Direbound (The Wolves of Ruin #1)

Chapter 18

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

T here should be a manual for Rawbonds, printed fresh every Bonding Trials, each new edition including better tips and tricks acquired over the course of the training period.

My contribution?

The morning after gruesomely murdering another Rawbond, don’t get the eggs for breakfast.

I stare at them on my plate, shifting them around with my fork and thinking about brain matter and stringy intestines. Remembering the warm spray of blood and the strangled scream that I cut short.

The back of my neck is cold where my hair used to be. Last night, after I got back into the dorms, I went to the bathroom to wash his blood off me. While the tap warmed up, I stared at the woman in the mirror, once again filled with unreality caused by my own appearance. My hair is shorter than it’s been in my entire memory, the silver-white strands cut to a choppy bob, strands ending around the middle of my neck.

I shiver, still staring at my eggs as they grow cold on my plate.

If I’m being honest, it’s not just the violence that’s getting to me. It’s this feeling like I’m suddenly not myself any longer. Something strange happened last night, like someone else took over my body the moment I started to fight back.

Or maybe it was even earlier than that. Maybe the person I thought I was is still lying in my bed at home, borderline catatonic, and the person who managed to get up and drag her ass to the recruitment center is who’s really here right now.

Vicious and dangerous. Desperate.

I can’t shake the shiver of satisfaction I felt from Anassa. She liked what I did. I know she did. My head pounds from the constant effort of reinforcing the wall of iron between us.

Not to mention that I haven’t had a single moment to really think through the whole Lee—ugh, the Killian of it all. My heart still aches, thinking of him.

I close my eyes and see death at my fingertips right alongside the bittersweet image of him standing there in his finery.

“ Meryn .”

My head jerks up. Izabel is staring at me. Venna looks even more concerned. “We’ve been trying to get your attention,” Venna says.

“Sorry,” I reply.

“Interesting haircut you have this morning,” Izabel says cautiously. Venna offers me a questioning smile.

“Oh, uh.” I look around the common room. Rawbonds from every pack lounge on the chaises and chairs, some of them clearly already close enough to drape over each other. “What, you don’t like it?” I ask to deflect.

Venna shrugs. “No, I like it. It’s actually a good idea. Shorter hair means less to grab.” She swishes her own short bob, as if to demonstrate.

Painful flashes of last night return to me. I keep my face still, unwilling to show distress.

“But we’re worried,” Izabel adds. “Yesterday was a lot. And now this sudden change. Are you okay?”

A lot. That’s the understatement of the century.

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 against specific instructions 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 was self-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’ll all know 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 night value 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.

“Congratulations, princess. You get the first tattoo of these Bonding Trials.”

With that, his free hand closes around my shoulder and shoves me down into the chair behind me. I sputter in indignation.

But for some reason, when Stark bends over me, suddenly closer than I’ve ever seen him before, I can’t tear my gaze away from his eyelashes.

It stuns me, briefly. Seeing him up close is different. All that menacing fury still hovers above me like an executioner’s ax, but his breath is on my cheek and I can see the precise details of the tattoos on his neck.

Training kills, then, just like mine.

Stark grips my jaw firmly with his calloused fingers, the heat of them sending sparks across my skin. I give him what I hope is a defiant look. I refuse to cower in fear for someone who would so clearly relish it.

He clicks his tongue in irritation and forces my head up at an uncomfortable angle.

The bite of the needle on my neck is sudden and jarring. I refuse to make a sound of pain, clenching my jaw and glaring up at him as the needle tears into me. His hand tightens on my chin like he thinks I’m going to bolt, but I’d rather die than run from him.

My dignity wouldn’t survive it, and I’m not sure I would, either, if I turned my back on him.

Still, my breath puffs from me as the needle sends shivers of pain-induced cold through my neck and shoulder. I try to conceal it, but he clearly notices.

A muscle in his jaw feathers, his dark gaze shifting away from the needle for an instant to bore into me, impossible lashes framing his dark eyes.

As the needle goes on, some part of me yawns wide. Hungry. Full of rage.

If this goes on like this for much longer, I might snap and grab the needle out of his hands and plunge it somewhere vulnerable. It’s taking all my focus not to give in to my fighter’s instincts and do something about the pain I’m in. It’s like he’s digging his teeth into my fucking throat, and I’m just sitting here baring my neck for him.

Finally, it relents. He tucks the device away again, hand still firmly on my jaw. Then, without warning, he forces my head to the side. He leans down, his breath now hot against my neck.

And his tongue streaks over my skin.

I can’t repress the sound this time, small and almost angry, like the very beginnings of a growl at the base of my throat. I think he hears it because his hand tightens on my jaw. It’s even more shocking than the pain was. My vision sinks into the distance as the slick heat of his mouth contacts my overly sensitive skin.

I want to be angry. I want to shove him off of me and beat the shit out of him. But I can’t move.

The wet touch of it soothes the angry stinging in a way that is shockingly intimate even as it’s violating. My hands dig into the armrests.

It feels like it takes forever, but a starving part of me wants it to keep going. I hate it, and still my thighs tingle and my nipples harden beneath my jacket. I squeeze my thighs together as a bloom of heat spreads through my stomach and lower.

