The Sleeping Wolf

Elira

The small hut intensely smells of smoke, sweat, and old wool. A single candle gutters low on a cracked wooden crate, and its thin light paints Wane’s face in shifting shadows now.

My wrist is still raw where his hard grip pressed the blood bond into my skin; the pulse there is an angry drumbeat that utterly refuses to quiet.

He holds my hand now like a prize he has not quite decided to keep or completely crush, like he is strongly testing what I am truly worth to ...