Direbound (The Wolves of Ruin #1)

Chapter 19

CHAPTER NINETEEN

I don’t have much in the Strategos bunkroom, but I’ve filled the dresser by my bed with clothes from the store closet, so I should probably move those. I slink through the busy anteroom unnoticed and when I enter the bunkroom, it’s blessedly empty.

Everyone is either training, studying, or lounging in the common room, most likely. It gives me plenty of space to pack my meager belongings without worrying about someone peering over my shoulder and asking questions I’m not ready to answer.

Like, where the fuck are you taking your things, commoner?

Swiping a rebellious lock of silver-white hair from my eyes, I throw my things into a bag and then sling it over my shoulder. As I flee back to my new room, anxiety expanding like a balloon in my chest, I spot Izabel across the Strategos common area.

She’s straddling the lap of one of our other Rawbonds, perched atop him like an eagle with her prey. Izabel smooths her hands over his broad shoulders and I squint. I can’t remember his name. Roddert something?

He looks way more interested than she does. But he’s handsome, mumbling words of praise to her as if he’s entirely unaware of her talons in his flesh. It’s damn admirable, actually, how tightly she seems to have him wound around her finger.

Even more so because she looks bored with him, like this came easily to her.

I’m moving before I can think it through. Seeing Izabel bending the desperate man to her will, I can’t help but think, she knows what she’s doing . And fuck, I’m so tired of feeling clueless.

“—eyes sparkle like gems,” Roddert is saying. Robert? No, Roddert.

“Izabel,” I interrupt.

She looks up at me. Her eyes remain glazed over with disinterest until they land on me, jump to my bag, then ignite with curiosity.

I dip my head. “Can I talk to you for a minute?”

“Absolutely,” she says, sounding sort of relieved. Poor guy.

She leaps from his lap like she’s taking flight. His hands follow her briefly before dropping limply to his knees.

I glance over my shoulder at him as we walk away. He’s definitely staring at her ass. But he stares at mine, too, so he’s clearly not that heartbroken.

Izabel leans close. “I thought I’d give him a try—I mean, look at those shoulders! But wow. Rocks for brains. How did he end up in Strategos? He belongs in Phylax with the other pretty bricks.”

“I think you’re selling him short. Your eyes really are like gemstones,” I tease.

She rolls them so far back in her head, I’m sure she catches a glimpse of her brain. “Shut up ,” she groans with a smile as she follows me across the anteroom. “What did you want to?—”

Izabel cuts off when we stop in front of my new door, her dark eyebrows shooting toward her hairline as I turn the handle.

“Meryn, these rooms are private,” she hisses, glancing over her shoulder.

“I know,” I tell her, pushing open the door and leading her into the room. “This one is now private to me .”

Before I can explain, a low whistle rings out from behind us. I turn to see Tomison leaning in the doorway.

His gaze darts around my quarters appreciatively. “Damn, Meryn. This is?—”

I snatch his wrist and yank him inside, slamming the door shut behind him. Everywhere Tomison goes, he draws attention, and I don’t need more people ogling my new room and starting to hate me for it.

I can’t hide this forever, but I’d rather control how the news gets out rather than let Tomison’s inexplicable popularity spread it for me.

Then again, that popularity might work for me somehow. Tomison steps deeper into the space. He pauses next to the luxurious chair by the foot of my new bed and runs his fingers over the velvet. His red hair burns even in the dim light of the single oil lamp on the bedside table.

“How did you score this setup?” he asks. “I thought only instructors got private rooms.”

Izabel scoffs. I’m not sure why. I think it’s just a knee-jerk reaction of hers that triggers whenever she hears Tomison speak. I can sense her eyes drilling holes in him from clear across the room, though Tomison seems oblivious.

I take a deep breath and attempt to explain that “safety concerns” after the attack have elevated me and that Egith did not give me a choice about taking the room. I’m stuck here, whether or not I want to be.

Story of my life, apparently.

Izabel frowns at me thoughtfully at the conclusion of my explanation. “This is what you wanted to chat about?”

“Yes.” I gesture to the room. “Obviously.”

Tomison snorts and looks at Izabel, but she’s deep in thought. She pinches her chin and presses her lips together. Then she says, “Who could have ordered this? I wonder if you caught the king’s eye at Presentation. I mean, we all know he’s creepy, but…”

She and Tomison exchange a look, and I’m sure they’re thinking about how the king likes to pick a companion from the Rawbonds. I’ve heard rumors that he’s had his eye on a Phylax Rawbond named Audelie, but maybe he’s still searching for his target.

My skin crawls. The mere thought of the king’s too-blue eyes moving over me like that, lingering in all the places I’d die to protect… I’m legitimately sick for a moment and lean back against the door for support.

