Chapter 8: Bruise

Dalton caught her in the east corridor at seven the next morning.

The hall was long and narrow, with tall windows on one side and portraits of old Alphas on the other.

Rosalind was carrying a tray of clinic orders to the new Luna's office, where she was no longer welcome to leave them on the desk.

He came around the corner fast and stopped a foot from her.

He was breathing hard, and his amber eyes were not right.

"Where were you last night?"

"I couldn't sleep," Rosalind said. "I ran the north ridge."

"You were out past midnight."

"I was."

He leaned in and breathed.

She watched his nostrils flare, and she knew before he spoke that she had made a mistake.

She had bathed at dawn, but the smoke had soaked into her hair.

"Woodsmoke," Dalton said, and his voice dropped to something low and ugly. "River water. That's Ironridge on you. That's him."

"Dalton."

His hand shot out and closed around her wrist.

The tray tipped and the papers slid across the floor.

His grip was crushing.

She felt the small bones in her wrist grind together, and she looked down at his white knuckles and then up at his face.

"You were with him."

"Let go."

"Twenty years, Rose." His eyes were wet and furious. "Twenty years, and you let that man put his hands on you the week I needed you most."

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