Direbound (The Wolves of Ruin #1)

Chapter 15

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

M y footsteps echo faintly against the gleaming white marble of the Strategos washroom as I slink toward one of the enormous tubs sunk into the floor. There are half a dozen of them spaced around the room. They’re big enough to fit several people at once and already full of steaming, crystal-clear water.

Shit, even the baths here are extravagant.

Back home we have a dented metal tub barely big enough to hold me, and the pump that feeds it produces ice-cold water tinted orange with rust. I didn’t even know baths like this could exist, didn’t dare to dream of something so luxurious.

The room is cavernous—high ceilings, tall frosted glass windows, golden taps and sinks. Even the grates on the drains set into the floors are gold.

Egith’s voice rings out in my memory. ” You’re already drawing attention to yourself .” I try to temper my slack-jawed wonder of it, to look less like the impoverished commoner I am, as I quickly undress.

At least there’s no one else here. But it doesn’t escape me that this is a communal space. There aren’t any privacy screens, and there’s no lock on the door, either. The men and women of the Bonded bathe… together.

My face heats at the thought. No one’s ever accused me of being a prude, but something about the idea is almost lewd.

There’s a row of shelves set into one wall. Perfectly folded white towels and washcloths, pristine and fluffy. Bottles of perfumed soaps, lotions, and who knows what else.

I grab a bottle and sniff. I don’t recognize the scents, but it’s divine—fresh flowers and a hint of something deep. Expensive and oddly sensual.

Fuck, I can’t use this. Like putting jewelry on a pig.

Wait, did I just call myself a pig?

I clench my teeth. This place is already getting to me, making me feel… inferior. But I’m not. Being born into money and privilege doesn’t make these people better than me.

At that moment, I catch sight of myself in the enormous gilded mirror hanging above the sinks. It gives me a start. The woman looking back at me is almost a stranger, her silver hair gleaming in the late afternoon light, her mouth set in a serious line.

I look away quickly, overwhelmed by a rush of jumbled emotions. Familiar rage and pain—and something else. A wobbly confusion that sets my teeth on edge.

This whole ordeal has already changed me in ways I can’t begin to understand.

And now I have to primp and pose to entertain a bunch of pompous nobles, like I’m a nice cut of meat on display at the butcher? It’s for Sae , I tell myself, stiffening my spine. Remember, this is all for her .

Survival is all that matters, by any means necessary.

I take the bottle and hurry to the nearest tub, stripping the rest of my clothes off quickly. Hot water envelops me as I climb in.

It’s a shock at first—almost scalding. I suck in a breath, gripping the bottle of soap so hard I’m surprised it doesn’t shatter in my hand. And then…

Relief .

Heat seeps into every pore, every aching muscle, straight to my bones. All the little pains drift away, replaced by melting pleasure. My eyes roll back in my head and I almost let out a moan.

I had no idea that baths could be like this, like anything other than a chilly race to get myself slightly clean. If I’m going to be stuck here—fighting for my life, captive to an unwanted bond—well then, I’m going to take one of these every fucking night.

Pouring some soap into my hands, I lather it into my hair, trying not to look at the thick silver stands slipping over my shoulder. I’m not sure why it unsettles me so much except… it isn’t right .

The hair is just another reason I don’t belong here. Another sign that screams outsider . I can’t even bond right.

Whatever. I’m glad I’m an outsider. This world of the Bonded is totally fucked. Except, of course, for these goddess-sent baths.

I duck my head to wash the soap out of my hair and surface again to find a pair of Strategos Rawbonds has joined me in the washroom. One of them is the tall, beautiful blonde woman who sleeps in the bunk next to mine—Perielle, I think her name is. Her skin is luminous and her hair is already glossy and clean. In my part of the city, it would be seen as a waste of water to bathe in her condition.

Even though I haven’t spent much time around women my own age, I know how social hierarchies work, and based on what I’ve observed in the past day, Perielle most definitely sits atop the food chain. While Tomison attracts a crowd of admirers wherever he goes, Perielle seems to have lackeys and those who fear her in an awe-ridden way.