Actually, his son is more likely to be responsible . It’s the most obvious conclusion, but I keep Killian’s name out of my mouth. I’m not ready to open that wound; especially not when I’m already in such a fragile position with the other Rawbonds.

Can’t imagine it would help things if I told everyone I’ve been fucking the crown prince for a year.

“How do I keep this room assignment from making everything worse for me?” I say instead, hoping that these two might be able to give me some reasonable advice.

My gaze darts between them. Izabel looks sympathetic. Tomison looks amused. He shrugs at me. Shrugs . “You don’t.”

“I don’t,” I repeat, a little annoyed.

“Own it!” he says with a stupidly charming grin. “You can clearly handle yourself. Don’t tuck your tail.” He claps his hands together. “ Now , if you’ll excuse me, there are some lovely Daemos ladies awaiting my charming presence.”

Izabel scowls as he leaves. There’s too much venom there. I raise a brow. “Why do your gemstones look so murderous?” I ask.

She clears her throat and mutters, “When he breathes, it annoys me.”

I really don’t think he’s all that bad, though. He gave me an honest answer, didn’t he? Not a useful one, but he tried. “How do I get out of this, Izabel?”

She sighs. “I’d rather gouge my eyes out than admit Tomison is right about anything. So I won’t. But .”

She leaves it at that, because clearly, she can’t bring herself to say the words aloud. Tomison is right. And I have to face it head-on.

It’s not long before the opportunity presents itself. The next morning, I’m planted beside Izabel in the busy Rawbond common lounge, picking at a plate of fruit. We have a long day of classes and training ahead of us.

My fragile peace shatters when a shadow falls across my half-empty plate. I look up slowly because there’s something ominous in the air. The people eating around me have gone silent.

Perielle, the Strategos beauty queen, is standing over me. Towering, really, and she sneers like the best of them. My eyes jump over her perfect eye makeup—soft and warm—which does nothing to blunt the edge of her razor-sharp, murderous gaze.

“Everyone’s heard about your room, commoner,” she says. “Out with it. Who are you fucking?”

Damn. Right in the middle of breakfast, too.

I hide a flinch at how close to the truth Perielle’s guess hits. I won’t let the rest of the pack see weakness in me.

This is a challenge. I know it is because Anassa’s irritation crackles like a growl, the walls between us temporarily thinner. She’s offended by Perielle’s attack, as if a pup just nipped at her heel.

I’ve been silent too long. I can only hope that it projects confidence rather than cowardice.

“Why are you asking?” Izabel cuts in. “Are you worried there’s someone here you haven’t banged yet?”

I’m sure she’s not proud of that one, but I am. I want to take Perielle’s regal, pretty facade and fracture it in my bare hands with a sickly crunch, like bone breaking. I want to feel it happen, and Anassa does, too.

“Actually, Venna,” Perielle says, deliberately mixing up the twins’ names, “I’ve already found my wolf’s mate.”

She waves her hand in a halfhearted gesture towards the other half of the common room, and my eyes follow it to Jonah. The cruel Daemos Rawbond waves back with a predatory grin. His eyes glow like he’s imagining fucking Perielle in a pool of our blood.

Whispers ignite around the lounge. Based on what Izabel drunkenly told me the other night, mated direwolves are very rare. This has got to be giving Perielle some serious confirmation bias.

In other words: she’s certain she’s special, and this only proves it.

Before I can process how viscerally disturbing this match is, Perielle sweeps my plate off the table. It tilts at the edge briefly before crashing to the ground, sending chunks of fruit and bits of egg and toast exploding across the floor. The ceramic shatters with a deafening crash that silences whatever conversations were still going.

Every single person in the room is looking at us now.

It’s the pettiest playground bullying I’ve ever seen, and all from a woman who thinks herself a queen. I look around the room, sure that everyone will see right through it.

But it’s Perielle. A pretty face like hers brainwashes people into mindless worship. They’re glaring at me , like they’re offended that I’ve dirtied her boots with the breakfast I’m now not going to get to eat.

“Oops,” she says sweetly. Izabel’s hand tightens on her fork.

Perielle is worshipped. Breaking her perfect face in front of everyone would hardly help my popularity. It would be like ripping out Tomison’s shiny red hair. I can’t do that, so I bend down and start to pick up the pieces of my broken plate.

Except the moment I do, the high road I’ve taken puts me right in the line of fire.

Perielle’s boot snaps towards my face. Kicking me like a dog, then?

No .

Instinct slams through me, and I dodge her blow easily. She’s slow. Or maybe she thought I’d just roll over and take it like the commoner I am. But she doesn’t know how hard people like me have had to fight every fucking day of our lives.

