The clatter of cutlery and the thick scent of cooked meat filled the air. Tables were lined with loud, brawny cadets in uniforms stained by sweat and testosterone.
Elowyn—still very much Scrawn Wolf Elyan to them—sat wedged at the end of the table, picking at her food and trying to ignore the sting in her abdomen.
“Oi, Scrawn Wolf,” one cadet with a crooked nose barked. “That your fifth bite or you just nibble for show?”
Elowyn glanced up, expression deadpan. “I’m savoring it. Something you wouldn’t understand—seeing as you chew like your teeth are fighting a civil war.”
A few heads turned.
Someone choked on soup.
The crooked-nosed guy blinked.
Then another cadet laughed. Just one, sharp laugh that sounded like it escaped before he could stop it.
It was one of the males she'd share
