His concern seemed genuine as his thumb traced the damaged flesh.
But I found it almost laughable.
Alaric, what exactly are you pretending for?
You're the one who sent those wolves. They appeared claiming to be Rogue Hunters collecting on my family's debts and beat me until I looked like this.
And now you're playing innocent?
A wave of exhaustion washed over me. Or perhaps I was simply afraid to face what would happen if I tore away the mask.
"It's nothing. I fell during a run."
I pulled my hand free from his grip. "The Pack Healer said it will mend with time."
Alaric finally relaxed, releasing a breath that stirred the air between us. "That's good."
He reached for my hand again, lacing his fingers through mine with practiced tenderness.
"The injury's on your right wrist. If it worsens and affects your moon-blessed painting, you'll be howling with grief again."
His voice dripped with indulgence. But every word cut straight through me.
I used to possess extraordinary talent for scent-art painting—the rare gift of capturing emotions in pigments that carried living scents.
Recognition from allied territories, more honors than I could count. Everyone said my future shone bright as the full moon.