Luna's POV

Ariana had been back for less than twelve hours.

And already, I’d mentally slapped her in the face about sixteen times.

She was resting. Healing. Whatever.

But I was the one who had aged thirty years thinking she’d been kidnapped, trafficked, or worse dead in a ditch with nothing but her pastel sweater to remember her by.

So, yes, I was being dramatic.

But also? I earned it.

And I wasn’t leaving until I let her know.

I burst into her room without ...