Arlene's POV
A soft knock echoes through my study door, causing me to jolt and accidentally pierce my finger with the sewing needle.
"Damn it," I hiss, shaking my hand to ease the sting.
"Are you alright?" Shelly's voice carries concern as she hurries into the room.
"Just a minor wound. Nothing I haven't dealt with before. What brings you here?" I set my needlework aside, giving her my full attention.
She stands there clutching the folder I handed her days ago, her expression unreadable.
Part of me hopes she'll decline my offer. Since arriving at this pack, I've grown fond of her presence, especially when she shares tales about the woman she believed my mother to be during her time here. Her stories paint a picture of belonging, and she's worked tirelessly to make me feel at home.
"You've reached a conclusion," I state, rising from my chair. I gesture toward my desk.
