I squint through the snow and realize suddenly what I’m seeing.
The mountainside looms tall. Embedded in the rocky cliff face, there are massive caves and outcroppings of stone. Lounging above are our wolves, staring down at us or minding their own business.
The wolf terraces, I realize, where they stay while we’re in training.
I spot Anassa almost immediately. She’s a shimmering silver-white that stands out against the darker stone, and she’s reclined as far from the other direwolves as physically possible. Anassa’s eyes meet mine briefly, and she immediately looks away from me, tail flicking in agitation. I curl my fingers into tight fists, hissing a breath through my nose.
Fine. Fuck her. I don’t need her. She can disappear back to the mountain, for all I care. She forced me into this bond against my will, and then abandoned me.
As soon as I get the chance, I’m going to talk to Egith and get myself out of this screwed up situation, whatever it takes.
Our happy little tour ends in what looks like an auditorium. It’s set up so that a semicircle of maybe a hundred seats funnels down towards a central raised dais. Like the rest of the castle, the walls are intricately carved wood and the ceilings are vaulted, with circular skylights between the supporting beams. The acoustics make our footsteps echo as we’re all herded inside.
The other packs are here, too, joining from different doors across the rows of seats.
“Sit,” Egith orders, and then strides down the rows to join the other people standing in center-stage.
We were the last to arrive, so we file into the back rows. I absently follow Izabel, studying the people waiting for us to find our seats so they can start talking.
There are five of them total, including Egith. Four of them are younger and one of them is a very obviously ancient relic, seventies at the youngest.
Stark is the tallest of them, standing with his arms crossed over his chest and several feet apart from the others. He’s scowling again, his jaw ticking like he doesn’t want to be on that stage and hates all of us for having the audacity to take more than thirty seconds to sit down.
In the more generous lighting, I can make out the dark ink of his tattoos more clearly, especially now that he’s in a short-sleeved shirt. They twist around his arms and up to his neck in intricate designs. On his arms, they look runic, naturally inspired—geometric shapes hidden between chaotically elegant lines that make me think of fir forests and heavy antlers. They climb up the side of his neck and disappear beneath the curl of his dark hair behind his ear. Up higher, they almost start to look like claw marks around his throat, a collar of pain.
He’s just too…careful. Honed. Attuned.
His eyes track movement like a predator does prey. His body remains tense enough for instantaneous response to threats.
Being in his presence is like standing with a knife at my throat, and I find myself settling very slowly into my seat so that I don’t risk his attention slicing my skin open.
They’re to be our instructors, I assume. One from each pack, maybe? Egith takes her place beside them, and the shuffling of the Strategos Rawbonds falls quiet just in time for me to hear the tail end of a hushed conversation from the row in front of me.
“—still can’t believe they spared theAlphaof Daemos for this,” one woman is saying. “He’s the Sovereign Alpha’s son, too, you know.”
“Look at his tattoos,” the other whispers back. “He’s killed so many. And he’s not even thirty yet. I heard he Bonded at eighteen and was the Daemos Alpha by the time he was twenty-one.”
“Fuck, Stark is so hot,” the first woman chokes out, slumping in her seat.
I raise a brow and study Stark again. I… guess?
Or,yes.
It’s obvious. It’s really obvious. He’s probably six and a half feet of bulky, toned muscle with a perfect jawline, and eyelashes prettier than mine. His lips are full and his perpetually messy dark hair is actually artfully tousled and thick, the kind of hair that you’d want to pull when you’re?—
No, not going there.
And there’s that way he holds himself. Not condescending like the other Bonded. More… challenging. Like he’s daring the world to test his strength because he knows he’ll come out on top.
The idea of all that strength and precision homed in on you, on your needs and wants and desires?—
No!I shake my head. None of that matters. He may as well have “murderous psycho” carved into his forehead. He actuallydoeshave that tattooed across his hands, arms and neck.
The brief spark of interest I felt studying him—I’m onlyhuman—extinguishes instantly when I remember the things he’s done and said.
You don’t let someone that dangerous close to you. Not even just for sex.
“I would do criminal things to get that man between my legs,” the second woman whispers.
