The force of the hug nearly knocked me off balance.
“Lily—easy,” I wheezed, trying to laugh despite the ache in my ribs. “I’m not made of Lutherford iron.”
She pulled back abruptly.
The glare she shot me could have scorched the paint off the walls.
But what shocked me wasn’t the anger.
It was the tear sliding down her cheek.
“Lily?” I asked quietly, lifting my hand to wipe it away. “Why are you crying?”
She caught my wrist before I could touch her.
“You went through all of this alone,” she said, her voice shaking with fury. “Six months, Aria. Six months of silence.”
Her grip tightened.
“What am I to you? A stranger?”
My throat closed.
“Lily—”
“Are we not sisters anymore?” she snapped. “Because that’s what it felt like.”
“You are my sister,” I said immediately, the words rushing out because they were true. “Don’t ever doubt that.”
Instead of answering, she seized my hand and dragged me toward the small cedar garden beside the infirmary—a quiet place built so grieving families could breathe without breaking down before strangers.
---
We sat beneath the shade of the cedar tree.
Cool wind carried the scent of earth and leaves, steadying the restless stirrings of my wolf.
Lily crossed her arms.
“Explain.”