Matilda's pov

More painful than the bruises on my skin was the one on my heart.

After the ruckus in the training yard, the camp had become calm. In the 1920s, warriors had cowered it away and talked about Michael foaming at the mouth and me being in the middle of it because I didn't know the difference between power and suicide. I wanted so badly to yell at him that I wasn't scared of him, but rather of the way he could use words as cold as a knife to cut right through my heart.

Instead, I ...