He knocked at dawn.
Ariana, who had slept in ten-minute pieces and spent most of them thinking about a cut canvas, opened the door in Mira’s flannel pajamas and found the Alpha of Shadowfang standing in the corridor in a gray shirt and black training trousers, holding two cups of coffee.
“Coffee,” he said, and held one out. “Then boots. Training hall, twenty minutes.”
“Good morning to you too.”
“Good morning.” His eyes did not quite meet hers, and she remembered the silent drive, the shut jaw. Something in his shoulders eased a fraction when she took the coffee. “I owe you an apology for yesterday. And a lesson. I would prefer to start with the lesson.”
“What kind of lesson?”
“How to survive until I get there.” He said it flatly, a man reporting a fact he hated. “The Trial is in thir
