He stares at me, hard, for another silent moment and then nods, going back to the needle.
Relief rushes through me when he doesn’t ask questions. No part of me mourns the man I killed in the dungeon, but I refuse to forget the high cost of finding my sister.
The price of survival.
A strange and unexpected sense of comfort blossoms inside me, though it does little to dispel the grief.
When Stark is done, he leans down to lick the wound clean as custom dictates. His hair brushes my cheek, then the wet heat of his tongue traces the marks he made in blood and ink.
My body responds with a fierce rush of arousal, like before, even as my mind reels in denial. I clench my teeth against it, terrified Stark will read it in my face or posture.
I tell myself it’s just exhaustion—a physiological reaction triggered by vulnerability in the aftermath of today’s violence and loss.
It feels like a lie, though.
I can sense Anassa listening. I almost expect her to call me out—to challenge the thought—but she doesn’t. She’s been silent through all of this.
His work done, Stark leaves my room without a word, closing the door quietly behind him.
I rise and go to the little mirror on the wall, peering at the new tattoos. They blend perfectly with the first one, creating a shadowed band with three points that makes me think again of a collar.
When I touch the swollen skin, my fingers come away smeared with blood and saliva.
The next morning,as I prepare for the trip home, I’m vividly aware of the new tattoo. It stings even now, a constant reminder of yesterday’s events.
It’s strange to think of going back to my neighborhood. My old clothes are gone—disposed of in the aftermath of the Ascent. I’ll have to go home dressed in the clothes of a Strategos Rawbond recruit.
The uniform is simple and unadorned, especially compared to what the Bonded wear, but I’m going to stand out in the quarters, even so.
What will everyone back home think, seeing me like this?
I’ve gotten used to fine fabrics tailored perfectly to my body, I realize. That gives me a spurt of shame, but it’s short-lived.
I know now what being Bonded really means.
My hand rises unconsciously to the tattoo, which has already begun to scab over.
I can’t be ashamed of what I’ve become, even if I’m still not sure I like it. Being ashamed would cheapen everything I’ve been through. Every death I’ve witnessed.
Every life I’ve taken.
It’s all for Saela, I remind myself.It’s worth it, so long as I get her back.
In the Rawbond common lounge, yesterday’s mournful mood has dispersed. There’s an excited energy from all the other Rawbonds who are heading home to see their families. I spot Henrey sitting by himself, picking at a plate of breakfast cakes, and make my way toward him.
“Hey,” he says, looking up as I sit down across from him. I notice there’s a new reddened tattoo on his own neck this morning. “Congrats on, you know, not dying.”
“Yet,” I remind him. “Not dyingyet. But thanks, you too. What are you going to do today?”
Henrey shrugs. He’s from Blumenfall, which is a seaside fiefdom leagues away. It would take at least a week for him to journey there normally, though likely he could make it in only a couple days on the back of his wolf.
Still, he won’t be going home for a visit. Guess us commoners who aren’t from Bonded City weren’t really considered when this special treat was devised.
“I might go into the city, to the commoner side,” he says. “I don’t really have much money to shop, but we have that ball tonight. For Presentation, I borrowed a formal jacket from my packmate Olivier but…”
He doesn’t need to finish that sentence. Four wolves tore Olivier to pieces last night. One of them was Henrey’s.
Can’t borrow clothes from a dead man.
