Elena stepped inside, paused, and took in the scene: the disheveled bed, Dakota half-buried in blankets, hair a wild tumble, expression stormy with embarrassment and lingering heat.
"Royal Luna…" Elena said carefully, the tone one might use when approaching an injured wolf. "Do you need anything?"
Dakota turned her head and fixed her with the wounded dignity of a woman deeply offended by her own body. "Yes." Her voice came out hoarse and dramatic. "Come here and give me a massage."
Elena blinked.
Dakota pressed a hand to her middle with theatrical flair. "I feel terrible." Then, after a beat of pure suffering, "And call the healer."
That thoroughly alarmed Elena. "Terrible" in a Royal Luna's mouth sounded like catastrophe. "Yes—yes, at once."
