Michael's pov

It was too quiet in the camp. Not quiet, serene, the kind that follows bloodshed and mayhem, when everyone is too exhausted to talk. Even the wind seems cautious, as though it was aware of our impending split.

Since the attack, I had not talked to Matilda. Never once. Not after she had stared at me with those large, painful, confused eyes, her face covered in blood that wasn't truly hers. Every time I spoke, my words were clear. I avoided it as a result. from her. from the tent. ...