I Carry the Prince in My Arms
#14
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     A chunk of black-blonde hair fell into his face, obscuring his vision. “You came without ill intent,” he justified, and lifted his scarred hand to pushed the hair from his face. Regardless of whether or not she was the indirect cause of his son’s condition, she had not been the one to raise arms against him. Indeed, he saw this explained in her body and in her face. She had not, as her co-leader had, taken him lightly. She understood what he was because she was very much the same; though they had come from two very different worlds.
     For this reason and this reason alone, he overlooked her title, pack, and even breed—for the time being, at least. Her talk of peace struck him as peculiar, but she was young. She had not yet been so involved in all that came from the strife and conflict of this place. “There is no way to approach a dispute without making it personal,” he reminded her, and offered her a faint smile. “For tonight, you are welcome in my home. Tomorrow I’ll escort you to our borders.” That was the least he could offer her.

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