The two young women cast me identical looks of scorn and cross to the tub farthest away, a reminder that I am at the bottom of that chain. They proceed to chat in low tones, ignoring me completely. That’s just fine with me.

Except they’re not the last to join us. More of my fellow Strategos come trickling steadily in, men and women alike. They all go about undressing and washing like it’s totally normal.

Meanwhile, I’m shrinking in the water, brutally aware of my nakedness.

How can they all be so blasé? The two people I’ve ever seen completely naked are my little sister—before she was old enough to bathe herself—and Lee, after we’d been seeing each other for months and could finally get some time alone at his apartment. But these people seem totally at ease with their nudity, regardless of gender.

Before long, the steam-slick walls of the washroom echo with voices and laughter. The tubs are full of people—three and four in each. Others wash in the spray of the taps that line the wall behind the tubs, while yet more primp and pose before the big mirror, excitedly talking about dresses and hairstyles for the Presentation.

I finish washing, trying not to stare at all those lean, naked bodies; the smooth skin and gleaming muscles that speak of good nutrition and copious training.

Finally, as I gather my courage to get out of the water, Izabel comes breezing in. She spots me immediately and makes a beeline in my direction.

“Look at this!” she exclaims, shrugging out of her robe. “A whole tub to ourselves!”

I grimace and cross my arms over my breasts as she clambers into the water.

“Careful, you’ll catch my commoner disease,” I quip. It comes out a lot more bitter than I meant it to.

Izabel laughs. “Ignore those idiots, they’re probably just intimidated by you.” Then she notices my posture. “Wait, are you shy ?”

I glare at her.

She laughs again. “You’ll get used to it. After all, when you might die tomorrow, why waste time on shame? Plus, we’re supposed to be a pack, you know? Gotta get used to sharing everything.”

I’m not sharing squat with these bastards, I think. But I wish I could share their ease, even so. All I can do is think about the years of scrubbing other people’s clothes in cold wash buckets. Poverty teaches you a whole different set of lessons about modesty.

“You better get out before you start getting pruny,” Izabel says, nabbing my bottle of soap. “I’ll meet you back in the bunk room shortly.”

I nod and force myself to clamber out, careful not to rush. The last thing I need is to slip on the marble and fall on my face in front of everyone. Naked.

Thankfully, no one seems to look at me as I scurry to wrap myself in one of the big fluffy towels. It’s so soft —far softer than anything I’ve ever put on my body before.

Once again, it’s such an extravagant waste. Why do the Bonded trainees get fluffy towels like this, when we’re supposed to be in austerity mode as a nation, saving money to send to our troops? Is this just a lie that the king feeds to the commoners, so he can keep his chosen ones in comfort?

But the place in my chest that used to hold my churning anger has been hollowed out. I don’t have the mental capacity for the fury at the Bonded anymore. All I can think about is my own survival.

Back at the bunks, Venna is waiting. She smiles when she sees me and gestures to a pile of stuff beside her on Izabel’s mattress. There’s a dress, fancy boots, jewelry, little tins of makeup, and other things I can’t even name.

Well, shit , I think, steeling myself once again. Here we go .

An hour later, Izabel and Venna have done their worst. They’ve been fussing over me like I’m their personal doll, having a lot more fun with it than strictly necessary, in my opinion. I’m adorned in a dozen expensive things the sisters nicked off other trainees they know in all the packs, all the way down to a set of elaborate silken undergarments that make me blush every time I think about them.

I’m a little terrified to see the final look.

I’ve never considered myself feminine, much less pretty—though Lee made some progress convincing me otherwise. My shoulders are too broad, my calves too thick, my face too round. The only thing I ever really liked about myself was my thick, dark hair.

Of course, this place has taken that from me.

Right now, I’m sure I look absolutely ridiculous. Every bit like a pig in jewelry—plus a fancy dress and makeup, with my hair pinned and curled and gelled into place.

At least the boots fit, and they’re gorgeous, too. Sleek and elegant, made of shining, butter-soft leather. They hug my legs like a second skin all the way to the knee. I could do without the heels, but at least they aren’t very high.

