Direbound (The Wolves of Ruin #1)

Chapter 20

CHAPTER TWENTY

A week passes in a painful, mind-numbing blur.

I wake in pain. I lay myself down to rest in pain. I can’t move freely without favoring some part of my body.

Every day: combat training, riding practice, class to go over battle strategy or types of magic or history. Every day, I continue to reach out to Anassa with very little progress.

And every night, when I lock myself in my private room, I try very hard not to think about the man who gave this room to me, or the words he spoke in the garden. I don’t have the mental space to nurture a broken heart right now.

I’m still enduring the permanent headache I seem to have lately as I trudge to strategy class this morning. But before I can reach the classroom, a voice calls my name. I stop short and lift my head, confused.

Henrey is standing there with his hands in his pockets. Leader Aldrich is next to him, stroking his beard.

The older man smiles at me, and it’s… surprisingly gentle. It’s the first truly gentle smile I think I’ve seen from an instructor. It deepens the age lines around his eyes just so. And it reminds me of my dad, suddenly and jarringly. My shoulders fall.

“Would you join us in my office?” Aldrich asks.

I approach them. “For… what?”

“Class,” he says, turning and striding down the echoing halls.

I eye Henrey, brow raised. “The fuck? Just us?” I whisper.

“Just you,” Aldrich says over his shoulder, apparently not going deaf in his advanced age. “And please refrain from coarse language.”

I snort and cross my arms, following obediently. Not like I wanted to attend another of Egith’s strategy lectures, anyway.

Aldrich stops in front of an inlaid silver door with a tall pearlescent bar for a handle. There is a wolf engraved on it—what else—its body bent at impossible angles to emphasize the beauty of its flowing fur. Its eye is a massive ruby lodged right in the elegant silver.

I briefly consider trying to pry the rock out and get it to my mother somehow before Aldrich swings the door open and ushers us inside.

The room is smaller than most in the castle, but it’s tall. Every wall is covered in bookshelves, laden with dusty tomes and diamond-shaped cubbies crammed with crinkled scrolls. And the walls go up two, three floors. At each level, there’s a small balcony circling the room, accessible by ladders that seem to be mounted on tracks to slide across the shelves.

In the center of the room, there’s a round table covered in books and papers, as well as a few jars with what look like dried flowers or herbs in them. There are no candles in here, only enclosed oil lamps. Maybe to protect the paper.

Aldrich grunts as he wheels a chalkboard towards the table, gesturing for us to sit. Henrey doesn’t even hesitate, so I swallow my questions and pull out a chair.

I glance at Henrey again, who’s looking a bit uncomfortable. He watches as the instructor picks up a piece of chalk and starts writing on the dusty board. I haven’t spoken to Henrey much since the Ascent, but he seems like a decent Rawbond.

He rides well. He wields the sword and bow well. He’s determined and dedicated.

If this is the remedial class, I have no idea why he’s here.

Henrey seems to be wondering that, too, because he pipes up. “Leader Aldrich, if I may ask?—”

“You are here because there are lessons you haven’t learned. Lessons everyone else learned at their mothers’ knees.”

Oh. Right.

Bonded family lore, that kind of stuff. Whereas the lessons I was getting at my mother’s knee mostly involved insane ravings about “the twins.”

Henrey slumps in his chair, his face flushing. He doesn’t look at me, but I know what he’s thinking.

Us versus them .

This is just another way we aren’t like the rest.

“So what… lessons, exactly, will we be learning?” Henrey asks.

“Everything you need to succeed here. The history of the direwolves. Pack dynamics. I want to give you the tools you need to see yourselves as truly Bonded,” he replies.

Truly Bonded, huh? Not in a thousand lifetimes. I’ve accepted my situation, but I’ll never see myself as one of them. I’d have to erase everything I am to get there, and I’d go down fighting first.

Still, I can’t exactly stand up and shout in his face, storming out in a fit of fury. I’m pretty sure they’d send Stark after me.

Just the thought makes me shiver as I settle into my seat for what is no doubt going to be a long, cripplingly boring lesson.

