Fox's Glade someone only you could want

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But it was not pity, per se, that Wren felt.
Silvertongue was not a woman to feel sorry for. She was an imposing thing in a small body, witty and confident and cool-tongued. She spoke with grace and walked with even more of it. She maintained herself well with tight-curled smiles and long eyelashes.
No, no. She was a woman to feel angry for.
And Wren knew this better than anything else. She, now, understood just how alike they were; Wren ran from love, pushed it back with a ten-foot bar, whereas Silvertongue chased it. And at the core of both of them were two scared girls.
Right now, that is all they were.
No one else knows, this, she would fib about. Perhaps Akavir had been implied in that statement, given the fact that he had been on that trip just as much as she; but she would not say it. She longed to kiss away the tears, to cradle her in lanky arms, but impose herself Wren would not. And I'm not-- I'm not judging you. It doesn't make me want you any less. And it-- I don't pity you either, because I hate pity too, there is desperation that hangs on every word, a thin veil of calmness that masks it. I know how much it sucks when people look at you with those stupid sad eyes and, and they don't know what to say and they look at you like you've got six heads. I understand.
In the coffin of night she would tell Silvertongue everything, just as she had done with Akavir. Her father. The eyes of pale smoke ablaze with unrelenting fury. The power he held, the sickness within it. Her sister, her mother; how old she was the first time jaws were laid upon her. The bones strewn across a forest floor that had once belonged to the woman who nursed her. A song and dance and jumble of words that came out in a sea of hysteria, of a gut-wrenching fear Silvertongue would never look at her the same. Because she knew the riverwolf would not pity her.
With a draw of breath, she finally relents her barrage, shaking. There is nothing that fuckface could say or do that would take me from you.