Chapter X
Freyr
Those golden eyes track my every movement when I enter with a stack of books in my arms. The chair I’d requested be put in there is waiting outside the room.
I drag it in with a nod of thanks and then remove the old, uncomfortable one.
I leave it with the guards, uncaring what they do with it. Hopefully burn it.
Now my new chair is the only piece of furniture in the dank, cold room. Unless I count the chains holding the lycan in place as furniture. They’re more like… accessories? Decor?
They’re an eyesore, is what they are. I don’t like them. They make me uncomfortable in a way I’m not willing to examine. For as long as I’ve been alive, the werewolves have belonged to us, forced to obey and serve us. It’s just the way things are. I’ve never thought about it further than that.
“Feel like talking today?” There’s a heavy disappointment sitting in my gut that I ignore when he doesn’t answer. As if I want him to talk to me. What I want is for all of this to go away, for my life to be the way it was only days ago. Boring. Predictable. Disappointing, in a different way.
The only place to put the books is beside the chair. I should have asked for a table too. It looks like I’ll be spending some considerable time here—doing absolutely nothing since I have no idea what the fuck I’m doing—so I might as well make it comfortable in here.
Settling onto the chair, I risk looking at the man.
It’s impossible to forget what he really is.
What he’s capable of. Not when the intelligence and predator is right there in his gaze.
He’s watching me like I’m the prey, not him.
Like I’m the one at a disadvantage. Looking into that liquid gold, unwavering and strong despite everything, I believe it too.
I’m completely out of my depth. This isn’t going to end the way my father thinks it will, the way he wants it to.
And I’m the one that will pay the price for the failure. Maybe that’s the point.
Opening the first book—Werewolves: A Complete History—I deliberately look away, trying to focus on anything but his overwhelming presence.
Someone who is helpless and trapped shouldn’t command a room like this.
My father has the world doing his bidding, and he’s never taken up this much space or felt quite so menacing.
I barely get through the first page, and if there’s going to be a test on the content, I won’t pass. How can someone not say a word and yet be so damn distracting?
I’m not going to let him do that. I took these books from the library to learn so that I can teach him to stop looking at me like that, and I’m going to do it!
I don’t follow through on a lot of things, and I’m not good at much of anything, but this one thing I’m determined to push through.
Not for my father or even for myself. There’s something about this lycan that grasps deep inside me, and I want it to stop.
My fingers tighten around the edges of the book, and I glare at it, using all of my willpower not to look up, to focus on the words and get them to sink in somewhere in my brain.
I’m interrupted an hour later by a knock at the door. It feels like it’s been so much longer, but that’s what the clock says. It could be wrong. I doubt this room gets a lot of maintenance.
Leaving the book open and face down on my chair, I purposely keep from looking over at my new charge and fling the door open.
Soren is on the other side, wearing one of his more casual outfits.
Leather pants, a thin black cotton top that disguises the strength underneath, four belts hanging crisscross over his hips, complete with a flowing cape that almost touches the floor, the collar flipped up and the sleeves rolled to his elbows.
Not to mention the thick black combat boots that I personally know really hurt.
He raises an eyebrow at me. “What did I do to deserve that look?”
Schooling my expression into one of less annoyance, I put a hand on the doorframe.
Blocking him from coming in? I don’t even know.
I haven’t allowed anyone into the room. Part of me wants to keep the lycan to myself.
I’d like to think it’s because I’m not into making a spectacle of anyone, regardless of their status in life.
I have a feeling it has nothing to do with that.
“I don’t have an appointment with you.”
“No.”
He doesn’t elaborate, and as the silence stretches, the curve of his mouth lengthens.
The need to turn and look back at the lycan rises in my stomach, and I valiantly stamp it down. He’s probably still staring at me, and I don’t need to give him the satisfaction of thinking that I care or have noticed.
“Can I help you with something?” I’m careful to keep the irritation out of my voice. Soren hears it anyway because he’s a mind reader, which is the absolute worst.
“I thought I’d ask you that question,” Soren says dryly. “Going well, I take it?”
“Sure.” Depends on his definition of “well,” though I don’t think any of what’s been happening here would fit the criteria he’d list.
Soren glances into the room and then tilts his head to the side, studying me. “Training session in the gym, at sunset.” Without waiting for me to reply, he turns and takes a few steps away. He half turns back, one hand in his pocket. “Don’t be late.”
My protest comes too late; he’s already gone, and he doesn’t hear me. I hate that tactic so much.
With a huff, I slam the door shut and pace in annoyance. Does he think I have time for that? I’m supposed to be taming a beast that’s somehow holding the upper hand here. I haven’t been given a deadline, but I’m not expecting my father to have a lot of patience.
The stack of books waiting for me aren’t appealing in the least even though ones like Taming the Beast and How to Break your Enemy seem like they should be useful.
