Grooming

¬ HILN

A conference?

"What conference?" I quizzed, holding my wrist to my chest as I sized up the towering woman before me—whatever she was.

If this event were indeed a gathering, which meant Fashire would be there, and I harboured no desire to be anywhere near him. The mere thought of him churned my stomach into knots. The memory of his actions was seared into my mind, a wound that I doubted could heal without leaving me with an insatiable urge to tear out his heart.

"I'm not going." I frowned, surprised at my bravado.

Her reaction was swift—a flinch, eyes widening, caught off guard by my refusal. No doubt, she hadn't expected it. But then again, who would? No one would expect this kind of defiance from a pet. 

Then again, I wasn't comfortable with that terminology.