It sparks in me, too. Respect bubbles up through the sea of resentment. She ran that coursefast. She didn’t even blink at the obstacles other wolves couldn’t best.
If she’d justlistento me, we might actually?—
The iron slams down between us. Hard. Harder than it ever has. It’s like she’s slammed a cleaver over my neck.
I choke, doubling over, disoriented.
We did it. Wedid. Third, and I even get to live to see morning. That’s a victory.
But right now, it feels like I’ve lost something, too.
I’m tired of losing. It’s depressing as fuck, and it’s also just not who I am. Or at least not who I thought I was. I’m a fighter. Someone who holds on tight.
Heart still beating fast, I let myself look back up at the stands, where Killian is watching me intently, his eyes piercing even from this far away, his long fingers steepled under his sharp chin.
Have I really lost him, too? Or, unlike with Anassa, is it me who’s shutting him out, when I don’t have to be? Could I find a way to trust him again?
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
I’ve grown used to the wild scene in the common lounge every night, but tonight, after surviving the Voice Trial, the other Rawbonds really let loose.
A celebration is in full swing, and all four packs are in attendance. Gone is the tension each of us carried into the arena earlier tonight. The other Strategos throw themselves into the party, drinking and laughing with abandon.
I still find this ghoulish, the way they party after so much death. Eight Rawbonds in total lost their lives, including two from Strategos that I didn’t know well. But I’d been so certain that I’d be one of them that I’m having some sort of adrenaline crash, and I can’t deny that I’d like to take the edge off too.
Following Izabel and Tomison to one of the couches at the outer edge of the room, I watch the party as they talk and laugh. Servants weave through the crowd with decanters of emberwine and trays of food.
Izabel puts a glass in my hand. It’s no sleeping draught, but maybe it’ll stave off the nightmares. The warmed, spiced alcohol steams slightly in the cool air, its rich scent driving off the lingering tang of blood and death.
It tastes fantastic—potent, too. A pleasant warmth spreads through my belly at the very first sip. After the third, a faint buzz of relaxation travels the length of my body.
Suddenly, the party doesn’t seem so ghoulish anymore.
Izabel and Tomison are flirting playfully. Venna joins us, hugging her sister and grinning with unmistakable pride; Venna ranked second today. One of Tomison’s friends from our pack, Kristof, comes to join us too, congratulating Venna warmly, and eyeing her with interest. Everyone seems to be here tonight—except for Nevah, who I saw slink back to the Strategos quarters after the Trial.
Over by the big fireplace, the pack instructors sit together, Egith among them, looking characteristically stern. She catches me eying her and her lips press into an even tighter line. Thought she’d be excited about my third place finish.
Guess not.
Samson, the Kryptos Gamma, says something that makes Egith throw her head back and laugh, the silver streak in her hair catching firelight as she toasts with him. Even the Phylax Gamma Elinor seems to have relaxed her usual rigid posture.
Only Stark maintains his distance, lounging in a shadowed corner like a predator waiting to strike. But he’s shed the stiff formal jacket he wore to the arena. His shirt underneath is unbuttoned at the top, offering a glimpse of his muscular, golden brown chest and the tattoos that flow down his neck.
A pretty young Rawbond approaches him, cocking her hip in blatant invitation. He dismisses her with a scathing glance.
As she retreats into the crowd, another woman approaches. Then another, and another. Each one is rebuffed with that same cold look of disinterest.
“He’s pretty sexy when he’s not bellowing orders at us, huh?” says Izabel, using her hands to sign it as well, since the noise of the party is making it hard for Venna to catch all our words.
I turn to her with a jolt, embarrassed to be caught staring.
Beside her, Tomison grins, his arm draped over the back of the couch behind her. Venna gives me a conspiratorial look, brows bobbing.
“Sure,” I grumble, “if you find murderous psychos sexy.”
“Do you not?” Kristof quips.
Izabel laughs.
