"Scars don't make you unworthy; they make you a battlefield someone else survived losing."
The scent of him was fire, and it rolled off Riven in waves, sharp, wild, feral like crushed pine needles and midnight smoke, with something darker underneath that clawed at my chest. My wolf thrashed restlessly, rattling inside my ribcage, demanding, but he was still tense in our arms, his body rigid between me and Rell, as though he might bolt at the first misstep. And the thought of him running… gods, it made my blood roar.
"Riv," I murmured against his ear, my lips dragging over the sharp line of his jaw. "You're trembling. But not from fear, are you?"
