cabinet–antiseptics, dressings, and pain suppressants. She began unbuttoning his white shirt, her movements quick and clinical. 

As the shirt fell away, the whip marks were exposed under the harsh light. 

Trista leaned in to work. 

Cassian sat on the edge of the bed, his spine rigid, his face a mask of cold fury. 

He didn’t say a word. He could feel her close to him–the scent of her, the heat of her–but the familiar pull of the bond was nowhere to be found. 

Once the new dressing was secure, she draped his shirt back over his shoulders. 

She smoothed the collar to make sure it wouldn’t chafe the wounds, but she didn’t bother with the buttons. 

She just grabbed her bag and walked out. No backward glance. No “goodbye.” 

Cassian remained on the edge of the bed, staring at his open shirt–an unfinished task left hanging. 

He spent a few minutes meticulously packing the medical kit, lining up the bottles and jars in perfect order before clicking the latches shut. His movements were precise, a desperate attempt to regain some sense of order. 

His comm–stone buzzed nearby. 

It was his father, telling him to bring Trista to their villa for lunch. 

Cassian agreed, hung up, and went to the dressing room to change. 

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