And it is. But at least Aldrich’s voice is soft and flowing, not grating like Egith’s or fierce and cold like Stark’s.

Aldrich discusses general pack structure first. I’d picked up on most of this from Izabel and just generally soaking things in, but he fills in the gaps.

There are the four distinct packs, which he scrawls out on the board with a series of gentle taps and drags of chalk. Each serves a crucial role in defending the kingdom and the humans within it against the aggressor Siphons who would drain us all with their heinous blood magic.

“Daemos are known for their brutality and battle prowess. Their Bonded tend to be large and temperamental. Their wolves, even more so,” Aldrich says.

“Are all of their wolves as brutal as Cratos?” Henrey asks.

Cratos. Stark’s direwolf.

“Mm. No,” Aldrich says. “Cratos is… dominant. An alpha pair.”

“That’s a relief,” Henrey grumbles. “Still not looking forward to inter-pack training.”

“Ah, but you should ,” Aldrich chimes in. “You are of Phylax. The guardians. You learn how to blend in alongside all the other packs, support them and protect them.”

His gaze shifts to me.

“And Meryn, Strategos,” he says, pointing to the name on the board. “The tacticians and leaders. Masters of strategy. You more than any of the other packs must learn to cooperate with the rest.”

Cooperate. I try to picture it. Riding out into the field with the other packs at our side.

Fucking Daemos, with that piece-of-shit Jonah. I’d let Anassa weed out the weak there. I’d rather choke on a luxurious poached egg at breakfast than cooperate with him.

“Then, of course, there’s Kryptos, the shadow walkers. They specialize in stealth and intelligence gathering,” Aldrich continues. “Above all of us,” he goes on, circling a name he’s written above the pack names. Siegrid Therion . “The Sovereign Alpha, currently a fearsome woman named Siegrid who can communicate with all wolves across all packs. A feat of immense strength and control. She is the head of the Bonded, and she serves as the king’s second in command.”

A memory hits me from orientation. The two women who were lusting after Stark mentioned that his mother was the Sovereign Alpha. Of fucking course she is. Stark moves with the violent confidence of someone who knows he’ll never get in trouble. Nepotism at its finest.

“How is the Sovereign Alpha chosen?” Henrey asks, putting a voice to something I’m wondering too.

“Family line,” Aldrich tells him. “The Therions have been the crown’s sworn protectors for as long as anyone can remember.”

Which means that after his mom, Stark will become the Sovereign Alpha and will be in charge of all of us. Great.

I lean forward. A question wriggles in my mind, one I’ve wondered for a while.

“If the king isn’t actually bonded to a wolf, why does he maintain ultimate control over the wolves and the Bonded?”

Aldrich looks pleased that I’m engaging. “A good question! It has been this way since time immemorial. The king’s role is to ensure that the commoners he reigns over always have an equal balance of power with the Bonded and the direwolves. So while Siegrid is the highest in power for the Bonded, we ultimately all answer to the king.”

It makes sense, in theory.

But in practice? What are we meant to do when the man appointed to protect the common people’s interests starts to ignore us? When he’d rather watch his wolves parade dead men through the streets or sleep with unwilling Rawbonds half his age than look into, or even notice, the abductions of children in his cities?

“Now, details ,” Aldrich goes on. “I’m sure you are both well acquainted with telepathic communication at this point—” Yikes . “—but you should know that wolves can telepathically communicate within their own packs but can’t typically speak across pack lines unless through the Sovereign Alpha.”

“How does that work?” Henrey asks.

“She is essentially a conduit. Think of her like a translator, relaying a foreign language to you in words you can understand,” he replies. “Within their own packs, wolves can communicate freely. Then, of course, you with your wolves.”

“It’s the same for every pack?” Henrey asks.

“Yes. The hierarchy is the same, too. One alpha leading each pack, followed by their betas who handle day-to-day operations, then the gammas who handle any other leadership tasks. It’s very rare for Rawbonds to have such high-ranking instructors. This year’s Trials will churn out incredibly talented Bonded, I can tell.”

