Little Goat Mountain bewusstsein

She'd thought he would rise to the occasion of her judgment and scorch her with his authority and justification, them having been quite open with one another this day, but instead Mahler closed himself off. He said nothing else, leaving the silence to stretch long and uncomfortable between them. By the time his voice broke between them, Wylla's eyes were fixed in the distance, her lips tightened around the bone in her jaws. She'd only said what was in her heart regarding his choice—a choice that, if he was her father, she'd have resented him for. To say nothing of his chosen mates ...!

Her harsh criticism had nothing to do with how oddly slighted she felt, or at least that's what she told herself.

Mahler spoke clinically, without the warmth of friendship that had touched some of their exchange, and she blinked in response but said nothing. She'd gone too far. A chill washed through her to know it. He didn't stick around to say anything more and she wisely kept her mouth sealed from further commentary. Like the general he was, he marched off without another word and she watched him go, frozen in place until his dark form disappeared into the distant trees. Once he was well and truly gone, Wylla turned and went in another direction, bemused and ashamed of herself.