I watched Fenris carefully spooning warm broth into her mouth, the kind meant to ease the aftereffects of too much ceremonial wine.
She pouted and wrinkled her nose in distaste. He patiently blew on each spoonful to cool it before offering it again. When she complained that her silver-blonde hair was tangled and wild, he set aside the bowl and picked up an ivory brush, gathering the strands into a neat tail at the base of her neck. His movements were practiced, almost tender—the gestures of someone who had done this many times before.
My claws extended without thought, pricking into my palms. I couldn't feel the sting.
I remembered the time I'd pushed myself through an alliance dinner, drinking wolfsbane-laced wine until my stomach bled internally to close a territory deal for him. The next morning, he'd simply had the Den Keeper bring me a bowl of healing broth. I'd once asked him to help me braid my hair for a Pack Council gathering. He'd said he didn't know how, his voice clipped with impatience, his scent sharp with irritation.
I stood there frozen, watching them, until they finally left together—her arm looped through his, their scents mingling in a way that made my wolf whimper.