He’d heard nothing to the contrary. Then they were not with him; he and his family were not on speaking terms. Bitter comforts. He was alone, then, like they were all doomed to be. She didn’t pick apart his stretching pause, tried not to delve too deep into whatever he was thinking. Similar sorrows, but not the sort to be shared.
“‘Course not,” Leila agreed, blowing out a breath. She brushed a flyaway strand of hair off her face, skirting over the place the werewolf’s claws had caught her, and turned to smile wryly at him. “Who would?”
Bundling the room’s old bedsheets into her arms, she paced back towards Mr. Westerman in the doorway. “It’s never clean, this place,” Leila informed him lightly, to change the topic, if only to say they had spoken about something that wasn’t so achingly personal. Pointing out the obvious, she knew, but it cheered her to complain about the inn, warn people away. “Rotten place to stay.” Not that he’d have to. She didn’t even know whether he would set foot in here again, after this. Had he gotten what he’d wanted from her?
“‘Course not,” Leila agreed, blowing out a breath. She brushed a flyaway strand of hair off her face, skirting over the place the werewolf’s claws had caught her, and turned to smile wryly at him. “Who would?”
Bundling the room’s old bedsheets into her arms, she paced back towards Mr. Westerman in the doorway. “It’s never clean, this place,” Leila informed him lightly, to change the topic, if only to say they had spoken about something that wasn’t so achingly personal. Pointing out the obvious, she knew, but it cheered her to complain about the inn, warn people away. “Rotten place to stay.” Not that he’d have to. She didn’t even know whether he would set foot in here again, after this. Had he gotten what he’d wanted from her?