I’ve never thought much about how they tame the lycans, how they bend them to our will despite how strong and unbending they seem.
I assume it’s something unpleasant, and just like the rest of my life, I bury my head in the sand and pretend it doesn’t exist. What good would knowing do?
I’m already aware that I’m not like my father or other vampyres who truly believe the lycans are below us.
I simply don’t have an opinion on any of it, because there’s no point.
I’ve been locked in this gilded cage my entire life, with everything I’m meant to do already laid out before me.
Every time I’ve failed a step that my father forced me to take, I’ve buried my head further and further until I’m not sure I know anything but the feeling of being suffocated.
With a huff, I slide down the wall beside the chair and bend my knees, wrapping my arms around them.
“Stop looking at me,” I mutter, my head buried against my chest. I don’t need to be looking at him to know that he’s still watching.
I can feel it. “If you aren’t going to speak to me, just… shut your eyes.”
He doesn’t, of course. Anger stirs in my chest and then evaporates. There isn’t any point to that emotion either.
“Are you hungry?” I mumble. I can’t imagine any of the guards feeding him or my father ordering it. There’s no answer from him. He has to be hungry, surely? Someone his size, not to mention the metabolism of his beast, has to need a lot of food for sustenance. He’d burn through it like wildfire.
Starvation seems like it would be a method employed for taming.
A kind of “reward” system or something. One of the books I got will tell me.
All I know is that I’m not going to do that.
I’ll find another way. A better way. One that will still let me sleep at night.
Loyalty isn’t gained through cruelty, only obedience is, and that leash only goes so far.
It’s an illusion, a trick. I know that intimately.
It only takes a moment to order one of the guards at the door to get food for us both. I have to give him credit for his professionalism; his face doesn’t even change at the strange request.
Making myself meet the werewolf’s eyes is difficult. I’m a coward in a lot of things, and I’d rather not continue to add to that list. Not as much as I can help it anyway. Things get added, whether I like it or not. A warrior, or brave, I am not.
Despite that, I wish he’d get bored already and stop staring at me. Even the chair in the corner is more interesting than me.
“Tell me your name.”
He tilts his head a fraction. I could be imagining it since it’s barely a movement at all. Something intuitive tells me he did, though. Down where the strange ball sits in my stomach. One that aches when I’m not here and eases as soon as I enter. Whatever that’s about.
One of the flames on the wall near his head flickers its last and goes dark. It casts a shadow across his face that’s almost mesmerizing.
Who am I kidding? It is mesmerizing. Even dirty, chained, and bruised, he’s clearly quite handsome.
There’s a ruggedness to him that no vampyre could ever pull off.
He’s wild in a way we never will be. Was he free?
Not just free of us, but free in the general sense of the word?
What is that like? To experience it for even just a moment…
Meaningless thoughts.
“Something tells me using the word ‘please’ isn’t going to get me anywhere.” That was definitely a little rise of the eyebrow. At least I know he can understand me even if this is still distinctly one-sided, not to mention frustrating.
A light knock at the door saves me from continuing the current conversation. Monologue? Not sure I can call it a conversation.
The servant bringing the food is human, not lycan. They aren’t allowed in these areas of the castle. I rarely see them in the main areas. I’ve never thought about why before. Is there something more to it? Are they more dangerous than we’re led to believe? Less docile than the populace is told?
I don’t let them into the room, rolling the trolley in myself and moving closer to the lycan than I was before.
Not enough to be in reaching distance. Enough that my heart is racing.
Enough that some part of me wants to be closer.
I almost take a step forward, lifting a hand when the warning goes off in my brain, and I stop.
His lips part, eyes alert and so focused on me it’s almost like he’s physically touching me.
A shaky step away from him doesn’t help alleviate the rapid beating of my heart. The way breathing is suddenly so much harder.
What is happening to me?
I force myself to look away, focus on something other than him.
On the trolley is a mug of warm blood, a cherry aroma lifting from it.
It’s fresh. Beside it are three trays, each with a distinct meat scent.
I’ve never tried food before, never needed to or had an interest. Some vampyres eat for the simple pleasure of it.
I’d rather not give my father something else to use against me.
Ignoring the meat for now, I lift the mug and cradle it with both hands. Still warm. My eyes lift and meet his. “Would you like some?” The usual silence. “No? Well, more for me. Very kind of you.”
I lift the lid off the first plate, revealing a large, well-cooked steak—well, cooked. I don’t know anything about the best way to cook it. For the first time, his gaze moves away from me, glancing at the food.
Seems he’s hungry after all.
“You want some of this? More to your taste?”
There’s a flicker of a deeper golden color in his gaze.
“You can have as much as you want.” His nostrils flare as I step forward. “But first”—I lean a hand on the wall beside his head, with enough distance that I’m not in biting range—“I want you to do something for me.”