Saoirse
No. He can’t know. If he knows, the image I built—the armor I scraped together from broken glass and attitude—shatters. My dignity goes with it.
“I didn’t—”
“Who’s your mate?”
His voice slices clean through mine. No warmth. No patience. Cain always did know how to weaponize silence and syllables.
My heart punches at my ribs, frantic. Don’t flinch. Don’t blink. Don’t bleed where he can see.
“I… W-what?”
He steps closer. The infirmary light halos him in cold white, the scent of antiseptic and iron hanging thick. His eyes rake over me like he’s peeling truth off skin. “Don’t do that. Don’t pretend you didn’t hear me. Who. Is. Your. Mate?”
“I don’t have one.”
“Liar.”
The word lands like a slap. The Healer coughs from the corner, pretending to sort vials, pretending not to lis
