The Lunar Curse: A Second Chance With Alpha Draven-Chapter 476: The Difficult Conversation

[Meredith].

"I am," I replied, sitting up with a small smile of my own. "Good morning."

"Good morning, my love." His eyes softened, then sharpened with mischief. "You must really be enjoying sleeping in these days."

I rolled my eyes lightly. "Maybe I am."

He walked closer, not even trying to hide how pleased he was to tease me. "You should have joined me for morning runs ever since we returned to Stormveil."

I made a noncommittal hum, hoping he would drop it, but he didn’t. In fact, he smirked.

"I know exactly what to do."

I narrowed my eyes. "What?"

"You will start running this evening."

I stared at him flatly. He stared back, entirely serious.

"No," I said immediately.

"Yes," he countered without missing a beat.

I tried redirecting. "Draven, I had a long day yesterday. And I—"

"You’re trying to avoid the topic. Again." He cut me off with a slow raise of his brow.

I froze for a moment. I never thought he would catch me trying to avoid the topic, or better still, I thought he would play along even if he knew. But turns out it was just my own wishful thinking.

Then, as if stamping his final decision into the air, he said, "Get ready for this evening. We run every day at six."

"I don’t recall agreeing to that," I muttered.

He folded his arms over his chest, sweat-dark hair sticking to his skin in a way that was unfairly distracting. "You will thank me later."

"I doubt it." Running was one of the few things I didn’t want to restart.

"Mm. You will still be there."

I exhaled, completely defeated, but not enough to give him the last word.

"You know," I said, crossing my arms in return, "it’s funny how enthusiastic you are about forcing me into a routine, yet you conveniently avoided a topic I brought up the other day."

His expression stilled. Then his hands settled on his waist as he looked at me, genuinely confused.

"What topic?"

I held his gaze, preparing myself. Because now, he wasn’t escaping this conversation.

"Your mother," I answered quietly.

Draven froze for a heartbeat, then released a long, heavy sigh. His chest rose and fell slowly, the weight of that topic settling visibly across his shoulders.

"It’s a sensitive thing," he said, voice low. "And... honestly, I forgot. I got busy with something else."

I studied his face. There was no lie there, just exhaustion and a truth he didn’t enjoy holding.

I shifted, patting the space beside me on the bed. He didn’t hesitate. He sat immediately, close enough that his warmth brushed my arm.

"The other day," I reminded softly, "you said we would discuss her later. I believe now is the perfect time."

His eyes closed briefly, as if bracing himself. When he opened them again, he didn’t try to escape the conversation.

"What do you want to know?" he asked.

I began carefully. "How long has she been like this...? With the dementia and the violence?"

Draven’s jaw flexed once. "Since Dennis was born."

I inhaled sharply. Since Dennis was born? That meant his entire life.

Suddenly, Dennis’s bitterness made sense on a deeper, painful level. He had never known a mother’s love. Not even for a moment.

And as for Draven, he had childhood memories, at least a few, but Dennis had nothing. My heart ached for both of them.

"And the dementia?" I pressed gently. "It comes and goes... but she remembers you more than Dennis?"

He nodded faintly.

"She remembers me because her illness started shortly after I was born. She still had years of clarity with me, but not with Dennis."

I felt a sting in my chest. That poor boy, now a grown man, was never once recognized by his own mother.

"I asked the doctors back then," Draven continued, voice flattening. "The verdict was the same every time. No cure. No treatment. She will live like this for the rest of her life."

"I don’t like that answer," I murmured before I could stop myself.

He glanced at me, something flickering behind his eyes.

I imagined being in their mother’s place—Draven raising children alone, unable to help me, while the entire estate lived under the shadow of a disease no healer could understand.

But I believed that if it were me, Draven would tear the world apart looking for a cure.

"That must have been difficult," I said quietly. "For you. For Dennis. And for your father."

His expression went unreadable again—hard, controlled. But I had one more question, a dangerous one at that.

"Draven, do you remember what triggered her illness? How it began?"

His brows drew together slowly.

"No," he said. "I don’t. I was too young. But as far back as I can remember, my mother was always hysterical."

His voice tightened, almost reluctantly. "She had a short temper. She argued constantly with my father. Fought with him. It wasn’t peaceful."

My eyes widened slightly. So, the Oatrun marriage—the one I had just assumed was noble and strong wasn’t rosy at all.

The illness didn’t turn a loving mother into someone violent. The violence was already there, but just obscured or ignored.

I swallowed softly, my mind racing with new pieces of a puzzle I didn’t yet understand.

"Where is she now?" I asked quietly.

Draven didn’t look away. "Here. In this house."

I nodded slowly, not surprised. He had once mentioned that extended members of his family lived in this giant estate, yet I had never accidentally encountered even one. That alone said enough.

"I want to visit her today," I said suddenly. "If that’s possible."

Draven’s reaction was instant. His eyes widened slightly with alarm.

"Why?" he asked. "Why do you want to see her?"

"I want to meet her," I answered simply. "To see what she looks like. And, I am her daughter-in-law. I should go greet her."

His expression hardened. "No." The refusal came fast, firm. He pushed up from the bed and stood.

I blinked, not expecting that. "Why not?" I pressed.

"Because she is violent, Meredith." His voice lowered but sharpened. "She can injure you."