25
Eighty, ninety hours had passed since the beginning of Brook’s banishment to the cellar. Or there abouts, at least. She had begun to lose track, and knew only that another day arrived by the first lightening of the sky, and the fresh chill early winter mornings brought with them, although thankfully, the rain that had slashed the grounds the entire night offered an element of insulation against that.
For the past two days, her skin had itched to stretch, to allow fur to surface. Her bones, her muscles ached to Shift. Fighting it off had become a matter of pride, and she did so at each impulse until her effort-filled breaths yowled past her lips. She had no desire to be as feline for any visitors—no desire to permit them to witness her weakness.
Especially her parents.
Since Stefan’s
