Eight days since the pack hall.
She had been counting without meaning to. Eight days since the white dress and the white flowers. Since the altar and the words and the cold outside the boundary stone. Since the rogues and the gully and the dark and Lucien's hands lifting her out of the worst night of her life.
Eight days, and this was the first morning she stood in front of the full-length mirror in her washroom and actually looked.
Not a glance — not the functional checking of someone making sure they were presentable before facing a day. She stood in front of it in the thin winter morning light coming through the high window, and she looked at the woman standing there, and she was honest about what she saw.
The woman in the mirror was wearing borrowed clothes — good ones, better than
