Eli & Ronan
Eli
The next morning the quarry’s cold is out of my clothes, but not my bones.
After breakfast I slam the cabin door with more force than necessary and toss my jacket onto the chair.
It misses and slides to the floor. Fitting. Ronan doesn’t look up from the map spread across the table. He doesn’t need to; he felt me the second I hit the porch. He always does.
“You seem pissy,” he says, voice even.
“You’re impossible,” I shoot back, and it lands like a knife in soft wood. “I told you what I saw. You looked me in the face and called it smoke.”
“I called it what it is without proof.”
“Right,” I say, laughing once. “Because nothing is real until it survives a council table.”
He lifts his gaze. Wolf-gold, steady, infuriating. “Do you want me to gut my own ranks in front of
