Swiftcurrent Creek I'm dying to live in a world I don't belong

Wren’s truth wasn’t something he had felt he had witnessed—Gunnar had come to thier borders with a guarded will for a verbal battle and certainly with disdain. The man who had acted a patriarch to the valley itself had failed in this moment—of that, Akavir had felt certain, when the man had sparred with his tongue, and then tried to backtrack when called out upon it.

Still—Wren’s guilt and lacking self-esteem seemed to play a role in her perception of the entire situation, though Akavir kept this close to his heart for now. Gunnar might have come to them with simmering anger, but the Mayfair would not agree it had been likened to a death wish for the creek’s Gamma.

“We did lose an ally, Wren. But it wasn't because of you. We lost them as an ally when their wolf lunged at our own, and sided with a stranger who ripped the tail off a newborn pup. Gunnar lost an ally when he pretended to believe in fair trial when it came to Germanicus and his inactions against Moss, and yet can’t see past the actions of his own wolves and comes demanding retribution.”

He felt tired. Very, very tired. But there was a simmering resentment that stirred him now, and the simple fact that after everything—Gunnar had come to their borders and re-opened the mental wounds of both Mae and Wren so brazenly.

But the true trouble of his fellow companion did not necessarily rest with their turbulence with the stone pack. And as she professed her love for Silvertongue, he felt a searing pain in his chest—he knew how that felt. To love the woman who refused to love back.

Quieted for a moment—his eyes searching hers—“I think she loves you, too, Wren… I just don’t know if she knows how to properly show it yet.”