I’ve never just laid down and taken anything, and I’m not starting today.

It takes a concentrated effort not to slide the broken piece of plate between her ribs. But I manage to release it and rise slowly. There’s a pressure in my chest like the beginnings of a growl. Perielle doesn’t retreat, but she doesn’t try to strike me again, either.

I speak slowly and clearly so that every single person in this room can hear it. “I’m sure that you’re used to these other Bonded bowing to you and tearing themselves apart for your approval, but as you’re so clearly aware, I am not one of them . Try kicking me again, and I’ll cut your foot off at the ankle and feed it to my wolf.”

Anassa’s dark amusement flares in the following silence. She’s satisfied, like my fury has filled her belly.

Maybe this is truly what she wants from me, then—more violence.

Perielle steps closer, and I ready myself for anything. I’ve decided. I will break her nose if she pushes me.

“Lock your door tonight, cunt,” she hisses before turning on her heel, flicking her hair, and stalking away.

Conversation picks back up around us. No doubt, I’m the subject of most of it. I sigh internally and settle back in my seat. Izabel touches my shoulder briefly before I set about cleaning up after the queen’s tantrum.

So. Pack bonding is going great.

The tension from breakfast follows me for the rest of the day. I keep catching glimpses from people around me. Not all of them are scornful—some are more curious—but the constant hum of attention is as annoying as the winter winds banging against a window late at night.

Our first wolf communication class with the Kryptos instructor, Gamma Samson Whyte, helps to divert some of the attention. We all pour into a room together. His voice is clear as he projects across the auditorium.

“Rawbonds always ask how exactly the connection works, because even if you’ve seen your friends and family communicating with their wolves, you don’t truly understand it until you experience it for yourselves the first time. So let me ask you, is your wolf in your head at all times, seeing through your eyes?”

Izabel’s hand shoots up first, as usual. “No, sir,” she says. “The connection works by linking together our thoughts and our emotions. The direwolves are not actually in our minds or our bodies, it only feels that way because they hear it all.”

“Correct,” says Samson. “Well, mostly correct. The most powerful direwolves can see through their riders’ eyes, but that is very rare and requires an enormously strong bond. For the rest of us, it’s just an unending exchange of thoughts and emotions.”

Unending. Great.

“It must seem right now that you and your wolves have an open channel of communication that can’t be turned off. It’s constant, yes?” he asks, pacing around the front of the room, his white-blond hair a shock against the blackboard behind him.

Based on the head nods and the knowing noises, yes, the majority are in agreement.

Well, shit . An open channel? Is that what everyone else experiences? No ice-cold, merciless wall to smack up against every time they try to reach for their wolves?

Just me, then?

“Your thoughts and your direwolf’s thoughts, right now, are likely passing back and forth regularly. However, that’s not the true way of it,” he explains. “It only feels that way, as your bond is weak and you’re seeking to strengthen it. But both wolves and riders can control their level of mental connection.”

He turns to the blackboard and draws crude figures of a person and a wolf, with two horizontal lines connecting them. Then, he draws a thick vertical line intersecting the connections.

“Your wolves don’t want to know what you had for breakfast any more than you want to be bombarded with their every passing thought,” Samson goes on. “The strongest bonds are selective.” With this, he circles the dividing line.

Selective. Well, Anassa is about as selective as they come. Namely, she’s selected never to speak to me.

The class becomes a guided meditation. Samson instructs us to close our eyes in our seats and think towards our wolves. Clear everything out but our connection. Seek out the path between us and follow it to its conclusion, then begin to manipulate and navigate it.

Build up walls. Drop them. Shape the connection like guiding a river.

It’s mercilessly pointless.

“By now, you should sense a wall in your mind,” Samson calls out.

Now, always, what’s the difference?

“You can use that to control what you do or do not let your wolves experience. Imagine lifting the wall, and then bringing it back down. If you can’t lift it, think a way through it—imagine you’re creating a hole in it.”

Anassa is impenetrable, and I’m not making any progress. Whatever dent I might manage to make floods again with cold disregard an instant after I open it up. Before long, my head is starting to ache with the effort.

By the end of class, I’m drenched in sweat and exhausted. It’s not just a mental effort. I feel like I’ve been physically banging my entire body against a metal wall for two hours.

My mind is raw. My thoughts sting like scraped skin exposed to the air.

And I hate this eternal sense of rejection.

But I have to master this connection with my direwolf, whether Anassa likes it or not. It’s the only way I’ll be able to find Saela.

“ Anassa ,” I think toward her, unsure of what she’s receiving on her end, if she can even hear me. “ If this is some sort of test, fine. You should know that I never give up. I’m going to keep slamming against this wall until you eventually let me in, you stubborn wench .”