The Lunar Curse: A Second Chance With Alpha Draven novel Chapter 484

Chapter 484: Fear

[Meredith].

Yes, I had overheard her denying Dennis minutes earlier, behind the closed door, but this—this felt different.

This wasn’t confusion or hysteria. This wasn’t her illness whispering nonsense either.

There was pity in her eyes, clarity in her voice, and a grounded truth in the way her words flowed. And it was that clarity that made the breath lodge in my throat.

My pulse quickened. If she were ranting, I could dismiss it. If she were angry, I could question it.

But like this—calm, lucid, almost grieving, it felt too real.

And for the first time since stepping into this place, a chill crept beneath my skin as the weight of Lady Oatrun’s words settled heavily over me.

She’s telling the truth. Or at least, she believes she is. And I didn’t know which option frightened me more.

I forced myself to breathe and gather my courage. "Why do you say so?" I asked quietly.

Whether what she said made sense or not, I needed to hear more. I needed to understand.

Lady Oatrun leaned in—so close I could feel her breath warm against my ear.

Her whisper was soft but sharp. "Randall brought him to me from outside."

I blinked. Outside? That made no sense.

If Dennis were brought from outside, someone—anyone—would have known. Rumours traveled fast among werewolves, even faster in noble circles. There had never been a single whisper of adoption, infidelity, or scandal.

Before I could question it, she continued:

"I had just given birth to a stillborn when he brought the child to me."

My stomach tightened.

"He wanted me to raise the child he had with his mistress as my own, which I refused." Her voice sharpened, trembling with old anger. "We had a big fight, and then he declared me mad and locked me down here."

For a moment—just a moment, I believed her. Her tone, her expression, the rawness of her voice...

But then— ’locked me up here.’

The belief died instantly. My shock deflated.

Draven had told me himself that she came down here willingly. That she chose isolation, that she misremembered the truth.

If he hadn’t told me that earlier, I would have already believed her entire story.

Trying to ground myself, I said gently, "But Dennis and Draven look so much alike."

She rolled her eyes dramatically. "Of course. Randall is their father."

Before I could react, she sighed almost impatiently.

"I know you may find it hard to believe me," she murmured, "but here is the thing. Dennis’s mother is a full werewolf, just like Randall."

Instantly, goosebumps erupted along my arms.

The way she said it, like she was so certain, so clear, and so sane.

I suddenly didn’t want this conversation to go any further. I felt as if every additional word was a truth I would never be able to unlearn—and maybe I shouldn’t learn.

But something drove me forward—a whisper of instinct, a whisper of dread.

"Are you not one?" I asked before I could stop myself.

Lady Oatrun turned to me slowly, her expression becoming eerily serious. "Do I look like one?"

My breath caught in my throat, but just then—suddenly she burst into laughter, loud and unrestrained, as if the question itself were a joke only she understood.

I didn’t understand her— her patterns, her moods, her contradictions. She was drifting between clarity and madness, truth and confusion, affection and violence.

I tried to read her eyes to find something stable in them. But she looked away with a fleeting smile, then took my hand gently.

"You are perfect for my son." Her tone softened, almost tender.

Then, with a cold edge beneath the words, she added, "I don’t like that girl Wanda."

I swallowed. This woman was unreadable, unpredictable, and terrifying in a way that had nothing to do with physical violence.

There were things she knew that she shouldn’t. Things she forgot that she shouldn’t. And things she remembered with perfect clarity.

I sat there holding her hand, unsure if I had just uncovered a truth or stepped into a deeper lie.

Then, I asked, "Do you know Wanda?"

Lady Oatrun’s expression shifted—subtle, but unmistakable. Recognition flickered, and her lips curled in a faint, displeased smile.

"Of course," she murmured. "I know Wanda far too well."

Then, she leaned back slightly, her fingers tapping against her knee in a slow, rhythmic pattern.

"Be careful of her," she said, her tone drifting between warning and indifference. "Whatever she does isn’t entirely her fault... but an enemy is still an enemy."

My brows pulled together. Her words made no sense, yet they struck something in me—an uneasiness I couldn’t explain.

Then suddenly, she blinked and looked at me as though seeing me for the first time. "What is your name?"

My heart sank. She had already forgotten.

’Here we go again.’

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