Hushed Willows all alone

Lorcan’s gaze swept over the she-wolf with the kind of deliberation that bordered on rudeness. His golden eyes lingered on the scar that marred her face, its crude "X" impossible to ignore. The corners of his lips twitched upward in something that could have been amusement or disdain—likely both.

The vale, he repeated flatly, his tone low and gravelly. And you thought it wise to wander into the willows with that on your face? Brave. Reckless. Both, maybe. His smirk grew sharper as he stepped closer, just enough to make her tension spike but not enough to be overtly aggressive. He relished the way her posture stiffened, her attempt to appear larger almost comical under his scrutiny.

Survive me? Sure, you might, Lorcan said with a lazy shrug, his voice carrying the faintest edge of a taunt. But surviving isn’t the same as walking away whole. His golden eyes burned into hers for a long moment before his gaze flicked dismissively down the rest of her battered form.

You look like you’ve had that lesson before, he added, his voice dropping to a near-growl as he gestured vaguely toward the scar on her forehead. A pause, then a sly grin as he shifted his weight back, the tension in the air palpable.