I didn’t cry. I didn’t yell. I just sat there, notebook forgotten in my lap, staring at the man who used to be Nick and now called himself Wolf.
I understood why he didn’t tell me at first. I did. But it still hurt.
Not because he lied.
Because he waited.
Because some part of me had been hoping I was wrong. And now that I wasn’t, I didn’t know what to do with the ache that came with being right.
I looked up at him. “How are you going to tell them?”
He didn’t answer right away. Just studied me like he was trying to read between the lines of my question.
Then he asked, “Do you want them to know?”
I blinked. “Does it matter?”
“It does to me.”
I swallowed hard. “I don’t think they care. Not really. If they did, they would’ve found me years ago.”
He leaned forward, elbows on his knee
