He looks almost… mournful.
It sets everything inside me on edge and the discomfort bubbles up into words.
“This must thrill you. I didn’t die today but you still get a chance to hurt me,” I say, my voice biting. His eyes flash dangerously, confirming my suspicion. “Do I alone get the good fortune of a tattoo?”
The faint tremble in my voice belies the flippant tone but his jaw ticks at my antagonization.
“Everyone who made the final call on a death, whose direwolf killed one of their pack members, is receiving their marks,” he says tersely. He steps closer beside me, needle in hand, one knee brushing my leg. “You’re my fourth visit tonight.”
“You really know how to make a girl feel special,” I joke as he grabs my jaw with rough fingers, pushing my head to one side.
“You’respecial, all right,” he mutters darkly. For some reason, his responding joke makes the faint tremble inside me grow stronger, radiating outwards.
As the needle bites into my skin, I realize what that feeling is.
I survived.I survived.
I might make it through this. I might save my sister.
But at what cost? Her life matters to me. It’sallthat matters to me. Yet is it worth so many other lives in exchange? This is the second person I’ve killed since I’ve been here—third, actually, counting the Nabber.
Three deaths on my hands. Who am I to say that she matters more?
My own eyes blur slowly with tears and I try to sink into the sweet sting of the pain, with no success.
“This doesn’t seem like an achievement,” I hear myself whisper.
The needle pauses against my throat. “Achievement?” Stark’s laugh is harsh, devoid of humor. “Is that what you think these are?”
Confused, I turn my head to look up at him. “They’re not?”
His expression darkens, one hand rising to the intricate patterns that decorate his own neck. “These aren’t trophies, princess,” he says, “they’re reminders.”
Stark’s eyes are pitch black in the dim chamber, but they gleam with emotion, reflecting the lamplight like banked coals.
“We cannot afford to forget the sacrifices we must make,” he says, voice dropping to a rumble that prickles along my skin. “Every life we’ve had to take to maintain the pack’s strength. Every person who didn’t make it. Every loss is recorded in our flesh so we never forget the price of survival.”
His fingers fall away from the marks on his neck, and for the first time, I really look at them.
Not trophies,I muse, a little ashamed that I ever made such an assumption.Reminders.
Stark’s voice drops lower as I silently count the losses ingrained on his skin like claw marks.
“No one wants these tattoos, princess,” he murmurs. “There is no place for pride in war.”
My throat tightens as he bends over me once more. The needle returns to my skin. The pain is a distant burn now, dulled by grim revelation. It’s a balm, in a way, knowing that the tattoos aren’t worn as badges of honor—the trophies of heartless killers.
The knowledge casts Stark in a new light. It casts all the Bonded in a new light. Every mark on their bodies represents a day like today. A death like Perielle’s.
A cruel necessity made unavoidable by war.
It’s right that they—that we—should be marked forever by them. That the inner scars of pain and loss should show outwardly for all to see. For all to remember.
“You should give me a third,” I say quietly, and Stark stills above me. His jaw tightens, making that scar alongside it jump underneath his light scruff.
His eyes slide slowly down to mine, his hand still clenched on my chin. “Who?” he says, his voice low and carrying an edge.
“Not—not another Rawbond,” I say, my mouth suddenly dry, trying not to cower at the intense look he’s giving me. “Just… someone else. But I should remember it.”