For a moment, all my mind can focus on is the warmth of his mouth and breath, the tickle of his hair on my cheek, the musky smell of him, the firmness of his hand on my throat.

And a scar. It’s hidden, slashed right across the very edge of his jaw, up towards the base of his ear. For some reason, that more than anything compresses my lungs and sends my heart thudding against my ribs like a striking fist.

It’s like a secret he didn’t mean to share.

Then it’s over and he shoves my face away roughly, scowling down at me with cold eyes. The anger floods back to me, even louder and more violent for how lost I just was to my body’s whims.

My fingertips bleach against the armrests as he turns without a word and leaves me there.

There are whispers all around me as I stand, refusing to let my legs shake. My face is definitely flushed as I return to my table. Izabel and Venna are staring.

I swallow. “What was that?” I breathe, voice raw.

“A tattoo for your kill,” Izabel replies.

“No, why did he lick me?” I demand, hands in fists.

Venna’s lips purse. “Oh, we lick each other’s tattoos when we’re done. It’s an instinct to help heal the surface of the skin.”

I pinch the bridge of my nose, ignoring the tingling at my throat. The world of the Bonded is never going to make sense to me.

The stinging at my throat remains painful for the rest of the day. I’m resisting my urge to rub at it as we stride out into the Strategos training grounds that afternoon as a pack. Beta Egith awaits us, dressed in black riding leather and eying us all impatiently. I notice that her sharp gaze lingers on my neck.

Our direwolves await us, some gathered together and socializing—rubbing their sides together, flicking their tails at each other, even playfully biting and snapping.

Anassa, however, stands entirely still apart from the rest, massive and uncaring. Not one of the others approaches her.

Seeing her again reminds me of last night and the vicious approval she felt. I press my palm to my tattoo, wincing when the contact causes the stinging to worsen.

“Good afternoon, Strategos Rawbonds,” Egith announces. “Today, we begin your formal trainingas Rawbonds with your first lesson in riding your wolves. If you’re here, you successfully rode your wolf down Mount Wolfsbane, but there’s much more to it than just sitting astride your mount.”

Well, some of us rode our wolves down the mountain.

“Mastering proper form for riding and fighting is also your first step in learning how to communicate well with your wolf. As a reminder, we are on an official countdown to the Voice Trial in one month.”

Fuck, right. The Trial that tests how well you can communicate with your wolf. I wasn’t worried about it when they told us about it in orientation, because I thought I was going to make an escape.

I prod against the iron wall in my head. Solid as ever. Anassa shows no interest in bringing it down again.

Great. I’m cooked.

“The Voice Trial consists of a complex obstacle course,” Egith continues, “so it’s important that you are both adept at moving with your direwolf, and that you communicate well with each other.”

I can barely even get Anassa to acknowledge my existence—beyond scathing contempt, of course—much less get her to work with me to run an obstacle course. An obstacle course that is probably specifically designed to test whether she’s listening to me.

“For today, we’re starting easy. It should be a breeze for most of you,” Egith explains. “One lap of the arena as fast as you can manage. Then over the hurdles. Crawl under the beams, then a final jump through that hoop. Do not fall off. There is risk of trampling as well as frustration from your direwolves. Remember what will happen if they find you wanting.”

It’s a disaster from the start.

The others’ wolves join them quickly, padding across the training grounds. Many of them mount just as easily as they did on the mountain. Izabel thuds my back as she strides forward towards her towering wolf, shooting me a sympathetic glance. Tomison is already up on his wolf’s back, sending a wink our way.

When I step towards Anassa, she doesn’t snarl at me. That’s progress, I guess. But she does sidestep away from me, the tips of her teeth bared briefly.

As it is, I have no choice. The others are already taking off down the course, starting one by one so that the obstacles aren’t overcrowded. Izabel is about to take her turn.

Fuck it.

I step forward and reach out, plunging my hand into her fur.

She doesn’t move. And she doesn’t bite my arm off. Maybe the forceful approach is the way to go.

Don’t ask permission; just like how she didn’t get my permission to bond.

Just do it .

I grip her fur and heft myself up, boots thudding against her leg to give myself a boost, like I’ve seen the others do it.

Anassa bats her paw right as I try to climb her and I thud back to the ground, landing on my feet. Others turn to watch me and I ignore them, trying again immediately.

This time, I fist her fur with both hands and jump up, not bothering with my feet until I’m already at her shoulder, relying on the muscles of my upper body that I’ve honed from years in the ring.

They serve me well now. I make it up onto Anassa’s back without much trouble.

Fuck, the ground is so far away.

Trampling risk , Egith said. I hate this.

It only gets worse as I try to direct Anassa towards the course. We’re among the last to go. I try to lower my mental walls, the very ones I spent time building up last night, but Anassa’s barriers hold firm.

Whatever goodwill I earned by committing bloody murder has vanished in this morning’s mist.

If I kill someone right now, will she jump through a hoop for me? Doubt it.

Eventually, she seems to get annoyed with me, or maybe just bored, and pads over to the course, facing it and readying herself.

