“—And you didn’t ask him where he got it? I know my daughter can take better care of her stallion than that.” You catch the first tone of judgment you’ve heard out of Bow since you’ve known him. He was not what one would call a roundabout stallion; every ounce of brash, on-the-nose commentary his daughter was known for came directly from his side of the gene pool. That, combined with a bit of good-faith curiosity was making this feel more and more like an interrogation. The blame was hardly on him, though. Neither of you had done anything to help yourselves the past few minutes. 