As soon as Cyrus turned his back and left, Sara wiped her fake tears quickly, muttering in her heart all the curses she knew.
Mad dog. Idiot wolf. Brain of a rock. Son of a mutt. Ugh, why is the world punishing me like this? She puffed her cheeks, glaring at his tall figure from behind, though only in her heart. On her face, she still kept the pitiful, broken look. She knew better than to show her true colors.
Because that was the thing about these brainless wolves—if you stood up and tried to look big, they would crush you even harder. They liked domination. They liked to show they were stronger.
So why challenge their giant egos? Better to look weak, pitiful, a helpless girl who couldn't even hurt a fly. That was the only way to make them leave you alone.