The dress, on the other hand, I’m not so sure about. It’s made of some silky material I can’t name and dyed deep, plummy purple. It has a faint shimmer to it, like oil on water, and it’s quite revealing, with high slits on either side. It’s so light and clingy that I feel close to naked wearing it.

“There,” Izabel says, straightening away from me with a little tin of lip dye in one hand. “That’s the final touch.” She looks at Venna, who grins and nods.

“You look amazing,” Venna adds, clearly proud of her handiwork. “Thanks to your talented new friends.”

I roll my eyes. “Sure. As long as I don’t look out of place at the Presentation.”

“Out of place?” Izabel says. “No. But you’ll certainly stand out with that hair .”

Izabel and Venna exchange quick, worried glances. “What?” I ask sharply.

There’s a huff from my left and I turn to see a brown-skinned woman with curly hair staring at me in assessment. She was the person crying silently in the courtyard last night. “You wouldn’t want to stand out too much.”

“I know, I know,” I say. “I need to fit into the pack.”

The woman shakes her head. “It’s not about that.” She raises her eyebrows at Venna and Izabel, who give her matching winces in return.

“Why are you all being so cryptic?” I ask.

The woman eyes me up and down and says, “I think you’ll be fine. The hair is attention-grabbing, but you’re not clearly trying to win his eye. Some of the other women here are more obviously vying for that.” She gestures behind her, where two women are laced into gowns with such little fabric that they’re practically naked, their toned and beautiful bodies on display.

“Nevah,” Venna hisses at the woman.

I level Izabel with a look. “ What is going on? And remember that I know nothing!”

Izabel sighs, shifting uncomfortably. “I told you, we’re on display during Presentation for the king and the nobles. This is their opportunity to… choose among us, if they’re interested.”

The implication slams into me with the force of an unexpected hit from the ring. Choose among them. Among us . For… sex.

“That’s disgusting,” I spit out, my stomach twisting. Sure, the Bonded are granted an opulent lifestyle if they survive this training, but at what cost?

Izabel shrugs. “It benefits everyone,” she says, speaking quickly, her cheeks flushing at my judgmental tone. “We get the opportunity to mix with the nobles of the kingdom. I’ve heard that every once in a while, a Rawbond actually makes a match with a noble. And we’re not required to do anything if we don’t want to.”

I wonder if she believes this load of wolf dung. If she’s truly okay with it, or if she too can sense how messed up this is.

Nevah scoffs. “Unless, of course, the king chooses you. That one’s not optional. Every time there are Bonding Trials, King Cyril picks a Rawbond to be his companion, for the duration of the four months.”

My skin crawls. “And that’s why I need to be worried about standing out too much? In case the king of Nocturna decides to turn me into an unwilling sex partner?”

“Don’t worry,” Nevah says, patting me on the arm. “There are too many obviously willing candidates for him to go for you.”

I look again at the women in the flimsy dresses, who are now sending each other icy glares, clearly each put out by the other’s lurid appearance. “Why would anyone want that?”

“It’s an honor for our families,” Nevah says, her voice barely masking her own disgust. “You’re supposed to be proud to be one of his chosen.” I notice that Nevah is wearing a dress that fits in with everyone else’s, deep green and cut low at the chest, but not particularly scandalous.

Guess she’s not trying to win the king’s attention, either.

“Go check yourself out in the mirror,” says Venna. “Izabel and I still need to get ready.”

With a sigh of dread, I head for the dorm lavatory. As I step in, I look up, meeting my own gaze in the mirror above the lavatory sinks—and freeze in shock.

The woman looking back at me is more alien than ever before. And she’s… gorgeous.

Luminous olive skin. Wide hazel eyes shadowed with shimmering purple. Long, thick lashes. Full, wine-red lips. The purple dress hugs every line of my body with sensual grace, turning sturdy to elegant. Athletic to erotic.

Gone is the rugged street fighter from the slums. In her place is a powerful, elegant woman who looks like she can seduce a man as easily as beat him down.

