Drake made a sound behind me that could only be described as disagreement.
I shot him a look over my shoulder before remembering why looking over my shoulder was a bad idea.
He was dressed now.
Mostly.
That did not help nearly enough.
I turned back toward the phone. “Injuries, yes. Nothing fatal.”
“What happened?”
“Silver-tipped spear. Drake took the hit.”
Thoren went quiet again, and this silence felt different.
He knew.
Of course he knew.
He’d watched me lose one mate already. He understood exactly what a sentence like that could do when the person saying it was trying very hard to sound like it hadn’t affected him.
“How bad?” he asked.
“Bad enough to be taken seriously. The spearhead has been removed, bleeding stopped, healing started. Silver slowed it down, but he’s mobile
