The room was dim, lit only by the low glow of the hearth set into the far stone wall.
Lila sat cross-legged on the edge of the bed, fingers twisting nervously in the hem of the borrowed shirt she wore. The fabric smelled clean—soap and pine and something faintly unfamiliar—but it didn’t feel like hers yet. Nothing here did. Not the room. Not the pack house. Not even the quiet.
Especially not the quiet.
Mira paced.
Back and forth, heel to toe, toe to heel, the steady rhythm grounding her even as it grated on Lila’s nerves. She counted the steps without meaning to. Seven from the bed to the door. Seven back. Over and over.
“You’re going to wear a groove in the floor,” Lila murmured.
Mira shot her a look. “You’re going to wear a hole in that shirt.”
Lila glanced down and immediately st
