Meredith.
"You don't want to answer the question?" Draven asked, casually spearing a large chunk of grilled chicken. "Did I touch a soft spot?"
He popped the meat into his mouth and began chewing slowly—methodically—like he had all night to sit here and peel me open.
I stared at him, saying nothing. My lips pressed into a hard line. My silence was my last line of defense, and I wasn't ready to let it fall.
But he didn't back off.
"I'm guessing here," Draven continued, his voice calm, almost curious. "Given the depth, shape and direction, I would say it was a claw. Not a blade. And from the way it curves at the edge—it wasn't a full swipe. One claw. Likely the index finger of a werewolf."
I blinked. My chest tightened.
His guesses were too close. Too exact.
He chewed slowly, swallowed, and lifted a spoonful of salad to his lips. I stared, stunned, as he continued without waiting for me to recover.
