Lost Creek Hollow una tortura perderte

He feels a simmering anger in his chest. It burns—the way it twists up, tensing his jaw—flaring from his gaze, and he has to look away from her momentarily, lest she feel that anger is directed to her, rather than for her. She bears the pain so another man who could not see her worth did not have to. She did not deserve that. “Silver,” he begins, his tone deep—

—'I would look after you. I will treasure you.' He cuts the words from himself. He could not make such promises—He couldn’t even save Ibis, could he?

And then… Eshe. Wren.

His shoulders roll back. His muzzle turns and his eyes search her once more. “I wish you could see your worth the way the rest of us do.”

Because what else was there to say?