But when I sit down in my uncomfortable wooden seat, the hair raises at the back of my neck.
Stark’s eyes are narrowed on me, his arms crossed over his chest, the dark kill tattoos on his hands visible from even this distance.
He saw us.
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
The Strategos anteroom is heavy with shared grief as we return from the Purge Trial. There isn’t a lot of talking, but everyone clusters together. Even those who usually stand apart, like Nevah, seek the comfort of the group. I find myself drawn in as well.
All twenty of us sit around the roaring fireplace, soaking in its glow. Low conversation ensues—discussions of how we each might spend our day off, which family members we’ll visit, what news we’ll share. But the excitement is muted.
Overshadowed by the choice we made as a pack to execute three of our fellow Rawbonds. At the moment, caught up in the Trial, it felt like the right decision, despite its brutality. But now…
Eventually, people start to drift toward the bunkroom. No parties tonight, it seems. I’m grateful for that.
I retreat to my own room with a bone-weary sense of relief, thinking of my bed. Something tells me I won’t be finding sleep quickly, though. The blood on the arena floor stains my mind every time I close my eyes.
It was hard dealing the death, but it was just as hard watching the other packs engage in it. Daemos culledfiveoftheir own; Jonah was on a tear after watching his direwolf’s mate die. What got Perielle killed in Strategos—arrogance and cruelty—is apparently an asset for Daemos. I’m going to need to watch my back more than ever around him.
I’ve just finished changing into a clean shirt and pants when there’s a sharp knock at the door.
Dammit, what now?
I open the door impatiently.
Stark stands on the other side.
Fear darts up my spine in a hot rush and I instinctively let out a small gasp. Why is he here at this hour? Did he finally come to make good on all his threats?
Does he want to confront me about the moment he saw between Killian and me in the arena?
“Princess,” he says by way of greeting, his voice more frigid than the snowstorm outside.
Before I can speak, he forces his way inside, crowding me back from the doorway.
I stiffen as he invades my personal space, my heart thumping. He slams the door behind him, then looks at me, his expression is unreadable in the dim lamplight. There’s something different about his posture than usual. I can’t quite put my finger on it.
Every instinct tells me to back away, get out, but I hold my ground. The room is suffocatingly small with his huge frame in it. He towers over me, all chest and shoulders and unforgiving muscle.
The scent of amber and musk tickles my nose, faint, but rich.
“Why are you—” I start.
At the same moment, he pulls something out of his pocket. A familiar needle and a small pot of ink.
Oh.
Perielle’s blonde hair, matted in blood. The command to kill her coming out of my own mouth as shadows urged me toward murder.
The one death from today that is definitely on my hands more than anyone else’s.
Stark seems to read the memory on my face. His expression turns somber, and he gestures to the chair beside my little desk.
Right.
I pull the chair into the center of the room and sit, unbuttoning the top of my shirt to give him access to my neck.
This feels… Fuck, I don’t even know. I’ve never been alone with him before. I’ve never seen him so gloomy, either. There’s no aura of impending violence around him—none of the usual malice in his eyes.
