𝐌𝐢𝐤𝐡𝐚𝐢𝐥
The question hung in the air between us, raw and unvarnished.
She didn't look away or try to soften it with false bravado or nervous laughter. She just sat there, wrapped in that blanket with her bare feet tucked under her, waiting for an answer she already feared.
The honesty of it caught me off guard.
Most people—most wolves, even—would have dressed the question up in pride or strategy. They would have asked about training protocols, about Veronique's weaknesses, about anything that didn't require them to admit their terror so plainly. But Selene had just looked me in the eye and asked if she was going to die.
I should have lied. I should have given her false reassurance, promised her victory, or told her everything would be fine if she just trusted me. Instead, I found myself pulling up the data I'd been reviewing all evening and turning the monitor toward her.
