I open my mouth, scrambling to think of some way to wriggle out of this conversation, but I’m spared excuses by the door to the common area blasting open with enough force that it slams against the wall, rattling the crystal goblets scattered about.
Stark storms into the room, boots thudding heavily, dark brows twisting with fury.
My hackles rise instantly at the sight of him, alarms blaring in my head.
His voice is a menacing boom. “WHO WAS IT? Who here thought they knew better than Leader Aldrich and went againstspecificinstructions not to kill any other Rawbonds outside of training?”
Fuck. Not spared at all. Just fresh torture.
Shocked whispers spread through the room. Slowly, eyes start to turn towards me, clocking my shorn hair. The sudden cut is apparently more of a giveaway than I thought. There’s no chance even the cleverest of lies will get me out of this.
So I do what I always do when faced with a man seething with fury. I lift my chin and meet his furious glare.
“It was me. Self-defense,” I say plainly. Miraculously, my voice doesn’t shake despite the pounding of my heart.
Stark steps towards me, his huge form casting an even larger shadow. A few Rawbonds scatter away from him, repelled by a primal fear that has their eyes flashing and their limbs jerky. All I feel is responding fury.
“You think you’re above the rules,princess?” he growls out.
Calling me princess? Acting like the rules don’t matter? Ironic, considering who he serves. My lip twitches with resentment before I can stop it.
“Like I said, it wasself-defense.”
His hands flex into fists and release, the dark lines of his tattoos dancing along them. “It was self-defense to choke someone to death with their own severed hand?” he snarls.
There’s another round of shocked whispers. A few of the Rawbonds closest to me push their plates away. Others turn away from me. Izabel and Venna are utterly silent.
But I refuse to avert my eyes in shame or let Stark break something in me. I did what I had to do to protect my own life, and now they’llallknow better than to fuck with me.
I’d do it again, for Saela.
Stark’s challenging gaze burns through me for a long moment, the room suspended in silence. They’re all watching us, like they’re waiting for us to tear each other apart.
Then he straightens, the tattoos and numerous scars on the backs of his hands flexing around his knuckles as his hands clench again.
“Front of the room,” he says, voice low.
Every word is specially crafted for me, perfectly enunciated, quiet but dangerously clear. There will be no argument.
I slowly stand and move towards the front where everyone can see me.
As I do, he addresses the others with a significantly more level voice. “Looks like lessons are starting early this morning,” he says, watching me walk.
I turn and stand before him, perching my hands on my hips and standing tall. He still looms over me as he approaches.
“Most of you should know the meaning of Bonded tattoos, but for those of you who don’t—” He pointedly shoots a dagger-like glare my way. “—the tattoos on our arms and torsos count Siphon kills. The ones on our necks memorialize our Bonded comrades that we’ve killed in training. Why do we do the tattoos?”
Because you psychos like war trophies.
There’s a long moment of silence before a young man musters the courage to lift his hand. Phylax, judging by the tawny streak in his hair. I don’t know his name. Stark bows his head in his direction.
“Because unlike the Siphons, the Bonded cherish life. We get tattoos to remember the steep cost of war.”
Bullshit, if I’ve ever heard it. Did the person who attacked me last nightvalue life? Did the rest of them in that arena, as they watched a man be torn apart?
If they valued life, this entire process wouldn’t be so brutal and bloody.
Stark nods and turns to me, reaching into his pocket. He produces a small device that looks like a pen, a sharp tip glinting in the light streaming in from the window above us. Alongside it, a bottle of ink.
