The cool night air bit at my cheeks, but the warmth of Astor’s hand in mine kept the chill away. We walked in comfortable silence, the path from the pack house back home.
“Tonight was great” Astor said, his voice soft, a genuine smile in his tone. He squeezed my hand gently.
I squeezed back. “It really was,” I agreed, meaning it more than he could ever know. Great was an understatement. It was probably the only Friday pack house dinner I’d truly enjoyed in the three years I’d been living here. For three long years, I’d sat at those tables, invisible.
I was a ghost, a shadow. All I ever got were quick glances, filled with pity or a silent understanding that I didn’t belong, that I wasn’t wanted. Every dinner was a reminder of my place: outside the circle, an outsider even among my own.
