Hushed Willows My girl don't want me cause of my dirty laundry

She hadn't expected it.

But maybe this was what she deserved; a blow harsher than any fall, cutting more deeply than any cat's claws. Reverie pulled away from him abruptly despite how it hurt her, sucking in a sharp breath as her eyes filled with tears. And he went on, digging that knife ever deeper; Lestan.

He'd promised. He'd promised never to say that name to her again.

And she saw his hurt, of course she saw it, but now Reverie was too filled with her own to even think of reaching out to try to soothe it. Her throat constricted. Her tears turned cold as they soaked into the fur at her cheeks. What else could she say that she hadn't already? Of course she knew the gravity of what she'd done; wasn't she living with it now? The constant pain, the struggle of drawing every breath, the guilt when she looked into the red-rimmed eyes of her daughter, the shame each time Boone brought her a meal or carried her from their den.

For a long time Reverie was silent.

I'm sorry, She said finally, voice shattering, shattered, in shards.

But now she was remembering Akavir;

“And save your act — I don’t give a shit about your tears.”

Reverie stifled her sobs, and cried in silence.