The bruise on Aria’s left hip bloomed nicely by morning.
She discovered it when she changed, turning sideways in the small mirror. A smear of purple and blue marked exactly where she’d lost that last battle with the mud.
“Attractive,” she muttered.
Her wolf was smug. We learned, she said. Worth it.
Aria wasn’t ready to call bruises worth anything, but she couldn’t deny the small thrill she’d felt when her body finally trusted the step. Or the sharper, more confusing jolt when Rowan’s hands had closed around her arms.
All day, little flashes of that moment pushed through whatever she was doing: the steadiness of his grip, the heat of his chest inches from hers, the way his voice had gone rougher on a single word.
“Better.”
By evening, she’d worn herself out trying to ignore it.
Nigh