“Alpha Stark,” I blurt. They both stare at me. My cheeks heat and I deftly ignore it. “Why is he here, and not on the frontline?”

Aldrich scratches his beard. “I can’t entirely speak to the reasons, other than to say that the Sovereign Alpha makes these choices,” he replies. That could mean he doesn’t know or it could mean he just doesn’t want to or can’t tell us. “But it may have something to do with pack influence. Daemos and Strategos often vie for dominance.”

A power play of some sort? Some attempt to route Daemos to rise in ranks? Wouldn’t put it past him.

Or maybe the Sovereign Alpha just needed a break from her brute of a son.

“You’ll find that Kryptos operates more independently and Phylax maintains careful neutrality, in most matters,” Aldrich explains.

And he goes on. And on .

I start to zone out, my mind drifting to that vision of Lee again. Killian. Standing there in the dim light of the garden, eyes seeking me out.

Stop , I tell myself. Do not waste brainpower on him .

Aldrich jumps up from his chair, rushing to the board to answer a question Henrey must’ve asked.

“Like this,” he exclaims, drawing a long squiggly line with his chalk. He claps his dusty hands together. “A flowing bond. A connection like a river. Unstoppable. Constant. Ever-changing.”

“Huh?” I grumble, chin resting in my palm.

“The bond you feel,” he replies, tapping his temple. “Your energy. Your souls. Your spirits. Wolves choose their Bonded based on compatibility of that unnamable, many-named part of us that defies all true classification. They know , instinctively, who we are. Every part of us. And that initial recognition, like calling to like, deepens over time, like a river carving a winding path through the hardest of stone. Shared experiences, emotions. Trust. You will only become closer to your direwolf.”

Trust me, Leader Aldrich. It can only go up from here .

What exactly does that say about me? A truly feral, vicious beast took one look at me and thought, “ That one. I’ll take that one .”

Then again, she hates me, so maybe she fucked up.

“I have a question,” I interrupt.

Aldrich’s enthusiasm doesn’t wane. He clearly loves discussing direwolf bonds. “Of course.”

“Have wolves ever rejected their chosen riders, after the fact? What happens then?”

He very clearly hesitates. It’s the sort of hesitation that means he’s carefully considering how to respond because the way he answers matters here. “It’s virtually unheard of.”

“Virtually?”

“You’ve seen the wolves in training, Meryn,” Henrey says. “When a Bonded isn’t good enough for them, they know it. The Bonded dies.”

“It’s hardly a choice, on the wolf’s part. More of an instinct to eliminate weakness and protect the pack at large, even if it means their own death,” Aldrich adds. “As you may have learned by now, the wolf/human bond cannot be served once it is formed—and if it is, it results in death for both beings. Sometimes, wolves reject their chosen during the Ascent, but the bond hasn’t solidified at that point and the wolf survives.”

“I meant the spirit stuff,” I say. “What happens when a wolf changes its mind about that part?”

Aldrich stares at me. “That… No, a wolf recognizes all of us from the beginning. It’s not a decision they make lightly. It’s intimate. It runs deeper than whim and passing moods. Just like…” He pauses and turns to the board. “Oh, you’ll find this part interesting. You’ve heard of mate bonds?”

Henrey sits upright immediately. “A bond connection between wolves.”

“Precisely, recognized in moments of intimacy,” he says. “The key of what you just said is between wolves . The direwolves, once mated, mate for life. Their riders do not need to be together romantically, although it makes things easier, because the mate bonds have unique properties.”

I hate to admit it, but my interest piques.

“These rare connections between wolves allow their riders to communicate telepathically even across pack lines, without the aid of the Sovereign Alpha. Mated direwolves are cherished because they can protect each other—and in turn, their Bonded riders and their packs—even better during battle. Also because mated direwolves often result in direwolf pups, thereby continuing the Bonded line. However,” he slumps into the chair again, “mated wolves have become more and more rare over the past several hundred years.”

Maybe because you creeps keep letting all the direwolves die in training. Thought about that?

