Maisie
Breakfast was in an open-aired pavilion.
The table was long enough to fit four families of pure breds and hybrids.
I was wedged on the left side between Jericho and Quinlan.
Quinlan looked annoyingly good for a man who had been whipped less than a day ago. His embroidered jacket hid most of the damage, but the bandage peeking from his half-open shirt was impossible to miss.
Jericho, meanwhile, was still refusing to speak to me.
Which would have been easier to bear if he wasn't simultaneously taking all the bones out of my fish, cutting my steak into smaller pieces, and quietly replacing my glass of water every time it got low.
"Jer, about last night—"
He let out an irritated grunt and turned his gaze elsewhere, dismissing me.
I exhaled through my nose. Fine. I deserved that.
Soren and Mercer sat closer to the head of the table. And between them was the source of my rapidly deteriorating mood.
Tessa.
