“Or you could think of it as using me to grow stronger,” he says.
Using me. Annoyingly, my cheeks heat.
I scoff, and Stark studies me for a long moment. Finally, he rakes his fingers through his hair.
“These are the difficult decisions an Alpha must make,” he says, pushing the paper towards me. “For the good of her pack.”
For the good of my pack.
I dart my tongue over my stinging lip and taste blood. Then I nod and sit at the desk, picking up his quill.
“I’m sure there are things I’ve never heard of that I need to know, so this is on you,” I say. “Tell me your list of what an Alpha needs to be, and I’ll write down what I’m missing.”
His eyes glow again. He liked that answer. “You should… What are you writing?”
I lift up the page to show him what I’ve scrawled out as my first priority. “Work on my glower.”
His lips press together. “Funny.”
I pretend to write another note. “Destroy… my… sense of humor,” I mock-record. “What’s next, oh wise one?”
“Pack politics. Military strategy,” he says.
“Thrilling,” I say with false enthusiasm, then turn to the page to start writing.
Over the next hour, we catalog the gaps in my knowledge down to the tiniest detail. Then from there, Stark sets about establishing a shiny new schedule for me. Combat at dawn, strategy lessons until noon, pack politics in the afternoon, independent study in the evenings.
Oh, and don’t forget all of my regular pack courses and training sessions on top of that. After all, I’m still a Rawbond.
I want to argue that I needsometime to sleep—and maybe see Killian—but I’ve clearly exhausted the three ounces of patience he keeps on reserve for me.
Eventually, I stretch back in my chair, arching my back, and then point to the shelf behind him. “And those?”
He turns, stares at the shelf for a moment, then looks at me again. “Excuse me?”
I stand and approach the shelf, intentionally barring the memory of Stark pushing me up against it from my mind. I sidestep that confusion and reach out to dust my fingertips over the books that drew my attention earlier.
“Are they part of my training? My independent study?” I ask.
Even now, there’s that shiver of energy along my spine when I look at them. Old, withered, leather-bound and… almost alive.
“Those are books that have passed through my family line,” he tells me, his expression is unreadable. “They are not mine to loan. But if you find yourself drawn to any of them and happen to pick them up while I’m not looking, I won’t be able to stop you.”
“Yes,” Anassa’s voice comes over the bond. “Do your own research.” Thanks for that, Anassa. Could have used your guidance during any other part of today’s training, but glad some dusty old books have gotten you excited.
I scoff. “You realize howcrypticthat answer w?—”
Stark’s fist slams toward my face and I stagger back.
“I thought we were done with this!” I shout.
“Done?” he says scornfully, and we pick up the brutal rhythm of interrogation and sparring again. But even as I defend myself, that odd pulsing energy lingers in the back of my mind, right at the base of my skull.
I can’t shake the feeling that those old books are aware. Waiting.
After my long day of torture, I tumble into bed aching and exhausted, thinking I’ll sleep like the dead. But almost the instant I shut my eyes, I fall into a vivid dream. Shadows twist around me, lifting me, pillaging my mind.
The air is suddenly cold, my mattress unyielding.
