11
" Manuela de La Mancha,” says a deep voice. It sounds strange to hear such a long name, but that’s the manada I’m pretending to be from.
“Hola, Marilén,” I say to Tiago and Saysa’s great-grandmother, whom I met moments ago.
“No sos bruja.” You’re not a witch.
My tongue feels like sandpaper, and my mouth seals dry. Since our wolf-shadows roam outside the Citadel, and my fangs and claws are retracted, I didn’t think there would be any indicator of my identity—
“No te preocupes, no vengo a interrogarte.” Don’t worry, I’m not here to interrogate you.
She moves closer, and the way her steely eyes seem to see more than others reminds me of Perla. “Toda la vida soñé con conocerte,” she whispers. My whole life I’ve dreamt of meeting you.
Her long black hair is in a tight, elegant bun that pulls her skin, stretching it so that if there’s a single wrinkle, I don’t see it. “La primera de nosotras que nació fuera de su jaula.”
The first of us to be born outside her cage. "
― Romina Garber , Lobizona (Wolves of No World, #1)