Aldrich takes a deep breath and wipes a hand over his face. “If there’s one thing you should take away from this lesson, it’s that the Bonded line is to be respected. You simply cannot think of your wolves as mere mounts to ride into battle and abandon in the stables when the day’s won. They are ancient, intelligent beings with their own culture and traditions. We shape our training around and seek to emulate their way of being. We learn from them. We try to see the world through their eyes. That is how you must move forward, if you want to survive.”

Henrey and I leave the lesson with those words still resonating in the musty, papery air. We step into the hallway and start towards the Rawbond quarters, walking in silence for a while before I can’t take it any longer.

“I’m glad you made it through the Ascent,” I tell him. “I know how much becoming Bonded meant to you.”

The halls are empty. I think everyone else is still in class. He stops walking in front of one of the towering windows in the long hall that joins the academic wing with the common room. Beyond it, afternoon sun glints on the snow-covered lawns.

Henrey looks at me warily, then leans against the wall. “What about you? I thought you didn’t want this life.”

A sharp sting of grief pierces my chest. The cold, heavy weight of it rolls over me like a boulder.

“I don’t,” I say, before correcting to, “I didn’t. Anassa chose me anyway, and I thought I could get out of this, but I’ve realized that you can’t… quit being Bonded. So I have to survive the Trials. My little sister was taken by Nabbers. That’s why I enlisted, to try to find her.”

Henrey stares at me blankly.

“What?” I ask.

“What’s a Nabber?”

My blood goes cold. Dread settles over me like a thick layer of snow. “You don’t… have Nabbers in Blumenfall?” Maybe it’s a terminology difference, maybe they call them something else. “Siphons who are stealing the children? Kids get kidnapped out of their beds at night.”

His brow pinches, and he shakes his head. “I’ve never heard of?—”

The deafening horn calling us to our next class sounds through the halls. I wince, clenching my jaw as the sound worsens my headache. I follow after Henrey quickly, slightly dizzy.

No Nabbers in Blumenfall. I don’t understand.

Blumenfall is much closer to the front than Sturmfrost. Why would the Siphons bypass closer, easier targets to snatch children from here?

Henrey heads off to whatever class the Phylax pack has, and I go out to the training grounds for combat training.

My own personal torture sessions.

Stark is already striding around the grounds with Cratos. As I join the others, I watch him out of the corner of my eye. He circles us like a predator looking for the weak link in the herd.

Stark’s head turns, and his wolf’s swivels, too. Cratos moves, and Stark’s body follows. His own sturdy form shifts fluidly atop Cratos’s back as the wolf’s shoulder blades shift beneath him.

I hate seeing it. I’ll never be there, never know that total sense of understanding and connection. Rider and wolf moving as one deadly unit, muscle and fur and leather and steel in perfect harmony.

I avert my eyes from him, staring at the messy spot of blood in the sand. Much more likely I end up like that .

Yesterday, a Kryptos recruit named Alix lost control during a basic defensive maneuver.

People were talking about it in the common room this morning. It apparently happened fast. Her wolf turned on her suddenly, ripping out her throat before anyone could intervene. She died right there in the sand.

All I can do is fight.

“Focus today, hey?” Tomison says, smacking my arm.

I scowl, annoyed because he’s implying I’ve been lacking in focus until now. “Tell Anassa that,” I say, scowling at her as she and the rest of the direwolves enter the training grounds.

He snorts. “I choose life,” he says, heading toward his wolf.

“Today we’re starting on swords,” Stark bellows from astride Cratos. “Get your weapon and get on your wolves. Now!”

This should go great for me, considering I’ve never touched a sword before.

I grab one of the wooden practice swords laid out near the wall, then mount Anassa. She tolerates that much, at least, and it’s becoming easier. But we haven’t gotten any better at the rest of it.

She’s too hot headed, too independent. Every time I touch her, I slam up against that blockade. She’d rather gnaw off her own tail than let me guide her movements.

Practice goes predictably. Hit. Fall. Hit. Fall. Hit. Fall.

