Melanie's POV
I was in the kitchen, watching the egg in the pan—tiny brown bubbles formed around the edges, like the stubborn numbness in my chest.
"It's a little better," I said, turning the heat down, keeping my voice completely flat.
"That's good," Trista said, chewing something. Her voice was muffled and light, like it was padded with cotton.
Our conversation stopped right there.
It never used to be like this.
Before, she always had a million things to share: whose wolf awakened first at school, or which pup was learning scent control by the field.
But in the last two years, our conversations got shorter and shorter.
If she was worried about something, she went to Camille first. I learned to keep my silence contained, like sealing a scent in a jar, twisting the lid tight so not
