"Scars are not the ruin of a man; they are the ink in which his story is written."
Riven stiffened and like a bowstring drawn too tightly, and I knew instantly that something was not right. His panther eyes, usually sharp and unyielding, widened just slightly as though fear had slipped through the cracks in his iron facade. It was not lust stopping him. It was something deeper and older.
"Riven," I murmured, soft but steady, my wolf pulling back from the heat just enough to let me think clearly. "What's wrong?"
He shook his head, jaw clenched so tight I thought his teeth would crack. "Don't just don't."
Rell and I exchanged a glance over his shoulder. My brother's wolf had sensed it, too: panic, fear, and shame all tangled in the man pressed between us. This was not him rejecting us. This was him bracing for something.
"You're afraid," Rell said gently, hand brushing against Riven's shoulder. "Not of us but of what we'll see."