Every time I hit the ground, I find Stark’s eyes on me. He’s not smiling—I doubt the man is capable of such a frivolous expression—but I can his amusement pierces through his glare all the same. He’s absolutely delighted that I’m eating dirt.

The ground rushes up to meet me for the fourth time this training session.

I grunt, landing badly on my arm and my hip but lessening the impact with a bit of a roll. Sand kicks into my eyes and mouth, and I spit, blinking rapidly.

“ Up , princess!” Stark growls at me. “Or are you too delicate for combat?”

I hiss under my breath and dig my fingers into the sand, curling my other hand tight around the practice sword. Anassa stands beside me, staring as always, making absolutely no move to help me.

Shutting my eyes briefly, I focus on the pain in my body, wrestling it under my control, hissing breaths through my nose.

Use it . That’s what Igor always preached. That’s what my life has taught me.

In pain, there’s power.

Although I’d feel pretty powerful if my hateful direwolf ever used any of her healing magic on me. Anassa has continued to deprive me of that, deigning to patch up my injuries only when she wants to—which has been, like the rest of her, totally unpredictable.

I get up. The practice sword is impossibly heavy in my hand, but I lift it all the same. The scream in my shoulder only makes me more determined. My arms are trembling from the exertion.

Blood trickles from my split lip, the thick iron taste mingling with the gritty sensation of sand on my tongue.

The drill should be simple. Ride in a circle while deflecting incoming strikes from other mounted riders. But without Anassa’s cooperation—more like with her downright rebellion—every movement is a battle.

She keeps deliberately shifting at the wrong moments, throwing off my balance.

I keep falling, yes. But I’m also being whacked over and over with heavy practice swords. It feels like my entire body is one massive bruise.

Back and mounted again, I sense Anassa’s emotions again for the first time in a while. It’s a sickening trickle of dark, borderline feral amusement. She knows she has me trapped between her teeth, and she’s having fun tasting my fear before swallowing me down.

We gallop together. She shifts suddenly. I’m focused on trying to stay mounted. Cold wind whips at me. The weight of the sword and my own body drags at me. The thundering pounding of paws riots in my ears.

Yet still, I hear him. Too late.

“Guard up!” Stark shouts, voice cracking like a whip.

Perielle thrusts toward me and her practice sword impacts my ribs with a vicious smack, sending a white-hot fissure of pain through my already brutally bruised torso.

I choke and double over, eyes tearing up, clinging weakly to Anassa’s fur. The sword tumbles from my hand as I clutch my side, squeezing my eyes shut and focusing on not passing out.

Heavy paws thud over the sand beside Anassa.

I force my eyes open, baring my teeth.

“I told you to put your fucking guard up,” Stark says, his voice dangerously low. His dark hair curls down into his eyes in a way that would look charming on any other man, but does nothing to soften the murderous look he’s giving me.

Before I can even open my mouth to defend myself, he’s slid down Cratos, fisted his huge hand around my arm, and yanked me off Anassa. I come tumbling down inelegantly, his hand still tight on my bicep.

Anassa watches all of this with what I can only think of as a smirk.

Then he reaches down with his other hand to the exposed hem of my shirt, and in the blink of an eye, grabs it and yanks it up to just before the bottom of my breasts. The cold winter air is stinging on my skin.

My face flushes hot and I try to wriggle away from him, yanking my arm, but he’s an immovable force. “Get your hands off of me,” I grit out.

The rest of the pack has gone quiet, watching this spectacle with held breath. Perielle’s eyes twinkle with delight. Obviously none of them are going to intervene, and I don’t blame them. I wouldn’t want to be on the receiving end of this man’s wrath either; unfortunately, I seem to have been destined for it.

Stark ignores my demand, moving the hem of my shirt over to the hand that’s holding my arm. Then he prods my aching ribs.

I hiss and look down. The area that Perielle hit is a deep red, already purpling. Definitely bruised, possibly even broken. But it’s just one of many bruises mottling my torso. I have a veritable collection, built up day after day.

