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I tighten my arms around myself.

I think I look guilty enough. I don't need to answer.

He breathes out through his nose.

I don't look up.

I don't want to see your face.

I'm feeling quite ashamed of myself. I don't need any more encouragement.

— I imagine that what I'm going through isn't even half of what the women of your people go through every year — I try to joke about it, but it comes out very strange.

I curl up tighter against the fireplace wall, feeling small, unhappy, and too uncomfortable.

— You must leave, Miguel — I insist. — You can't stay here near so many females in this state.

When his silence continues, I look up.

The wolf is looking at me and I can't read his expression. He seems very angry, but somehow curious.

I see him swallow hard, making some inner decision that I have no part in.

— Are you… suffering…? — he asks softly.

The irritation in his voice was gone.

It's so soft and gentle that I barely recognize it and after all, when I resume any coherent thought it's