Sunbeam Lair vicariously I live while the whole world dies

He did not understand. Perhaps Wren didn't either, not fully. But she did know what it was like to escape the confines of men, to push away the grief and shame and anger; let the bitter pill dissolve beneath your tongue. Start anew. Try to forget.
Maybe Silvertongue had more forgiveness in her than Wren herself. Or she was just really, really good at ignoring it; share a roof with Crowfeather even as he laid with the man who caused her so much misery. Either way, if she chose to turn a blind eye, Wren understood that much.
Sometimes that's all you can do to feel safe.
She thinks of the next time she will see her when the creekwolves return home, and decides she will not mention it.

Thank you, Akavir.

She would stay there as long as he would allow, let the intimacy of shared loneliness wash over the living dead girl's body. There was no lust, only the raw, chapped wound of vulnerability. Safety. Compassion. He knew her now, possibly better than anyone else; the underlying rift of shared bubbling feelings for the same girl unspoken and perhaps willingly ignored.  
For once, she welcomed it, welcomed him; and soon, back into the eagle's nest they would go. Only this time, she would let her absent touches linger longer than usual.