Cara
The walls of Maeve and Morris’s home felt warmer than the pack house ever had. Maybe it was the hearth that never seemed to go out, or the faint aroma of herbs Maeve always had steeping in jars along the kitchen window.
Maeve set down a tray of bread and honey between us, her sharp green eyes flicking over me with the kind of look that stripped a person down to their bones. “Child, you’ve been quiet all morning,” she said to me.
I tried to smile, though my hands curled tight in my lap. “Just thinking.” I told her.
“Thinking,” she said with a knowing tilt of her head, “or doubting?” She asked me.
The words hit too close. I had doubted—myself, my place beside Jace, my worth in this plan. I wasn’t born a warrior. I wasn’t trained like the others. I had been the servant, the overlo
