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Summary
The last thing Wren remembers she was stalking a buck out in the forest: the hush of winter lying thick as a cloak over the woods, the icy kiss of snowflakes on her cheeks, the hard cold ground beneath her as she lay in wait on her belly in the snow. But unless this is some sort of dream – or perhaps the delirium that precedes death by hypothermia – she isn’t out in the cold any longer. No, now she is lying naked, somewhere warm and soft...
A grumble sounds behind her. Then those hands, on her again, pushing her back down against the mat below.
“Hush now, my heart, you’ve suffered an injury. Be still while I tend to you,” says a voice, low and deep.
Halsin.