8. Of Spite And Grief.

DANE

Now back home, I ignore the tension hanging in the air of my mother's study office, which is almost suffocating.

The warrior stands with her back to the bookshelf, arms folded. Her pixie hair cut is dyed green black, a colour I think suits her gloomy, heartless demeanor very well.

She even has a large eagle wing tat on her right arm now, adding to the collection of the rest of her tats existing on almost half of her back and stomach.

Carmden Morgan never loved tats. But after dad's death, she began swimming in tons of them.

I relax comfortably into the plush soft sofa facing her desk, playing with the plain silver ring around my index finger and not caring that fire embers are shooting from her eyes directed at me.

Why is she still silent!? Can we get on with this conversation already?

“Julian told me you want to be allocated to the packhouse.” She finally spits out the words like they are bitter medicine she needs to get rid off her tongue.

“You are acting like I didn't tell you