Guinevere scoffed at her new teenagers. Or, at least the one. Meyles was nowhere to be seen. She was not Guinevere’s concern. “Andreja, behave yourself. Focus on the task.” She aimed a slap at her daughter, who was not gouging the tree as instructed, but distracted by a flower. Andreja chimed, “Yes, Mother,” and busied herself with creating deep grooves in the bark.
Guinevere explained, “You gouge your enemies’ throats this way so that-Andreja, are you listening?”
Her daughter blinked up at her. “Mother, do you think that Meyles would fit better with Maurepas or Pontchartrain?”
Guinevere cuffed her over the head.
“You bloody romantic! There is no time for matchmaking! God,” Guinevere growled. “Get your useless self over to your sister, then! I’m done with you.” She forged backward into the weeds.
Storming around for at least a minute, Guinevere plopped herself in front of a long-dead tree.
She wondered when she’d finally see that useless whelp of Rayne’s, Radke. Useless. Wasn’t he supposed to impregnate her as all Tarben males inevitably did? She wasn’t complaining. Less pups meant less wasting of time!
And of course she had to watch all of the other little whelps, not just her own.

"She comes for your bones, she comes for your blood"