In the first, Selene sat on the den's main gathering couch, lips pursed in a slight pout, her right hand extended to show a small bandage on her fingertip. The cut beneath it was so shallow it was barely visible—a faint red dot, nothing more. Her scent probably hadn't even spiked from the pain.
In the second, Fenris knelt on one knee on the fur-covered floor, cradling her hand with exquisite care. His brow was furrowed, his eyes filled with anguish, as though she'd suffered some grievous injury that threatened her very life.
In the third, they posed together—Selene leaning against Fenris's shoulder, smiling, while his gaze remained fixed on her face with a tenderness that had once belonged only to Lyra. The way he looked at her—like she was his true mate, like her scent was the only one that called to his wolf.
She recognized the wound on Selene's finger immediately. It was from yesterday—a stray shard of ceremonial porcelain that had grazed her when she'd smashed the vase over Lyra's head.
Thirteen stitches. Blood pooling on the stone floor. Nearly dead.
And in his version, she'd "done it to herself."