And somehow, the jewel in the crown of this impossibly feminine vision is all that silver-white hair. The twins have pinned some of it up in an effortless chignon, but the rest cascades around my shoulders like curls of living ice, framing my face in a way that softens the features I’ve always thought were coarse.

I’ve become a stranger to myself.

The lavatory door bangs open and jolts me out of my dazed self-contemplation. Izabel and Venna enter, dressed in matching slinky, low-cut navy blue gowns. They smile at me and begin making themselves up in the mirror.

Something inside me instantly shrinks when I see our reflections side-by-side.

Despite the transformation, it’s clear that we’re not the same. Their refined, willowy frames tower over me, practically screaming elegance and sophistication. Their faces are twin visions of delicate beauty, utterly antithetical to my own.

And they’re not the only ones. Every woman among the Bonded has that same air of elegance. That same graceful, willowy perfection. Even made up like this, I look coarse beside them—my frame much denser, my hips and shoulders wider, my muscles heavier.

The sense of not belonging returns in full force.

Beside these children of the Bonded, I look like exactly what I am.

Defective.

And if it will keep me protected tonight, well that’s just fine with me.

By the time we arrive at the courtyard outside the arena, it’s near sunset and the air has a biting chill.

It’s a struggle not to gape at the enormous, impossible structure carved into the side of the mountain above us. Its vast, domed ceiling is supported by countless stone pillars and guarded by huge, elaborate carvings that stare down at us with unnerving intensity: direwolves and their riders poised for battle.

I’m relieved to see that the looming building is fully enclosed. At least it’ll be warm.

My fellow Rawbonds seem unmoved by the imposing architecture. Each pack is here with their leaders, standing in separate groups along the path leading up to the arena, waiting for the signal to enter. They look like a flock of young royals ready for a gala.

Even Stark is dressed up in a shining black suit. I try not to let my gaze linger on the way it clings to his powerful arms.

There’s a lot of hushed chatter and last-minute fussing with clothes and hair. The air is thick with anticipation.

Meanwhile, I feel even more like a walking mistake than I did before. Everyone keeps looking at me. Sidelong glances, blatant shock, consternation. Even anger, as though my appearance is some kind of affront.

It’s like I’m more naked in this stupid dress than I was in the baths when they were all ignoring me.

Suddenly, a familiar commanding voice rises from somewhere at the front of the path.

“Alright, everyone line up, two by two! It’s almost time!” I see Egith’s arm wave above the crowd as everyone moves to obey. “Hurry up, now! Nice and orderly!”

The packs begin to melt together as we fall in line. Izabel and Venna pair up behind me. Two more women pair up in front. In a moment, we’re all neatly in line—and of course, I’m the only one standing alone.

Egith paces by, checking us over. She pauses when she sees me and her lips compress, but she says nothing. Seconds later, she’s back at the arena entrance calling, “Best behavior, Rawbonds! The king will be watching!”

That sentence has new meaning , I think, as the hair rises along my arms.

My heart is in my throat as the big doors creak open and a rush of warm, heavily scented air washes over us. It brings the sounds of hundreds of high-born people waiting in the stands—a low, oddly decorous buzzing of many voices.

Nothing like the wild roar of the onlookers at my fights back home, despite the much larger crowd.

A small portion of the stands is visible through the doorway as the line moves forward. Rows upon rows of nobles in suits and glittering dresses, dressed notably more modestly than us Rawbonds. The sick twisting in my stomach is back at the obvious class distinctions. We’re here for their amusement.

The point is driven home when I see the flash of fire on glass and metal and realize the nobles are holding gilded binoculars to their eyes, peering down at us eagerly. Huge golden lanterns dangle from the high glass ceiling, casting the scene in a warm glow.

Izabel nudges me in the back as we file through into the arena. “Head high,” she whispers. “You’re a Bonded, remember? Make them believe it.”

I glance back. Beside her, Venna flashes me an encouraging grin.

