Bonesplinter Ravine Concrete Halls

Sorry isn't good enough. Eira’s breath came in hot, ragged huffs as she pinned Hasdrubal with a stare as cold as the mountain wind. Sorry isn't even in the realm of being good enough.

Her tail lashed, the tension in her every movement speaking volumes as she ranted. Moroi or not, you’re also as manipulative as the day is long, selfish to your core, she declared, her Southern drawl thick with emotion, and I dare say, from what I’ve seen, I don’t believe you’ve ever truly given "everything you could" in regard to anything at all.

It felt oddly satisfying, letting out the torrent of pent-up emotion that had been festering for far too long. But the pleasure was fleeting, especially when all Hasdrubal did was flinch and draw into himself like a scolded child. That alone stoked the fires of her frustration—what relief was there in this, if all he did was shrink away? It grated on her nerves, more than she cared to admit—both his pitiful response and the unwelcome flicker of guilt that stirred in her chest for yelling at him. Him!

With an exasperated snort, she turned away from him, unable to look at him any longer. You said you were tired and achy, didn’t you? she asked curtly, her tone clipped and irritated.