Redsand Canyon down and out over the mount

your metaphors are so g o o d

Colin had been chewing his lip, perhaps ready to leave—but he hadn’t, leaving the window open just enough for Finley’s dart of an inquiry. He didn’t answer immediately, and to her surprise he skimmed right over the obvious for a dive into the past.

“Anyone could’ve found me. It just happened to be Donovan.” The reasons for Colin’s original leave were left tauntingly vague, but a lingering tension in his response dissuaded Finley from prying further. It was of no concern now, why he’d left, and clearly he felt the same.

More concerning was the idea that he could have joined any old pack, and only fate had left him in the Saints’ ranks. It wasn’t as though Finley had been swept in similarly, with mere happenstance pulling her up the river through the flatlands; oh, no, from the moment Donovan began his tirade, Finley’s own future was sealed. It was almost enough to give her belief in destiny.

So why the paranoia?

“Understood,” Finley said, with a finality she did not remotely feel. “Idle curiosity,” she added, as if to dispel the tension—but that was Derg’s expertise, not hers—“did Donovan spar with you?” Would he have taken anyone?