Right . I take a deep breath and tell myself this is just like entering a fight. The only difference is posturing—a veneer of gentility and affluence. Potential violence lurks everywhere, and my opponents will leap on any sign of weakness.

Whatever happens in there, I have to project confidence.

The cobbled path underfoot changes to hard-packed dirt as I cross the arena threshold. I catch a distinct, familiar scent under the waft of burning lamp oil and countless perfumes.

Death.

A chill creeps down my spine. I can actually taste that thick iron tang. As the air around me shifts, that smell hits the back of my throat with such strength it threatens to gag me, recalling countless warehouses in the slums. Countless fights.

Only it’s magnified a thousand times over.

How many people have died here? I wonder. Hundreds? Thousands?

I look down at the dirt crunching faintly under my boots as we move to the center of the field. It’s smooth but mottled. Darkened with splatters of old blood that soaked deep into the earth, layer upon layer. Battle upon battle.

Death upon death.

And there’s something else. Narrow divots dug into the ground like a web that covers the entire field.

What the hell?

A sudden pulse fills my head. An aching pressure gathers behind my eyes, insistent and strong.

Over the hum of the crowd and the crunch of our footsteps, I start to hear other sounds. Low, hissing voices.

Is that… whispering?

No. My fellow Rawbonds are absolutely silent as we approach the center of the field. It must be the crowd. Or maybe just the blood pumping in my ears.

Or maybe you’re going mad like your mother .

Hastily, I shove the thought away.

Finally, we reach arena’s center. Egith gestures for us to stop, and then turn. On the far edge of the amphitheater, there’s another enormous, arched doorway.

A loud thunk echoes across the field and the towering doors swing arduously open, pushed by a pair of servants dressed in the king’s livery. Beyond lies only shadows.

At once, the crowd falls silent.

The pulsing in my head gets stronger. Now, in the strange thrumming quiet, I do hear whispers. But I’m not listening anymore. All my senses are trained on that gaping maw of darkness.

Something is in there. Two pinpricks of greenish light that grow into bright orbs. They flash with an unmistakable night glow. With raw, wild awareness.

Eyes.

More orbs appear, bobbing slowly as they drift towards us.

A huge, black-furred face emerges from the shadows, followed by wide rippling shoulders. Then comes another face, this one silver and white. And another, rust and cream.

Our wolves.

An invisible crackle of wild energy fills the air. Cheers rise from the stands as the massive animals stream onto the field. I watch, heart pounding, as each one approaches its chosen.

The Rawbonds step forward, fanning out to meet their wolves. To stand side-by-side in proud rows, dwarfed by the hulking predators. Many wolves greet their riders, muzzle to hand, reaffirming their bonds through physical contact.

An odd twinge of jealousy hits me. Anassa would never greet me like that.

Wait, where is Anassa? All the other wolves are here.

The crowd falls silent once more, their eyes on me like a physical weight. I’m the only Rawbond standing alone. For a moment, I start to panic.

What the fuck am I going to do if that damned direwolf doesn’t show?

Then I see it—a final pair of night glow orbs bobbing in the darkness of the doorway.

She appears like a great silver-white ghost, even larger than the rest, trailing into the light with her head lowered in silent aggression. Her upper lip twitches over her teeth, on the edge of a snarl. The light from the lamps above glints gold on her pale fur.

The air grows still. The cheers have died down. The entire arena watches with bated breath as Anassa slowly stalks towards me.

I do not step forward to meet her like the others. Somehow, I know that’s the wrong thing to do. Instead, I just stand there, back straight, jaw set, reading the threat of primal violence in every line of her body.

I reach out to her with my thoughts, though. I don’t mean to. It just happens—like a reflex.

I’m met with a familiar iron wall of rejection. Her glowing yellow eyes meet mine. There’s blatant contempt in them.

Yeah well, fuck you, too, I think, furious.

Is she trying to make me look bad? I’d quite like to stay alive.

Her gaze flickers then—some emotion I can’t identify. I’m struck again by the ancient intelligence in those eyes. Goosebumps rise along my arms and lift the hair at my nape in primal recognition.

