Chapter 11: Hold Your Own Wrist

On the eve of the Moot, Torin walked me through the great hall at Highcrest.

The long tables had been pushed against the walls.

Rows of chairs faced a low dais, and on it stood three carved seats for the Crown, the Council and the petitioner.

His beta leaned on a pillar near the doors with a clipboard, and the housekeeper sat in the back row with a thermos.

They were my audience.

I had insisted, because I trusted myself a great deal less than I used to.

"Stand there," Torin said.

I stood where he pointed, at the foot of the dais.

"Alphas read hands before they read faces. Keep yours still."

"They've been still all week."

"They've been in your pockets all week."

He came down the steps and stopped in front of me.

"In front of the Council you'll hold them at your sides. If you need something to do, hold your own wrist."

I tried it.

"Don't answer what you're not asked," he said. "Don't fill a silence. The petitioner will make speeches, and you'll let him."

"And when he cries?"

"Let him cry. A wolf will forgive a man for crying and still vote against him."

I nearly smiled.

"Chin," he said.

I lifted it.

He reached out.

I had said no touch in private.

This wasn't private, and I let it happen before I had decided to.

His fingers settled on the collar of my coat.

It had folded under, and he flipped it back into place, slowly, with the tips of two fingers.

They brushed the side of my neck.

It was a small touch, on a part of me he hadn't touched before, and it went through me.

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