“You could just let me be… culled, or whatever it is you do here,” I say. “Whatever it is we do, Rawbond. And the answer is simple,” she says, hands on her hips. I care about you, I muse cynically. Not. “We have a bet going.” I nearly snort. “A bet.” “There’s a betting pool among the instructors on which pack will lose the fewest recruits. I really don’t want to lose to that fucking asshole Stark, so stay alive. Please.” She moves to her table and sits. “I have coin riding on it.”
