The trick is not to seem broken. Not to let the red around my eyes or the salt stiffness on my cheeks carry through the crowd. Wolves smell weakness before they see it. At Silverpaw, survival means performing calm until it’s your second skin.
I slink into the mess hall with just enough time to eat if I hurry, hair pressed flat and face a mask of nothing. Don’t let them scent the pain. Don’t give anyone a reason to watch too close.
For once I'm thankful for the chaos of meal time, boys everywhere, jostling for tables, dropping trays, laughter knifing through the steam that spills from the kitchen. The smell of sweat, burnt toast, and clotted milk. Every head turned in to conversations between friends.
It’s easy to spot Marcus and Jax, they’re at the table near the windows, sunlight catch
