{IRIS}
"I . . . I am sorry, Lord Val."
The words left me in a frail whisper, thin as spider silk, fraying at the edges. Shame sat heavy on my tongue, in my cheeks, in the way I could not quite lift my eyes to his.
"This is not your fault," he replied, voice low and measured, yet burdened with something that sounded almost like regret. A fleeting shadow crossed his gaze, a gleam like a blade drawn halfway from its sheath. "It slipped my mind that you wolves bleed every month."
Heat surged to my face so swiftly it made me dizzy.
How could he say it so plainly? So indifferent to the humiliation clawing at my insides?
"Ah—actually, it is women who bleed—"
His eyes cut to me, sharp and warning, silencing the rest upon my tongue.
"I will bring you something to mask your scent," he said, gaze sliding toward the door as though already calculating the dangers beyond.
