He wanted it too. His hands unsteady. Voice broken. He pressed closer. And then he wasn't there.
So why did wanting me look like that on his face after?
The tears slow.
I wipe my face on the sleeve. The huge sleeve. His sleeve.
A laugh. Wet and broken and very undignified.
"I almost died for flowers." Raw and scratchy. "He's right. I'm an idiot."
I stand up. Legs holding this time.
I keep walking.
The clearing comes through the trees. I shake my shoulders out. Arrange my face into something normal. Fine. Went to gather flowers, got scratched, came back. Totally normal outing.
"Mel!"
Shit. Kestria. Sharp with alarm, already running toward me, braids swinging.
"What happened? You're bleeding—"
"I'm fine. Went too far, got scratched up."
"You're covered in—" She's close now. Close enough to scent me.
Oh.
She's a wolf. Of course she can.
She stops. Her shoulders set. Expression going careful. I don't like it.
The bruise on my cheek. The blood. The shirt.
I watch her eyes catch on it. She says nothing about it—doesn't mean she's not reading it. "You went out alone?"
"I was getting flowers. For dye." I hold up the basket. "The pack ground is depressing."
"Mel."
"It IS depressing. It's all brown. Have you looked at it lately? Really—"
"You're bleeding and you're talking about brown."
"I'm multitasking."
"You're deflecting." She catches my arm. Gentle. Not letting go. "What happened out there?"
"Humans. Two of them."
Her grip tightens. "Humans. In our territory."
"They grabbed me. Cut one of them—deep, into the arm—and then Keer showed up and dealt with it."
"Dealt with it."
"They're dead, Kestria."
