Stark’s dark gaze fixes on me with the same intensity it always has, like the rest of the room doesn’t matter so long as he keeps his prey in sight. He tilts his head slightly to the side, and a lock of his dark hair falls across his brow. It’s like a tether has snapped taut between us.
“Report to my office at dawn tomorrow. Your alpha training begins.”
Without waiting for a response, he turns and vanishes through the doorway, leaving a charged silence in his wake.
Dawn tomorrow.
Fuck.
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
The skylights are dark as I stride through the silent halls. It feels almost illicit to be creeping around at this hour, right out in the open. Until this point, all of my creeping has been contained to the tunnel between my quarters and the royal wings.
A sharp ache of longing scrapes through my chest when I think of Killian. If only I were gliding my hand along the familiar stone, anticipating the warmth of his skin under my fingertips.
We’ve barely seen each other since the night of the ball. He came to my room the day after, when he’d heard about Alpha Markos, to check in on me. We agreed to keep some distance until things had blown over. Last night, though, I went to him, told him everything.
All about how I’m now the Strategos Alpha. He swept me into his arms in pride, but I didn’t let things get much further. I’m not ready to try filtering my bond with Anassa again—it’s too raw between us still.
And now I’m here, walking through dark hallways while the other Rawbonds sleep, headed to find…
Ugh.
Stark, of all people. It feels like I’m waltzing right over the edge of a very perilous cliff. Hurling my body over the side, really.
Granted, the cliff has ridiculous eyelashes and unfairly broad shoulders.
But it’s still acliff.
I stand in front of his office door, trying to decide how I’m going to play this. I can still hear his voice and feel his unwavering gaze.“My quarters at dawn…”
Shaking off my shivers, I push the door open without knocking, deciding I’d rather be the one catching him off-guard, for once. But I’ve failed again.
Stark’s office isn’t anything like I’d imagined. I was bracing myself for heads on spikes. I was anticipating that I’d need to duck occasionally to avoid the hanging, rusty murder weapons.
Maybe there’d even be some animal bones he and his wolf had been gnawing on together.
Bonding, you know?
But it’s a library.A library.
Or, not entirely. The center of the room predictably has an open space, obviously set aside for sparring. Behind it, there are some wide stone stairs that lead up to a raised section of the room. There, I can see weapon racks, hanging armor, a dormant hearth, and a few comfortable looking chairs.
But all around the central sparring space, there are shelves lining the walls or standing side-by-side to create orderly aisles. The stacks reach all the way to the ceiling, with a ladder propped against the shelf to my right so that he can reach the tallest shelves—similar to the layout in Leader Aldrich’s office.
I stand there, staring, suddenly suffering a series of bizarrely crisp images.
Stark, dressed in casual clothing, climbing up that ladder to reach a book he needs. Or Stark sitting in one of those chairs,feet up, reading in silence. Stark alone in the sparring square, sword in hand, practicing maneuvers.
He’s not shirtless in my imagination. At first.
I run my hand over my face to wipe my mind of it all. I shouldn’t be thinking about Stark like he’s a person with a soul and normal human needs.
He’s a killing machine.
That’s obviously why he has a soft-looking blanket draped over the arm of his chair. Because even killing machines get cold… apparently.
“Surprised?”
