Timothy
I told myself I only wanted to understand her.
That was the lie I walked into the training hall with, the afternoon after I watched Tristan Bradford peel her out of the dirt and carry half her weight down the hill.
I wanted to understand what had happened to Lily Bradford, because the thing dragging itself up that slope on dead legs was not the weak little girl I’d known, and I do not like puzzles I can’t solve.
That was all it was. Curiosity. A warrior’s need to know the terrain.
It had nothing to do with the way she’d laughed at the banquet.
Three years ago I stood in front of the entire pack on her eighteenth birthday and told Lily Bradford I loved her. I had rehearsed it for a week. I had been so sure — we’d grown up half in each other’s pockets, and I’d read every smal