It isn’t agreement. It isn’t teamwork or cohesion. I don’t hear her voice. It’s complete and utter rejection.

I don’t have two seconds to prepare myself before she hurtles forward at terrifying speed.

Clutching her fur tightly, I fight not to fall. Sprinting around the outside of the course is relatively smooth, but then she starts to leap over the hurdles. I nearly fall on the first one, yanking her fur to keep my balance atop her back. The pull of my weight upsets her own balance, and one of her feet tangles on the hurdle.

She barely catches herself, snarling, clacking her teeth angrily. Then onto the next hurdle, and it’s the same thing all over again.

I nearly slide right off trying to duck under the boards. When she leaps through the hoop, her tail whips against the rim and I end up fully dismounted from her back, clinging to the fur of her shoulder blade as my legs dangle and I try to scramble my way back up.

There’s no way I’m going to fall, though. I won’t let the other Rawbonds see my ass in the dirt.

I hold on to her. I’d rip all her fur out in my grip if it meant making it through this, and I think she knows it.

“Again!” Egith shouts, and I reconsider murder, if it means Anassa’ll at least try to help me stay mounted.

The other bonded pairs are flowing through the course. That’s the worst part. Some are faster than others, but not one of them is struggling like we are.

Even the clumsier ones struggle simply because their direwolves aren’t as tall or strong, not because their riders are struggling to stay mounted. I watch as one of the wolves even shifts its center of gravity to support its rider as she’s about to fall, tipping her back into her proper spot.

It’s grueling the entire way through.

My ass is entirely numb, my arms are limp and useless from clinging and pulling myself back up, and my head is pounding from the scraping, cruel pounding of the wall between my mind and Anassa’s.

I’m finally given a reprieve when class draws to a close. The other Rawbonds part lovingly with their wolves. When I slip from Anassa’s back, landing painfully on the flats of my feet, she turns tail. Almost instantly, she bounds away, disappearing.

No drawn-out goodbye for us, then.

If I wasn’t so exhausted from the complete and utter mayhem of that lesson, I’d be frustrated.

I’m here. I’m committed. I want to make this work, since I have literally no other options—even though, as I remind myself for the thousandth time, this bond was forced on me unwillingly. What else does Anassa want from me?

The other trainees start to head inside but Egith strides toward me before I can follow them.

“Meryn, I need to speak with you. Come with me,” she says sternly.

I ignore the curious gazes of the other Rawbonds as I follow Egith from the training yard without another word, heart sinking as I wonder just what it is I’ve done wrong this time.

At least she isn’t shoving a needle into my neck in front of everyone.

Or maybe she has news about the Nabbers? The thought only amplifies the churning anxiety in my gut.

We step into the Strategos quarters. My tattoo tingles as Egith stops in front of one of the private rooms just before the entrance to the bunkroom.

“It’s yours now,” she says, thudding her hand briefly on the door.

I stare at the door then meet her eyes. “Mine?”

She unlocks the door and swings it open, revealing a generous amount of space with a full bed and a pile of pillows, a tall double-doored wardrobe, an empty bookshelf, a flowering plant in the corner, and a generous window that looks out over a shivering tree.

It’s a bigger bedroom than I’ve ever had. And private, too.

“Since there was an attack on you last night, it has been determined that you are possibly being targeted. So you will now have a private room,” she says rigidly. She hands the key to me, dropping it into my palm.

I shake my head and try to hand the key back to her. “No. I don’t want this. It puts an even bigger target on my back.”

“That it does,” she agrees, her expression cheerless. “But this order comes from above my head. There’s nothing I can do about it.”

She watches as I tentatively step inside. Goddess, there’s even a private washroom.

Egith turns to go but pauses briefly. “I’d say enjoy the privacy while you have it. Once you’re in the king’s forces at the front, you’ll never have it again,” she says, then shuts the door in my face.

I stare at the door again, a little lost. I can’t tell if what she just said implies she has faith I’ll survive all of this, or whether she was deliberately trying to break my will by reminding me that I’m stuck with all of this.

Stepping further into the room, I shuck my jacket and toss it onto the bed. I open the wardrobe and find plenty of empty hangers for all of my clothes. When I shut it and turn, my eyes catch on my reflection. I step closer to the mirror hanging on the wall, partially shrouded in veil-like translucent curtains.

I guide them aside and tilt my head.

I haven’t seen my tattoo since I got it this morning. And it’s… oddly beautiful.

It wraps around the side of my neck, mid-way up, about at the same level I had to shear my hair. It’s in the same runic style as the others I’ve seen, but with decorative elements that swirl like dark fire, moving fluidly around a central circle empty of saturation.

It doesn’t even really hurt any longer, I realize. I wonder if that’s because he… because of his mouth.

His tongue.

I’m briefly taken aback by the artfulness of it. I hadn’t thought Stark’s brutal hands were capable of creating something like this. Except then I realize what it really is.

The start of a collar.

I clench my jaw and touch it with the very tips of my fingers. How many more of these will I get before training ends?

Maybe enough to wrap around my throat and choke me silent.