The silence that follows isn’t hostile. It’s assessing.
Declan crosses his arms slowly. “You think he’s going to agree to that?”
“I think he’ll try not to,” I answer. “And then he’ll decide whether he wants me there enough to bend.”
Declan watches me like he’s seeing something he didn’t account for, and for a second I wonder if that’s how everyone has been looking at me lately, like I’ve shifted into a role no one assigned but everyone recognises.
“Eat something first,” he says quietly. “You’ll need the energy.”
I almost smile at that, because it feels less like an order and more like concern.
We don’t talk much on the walk to the packhouse, and the territory feels different in the morning light, quieter but not softer, like it’s waiting for the next directive to come down from the t