As she nears, the other Rawbond pairs fan out even further to make room for her, their anxiety rippling in the air. Even the other wolves seem to fear her.

At last, Anassa takes her place beside me, standing well out of arm’s reach, radiating icy indifference.

I glance up at the crowd, shifting anxiously on my toes. They must be able to see how much she hates me. This is definitely not going to help my chances with… whatever the fuck this is. Or with the inter-pack rankings that Izabel mentioned.

The sinking dread returns. Looks like I’m on my own once again.

There’s a stirring in the crowd. Excited murmurs, heads turning. I follow their looks to the enormous balcony above the wolves’ entrance.

The rows of seats there are filled with Bonded—our instructors have made their way up there, along with a few other Bonded that I don’t recognize who must be high-ranking. A richly carpeted staircase behind them rises to another set of doors. These are elaborately carved with the royal coat of arms.

A herald appears with a voice amplifier in his hand. “Presenting His Royal Highness Cyril Valtiere, King of Nocturna!”

The crowd hushes.

A procession emerges through the gilded doors, led by gold-armored guards and more liveried servants. Behind them comes a regal figure draped in a sumptuous, fur-lined cloak, gold glittering over his brow.

The king.

I’ve lived my whole life just outside his castle, but I’ve never seen him before.

His face is pale and narrow, his gray hair neatly arranged. He’s trim for a man in his fifties, but he seems small and almost frail amongst the battle-hardened Bonded.

In fact, he’s pretty unremarkable—all the pageantry notwithstanding. Only his eyes indicate there’s more to him than his appearance suggests. Even at such a distance, I can see the keenness and cunning in his pale blue gaze.

Still, just a man , I think, faintly disgusted. I don’t know what I was expecting.

King Cyril mounts a raised platform and crosses to the big jeweled throne at the center of the balcony. He sits and lifts a golden sword across his knee. I can’t see the weapon clearly, but I know the stories.

It’s the Diren Bl?d . The fabled weapon that supposedly gives him power over all direwolves, Bonded and unbonded alike. They say the pommel is shaped like a glowering direwolf’s head.

It was a gift bestowed upon his ancestors hundreds of years ago by the Faceless Goddess, or so the story goes. She offered it as a means to right the balance between humans and direwolves back when the wolves still hunted us like cattle.

King Cyril’s gaze sweeps down to the field, taking us in. For a moment, it settles on Anassa, then shifts to me, narrowing sharply.

With a start, I realize the other Rawbonds are bowing. Even the wolves have lowered their heads—all except Anassa, who stares up at the king with unblinking intensity.

Shit . I bow hurriedly.

Then the herald speaks again. “Presenting His Royal Highness Killian Valtiere, Crown Prince of Nocturna!”

Everyone straightens as one and a ripple of excited whispers starts up around me. The king’s heir, Prince Killian, is rarely seen in public. The little that I know about him, I’ve gleaned from rumors over the years: he’s in his late twenties, rumored to be extremely handsome, and is unwed.

“Here he comes,” breathes a woman to my left. Clearly, the Rawbonds around me are hoping that the prince will also pick a companion from among them.

“Whoa,” Izabel hisses behind me. “He’s actually here!”

“He’s gorgeous!” says yet another.

Irritated by their fawning admiration, I lift my gaze again to the royal procession. Another pair of guards. More servants. And finally, the prince, a tall masculine figure dressed simply in gold and white.

Wait.

I blink. Shake my head. Look again.

No .

A strange ringing fills my ears, deafening me to all but the raw thud of my heartbeat.

That handsome face, with its sharp jawline and knowing blue eyes. The sleek blonde hair. The broad shoulders.

My thoughts shudder and tumble, shattering into meaningless shards that cut me to the bone.

It can’t be him.

But it is.

I would know that man at any distance, in any dress.

We shared promises. Secrets. Dreams I never believed I would get to live.

Crown Prince Killian descends to the balcony while I stand there frozen, my whole world crumbling around me. And then, seated at his father’s side, he lifts his head and looks right at me, dark blue eyes filled with regret.

My heart cracks.

Lee .