Dmitri broke my arm on the first day of training.
Not on purpose. At least, I don't think it was on purpose. One moment I was trying to block his strike—a slow, almost lazy swing that I could see coming from a mile away—and the next moment I was on the ground, screaming, my forearm bent at an angle that arms should never bend.
"Interesting," Dmitri said, crouching beside me. "You moved faster than a human should. Your wolf tried to take over the block."
"My arm is broken!"
"Yes. It will heal in a few hours." He studied my face with clinical detachment. "The pain is useful. Learn from it."
I wanted to curse at him. I wanted to cry. I wanted to crawl back to my borrowed quarters and hide under the covers until this nightmare ended. But Luna stirred beneath my skin—not with sympathy, but