He pokes the bruise again, pain lancing through me. Fuck this guy.

I pull my head back and spit in his face.

Stark’s black eyes slowly drag up from my injuries and lock onto my own. I can see his thoughts as clearly as if he’s said them aloud.

He’s going to make me pay.

But instead of doing anything immediately, he wipes the spit off his cheek and turns to Anassa, pointing at my ribs. “You want to do anything about that?” he asks her, his voice calmer and more deferential than I’ve ever heard it.

She doesn’t move, doesn’t even blink her eerie golden-yellow eyes, but he seems to understand her all the same.

No, she does not.

Stark finally lets go of my bicep, which now feels as bruised as my ribs, and I hurriedly yank my shirt back down, buckling the front of my leather jacket up so he can’t try that shit again. When I’m done, I look back up, and no surprise, Stark’s still glaring at me.

“Pathetic. You are weak,” he says cruelly, his voice carrying to everyone else. “And you are going to continue to be weak.”

I straighten my spine at the challenge in his voice. He doesn’t know me. I’ve never let difficult things break me and I’m not going to start now .

“You pose a threat to all the packs like this,” he continues. “And they’re going to figure that out real soon unless you do better . Get back on your direwolf.” He turns around, scowling at how everyone has stopped still, watching us. “Everyone, again!”

Asshole .

“Again!” Stark orders, turning back to me. “Until you get it right or join Alix in the sand.”

Jerkily, I scramble for my sword in the dirt. When I do, Cratos snaps at me and I stumble. I push through the fear, the anger, the pain. I mount Anassa again.

I’ll keep fighting forever, if I have to.

The other Rawbonds circle us. I have the sense that none of them really want to land another blow against me after the way I’ve just been publicly humiliated, but they know that they have to obey.

None of them want to let my weakness drag them down, lest the target on my back jump to theirs.

Lifting the sword again, my mind narrows down.

I see red, fury coursing through my blood. It rises to the surface of me through my messy bruises, pouring out into the surrounding air. Something sharp and biting pierces through the iron wall in my mind. Anassa’s consciousness, honed into something darker.

Eager. It’s almost anticipation , disappearing again behind the wall just as quickly as it sparked.

By the end of the session, I’m ruined. My body’s a map of fresh injuries. My face. My ribs. My legs. My arms got the worst of it, sore from carrying and swinging the blade as well as from the blows they took when I couldn’t deflect properly. There are vicious blisters on my hands, bleeding in places.

I feel torn wide open.

And still that bitch won’t heal me.

But it’s Stark’s parting barb that cuts deeper than the wounds. “At this rate, princess, you won’t survive long enough to earn your first real kill mark.” A cold glare, a tilting up of his chin. “Pity. That neck tattoo looks lonely.”

His words reverberate in my aching head. I touch my fingertips to my tattoo, remembering the bite of the needle, the intensity of his stare.

The lewd heat of his tongue.

I limp my way to my private room, bypassing the now-familiar sounds of mingling bodies emanating from the common areas. I can’t spare my eyes entirely, though, catching glimpses of people tangled together on the floor, the beds, against the walls.

In the past week, I’ve accidentally walked in on people fucking more times than I can count. Every night, the emberwine comes out and people throw themselves at each other. In the down hours between training or meals, they throw themselves at each other. First thing in the morning, they throw themselves at each other.

They take this search for their direwolves’ mates extremely seriously, I guess.

Izabel has been trying to get me to join in at night, to flirt with people in other packs or play drinking games with them, but I have at most a glass of wine before I lock myself in my room. The Bonded’s casual attitude towards sex will never fail to embarrass me.

I hate that it still makes a hot flush move through me. I can’t believe my body even has the energy to feel this way after the session I just suffered through.

I yank my door open and step inside, shutting it and thudding back against it in exhaustion.

Then it’s just blessed, beautiful silence, free from lectures and assholes shouting at me and people I barely know moaning at the top of their?—

“Mer,” he says quietly.

Lee. No, Killian . Killian.

Alone, in my room, waiting for me.