Luna was six months old the day she hiccupped and tore a hole in reality.
It started ordinarily enough. Seraphina was feeding her lunch—pureed sweet potatoes that Luna had decided were the most fascinating substance in the universe. Half the food ended up on Luna's face, the other half somehow in her hair. Normal baby chaos.
"You're supposed to eat it, not wear it," Seraphina said, wiping orange goop from Luna's eyebrow.
Luna giggled, and the sound was pure six-month-old joy. No cosmic calculations. No strategic awareness. Just a baby delighted by her mother's exasperation.
Then she hiccupped.
The air in the nursery rippled. Not metaphorically—literally rippled, like water disturbed by a stone. Seraphina felt the mate bond flare in alarm as Damon sensed the disturbance from his office downstairs.
"Hic—" Luna's eyes went wide with surprise at the sound. "Hic—hic—"
