Forrest's POV
His jaw hurt.
Not a lot. Not like when Ridge accidentally elbowed him during a sparring match and Forrest bit through his own lip. That had bled like a dramatic soap opera. This? This was just a dull, lingering throb. The kind of pain that whispered more than it screamed.
The kind that said, "You deserved that."
He didn't even bother heading toward the house. He just veered left off the path and started climbing the ridge near the treeline. The moon was high and smug, like it had been watching the whole thing and decided this was the entertainment for the night.
Forrest wiped at the corner of his mouth with the back of his sleeve. Blood. Just a little. Nothing dramatic.
"Great," he muttered. "Now I've got matching bruises with my dignity."
He plopped down at the top of the hill, overlooking the pack land, and stared at the flickering lights of home. They looked like stars scattered on earth. Warm. Inviting. Nothing like what he felt.
