Chapter 21
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
I t’s jarring, seeing him standing there, blond hair golden in the afternoon light. His large silhouette is bold against the pale wall. His deep blue eyes are wide, though I haven’t said a word yet. For a moment, it’s like I’ve fallen back through time.
It’s like I’m finding Lee waiting for me after a tough fight, and my chest, even now, tightens with a familiar longing.
Then reality comes crashing back in.
“Get out ,” I snap.
Killian sighs and holds up a brown leather bag. I already know what’s inside. Medical supplies. “Can I at least tend to you first?”
I hate how I feel when his eyes dart to my bruises. Weak, like Stark said. And worse, lonely.
“Killian—” The name still tastes wrong in my mouth.
“Please.”
“I don’t?—”
“You’re hurt,” he says plainly. There’s no room for argument; I’m hurt, and he’ll fix me, like we’ve always done.
Begrudgingly, without a word, I sit down on the bed. I tell myself that I’m only doing this because I’m injured. I’m already struggling. Training will be even harder if I’m slowed down by stiffness and pain.
If Anassa weren’t refusing to help me, these cuts and scrapes wouldn’t matter. My injuries should already be healed. Every little sting is a reminder of what I’m up against. Anassa’s hatred, her disdain, her viciousness. It’s eating away at my sanity.
One day soon, I’ll either die in training or snap and try to blind her with a practice sword. And probably die.
Killian settles beside me on the bed. I immediately wish I’d chosen a less intimate place to sit, but it’s not like my room provides a wealth of options for two people.
He reaches for me to help me ease my jacket from my body, but I shoot him a glare and he immediately backs off. I refuse to show any hint of pain as I pull the leather from my shoulders and toss it aside. I refuse to even speak as he opens his bag and rifles through it.
“How did you know I’d need this?” I finally ask. Has he been spying on me?
“It was just a coincidence,” he says, voice weary. He’s tired of this, I can tell, of my hardened defenses against him. “I heard from my servants that your wolf was refusing to heal you, and I was just going to drop this in your room. I had no idea you were coming back in right now.”
I sit still as he starts to disinfect my wounds. The familiar smell of antiseptic fills my nose, sharp and bitter. Lingering. It messes with my head. Tricks me into thinking I’m an alleycat again, curling up in the lap of the only person who ever bothered to tend to me.
My pride is a snarling thing, though. Some part of me growls that this isn’t right. That I can’t lay my head down and rest in a place like this. That Killian is the last person I should let see me falter.
Fight , my blood thrums, even louder where it pushes against my skin in the mottled shape of dark bruises.
But it’s so, so familiar. Achingly. Reassuringly. Killian’s pine-clean smell. The careful movements of his nimble hands. The concentration in his eyes as the entirety of his attention goes to making my life even a touch easier.
I can’t .
“Killian,” I say, shattering the silence.
He doesn’t react poorly when I use his full name. Maybe I’m the only one struggling not to slip into the past. Into Lee and little smiles and a love I thought could never waver.
His voice is quiet, deep as the sea in his eyes. “What is it?”
I gesture to our surroundings. To my surprise quarters, issued by someone above Egith’s head . “Are you responsible for this?”
Killian looks up from his work. His eyes meet mine, unblinking and defiant in a way that is so familiar. The look that has always said, “ I’m going to take care of you whether you like it or not .”
I don’t hate it. I never hated it. There were days that I needed it. Someone to take me into their arms and promise me safety. Someone strong enough that I could trust that they could keep that promise.
My blood thrums at his dominance, at the way he’s daring me to challenge him. Driven by instinct, my thighs tighten. He’s just…
Fuck, he’s so gorgeous. All his lies, and that truth still remains. Stubborn. Devastating. Damned addicting. He stares up at me and arousal heats my blood instantly. Memories of my legs around him, of his hands on my skin, of the solidity of his abs flash through my mind like lightning strikes.
And that look in his eyes. Unflinching. Angry, almost, but not at me. At the men I fought in the ring, for bruising my body. At the war, for taking my childhood from me. At the touch of the wintery air, for daring to chill my skin.
It wordlessly tells me he’s definitely responsible for my private quarters. Of course he is.
I pinch the bridge of my nose. The hand that’s been lingering tenderly on my arm smooths over my skin, but I push him away and stand.
I need distance. I need to be able to process things without the incessant thought swirling around my head that if I just leaned forward, I could taste him again.
Taking a stabilizing breath, I turn to look at him. “You painted a target on my back by separating me from my pack,” I say coldly. “Do you understand what you’ve done? The position you’ve put me in?”
His jaw tightens. “I’m trying to keep you safe, Meryn. You have no idea what you’re up against with these people.”
Anger spikes through me again, outweighing my confusing affection for him. “What are you even?—”
“ I do. I know them,” he snaps. Then he makes a considerable effort to gentle his voice and unfurl his fist. “My father is in direct command of them, and someday, I will be as well. The Bonded are not your friends, not even the ones in your pack. For them, everyone here is disposable, or a bargaining chip. Your life is at risk with them.”
I scoff. “That’s rich, coming from you. Knowing who your father is and how he treats other people’s lives.”
Killian’s upper lip twitches with frustration. He stands, passion blazing in his gaze. “When I’m king, everything will change. I swear it. And if you would give me a chance, I’d tell you more about it.”
I stare in silence. Apparently unable to endure it, he approaches me. I tense, but he doesn’t try to touch me. His gaze is even more intimate than a touch, though, and I want to curl up. Maybe in his arms, maybe just to die.
“I wanted to tell you. Everything, Meryn. I want…” he swallows. There’s something barely restrained in the way he’s holding his body. Taut. Hurting. “I want to be with you.”
I grit my teeth. “Like how the nobles are with the Bonded during the Trials?” I say, and the tension in him heightens, muscles bunching. Maybe it’s cruel, but a part of me relishes wringing that reaction out of him. “You want to fuck me and then discard me when I’ve grown tiresome?” I say just to make it hurt.
Killian snaps. The strain in him wasn’t anger. It wasn’t pain. It was need . I can see it. It’s in the way he pushes me back against the wall, his hand closing around my wrist like he’s washing out to sea in a storm and I’m the anchor that can save him.
His blue eyes are lit with that same fire I’ve always seen in them when something hurts me, like he’s going to burn the world down for my sake, until all that’s left is him and me, standing in the ashes.
“Don’t ever talk about yourself that way, Meryn,” he says. The growl of his voice thrums in my body where we’re pressed together. His hand slides down the wall beside me, the other still grasped firm but gentle around my wrist. And I realize that the burning danger in his eyes is directed at me.
Not for resisting him but for belittling my place in his life.
“You are more precious to me than you could ever imagine,” he tells me in a quieter tone. And his thumb rubs up and down on my wrist. I resist the responding shiver that prickles over my skin, but I have to curl my fingers into a fist so I won’t touch him.
I can’t deny the pull to do so. But I also can’t let go. So I stand, silent, as he stares at me.
He’s imploring. Clearly in pain. His eyes dart between mine, searching for a hint, a hope.
I don’t shake him off of me, but I don’t pull him in, either. He steps back, eventually. He drops my arm and gives me space, and the cool air between us is an aching relief.
He hangs one hand from the back of his neck and points to the wardrobe with the other. “There’s a hidden panel at the back of it. Leads to a servant’s passageway. If you take it and stay on the path that goes straight, you’ll find your way to my rooms.”
I don’t know what to say to that. What to think.
Killian shakes his head. “You’re welcome to come. Any time, if you want. But if you need more space, I understand.”
I swallow. This, I have an answer for. “Thank you.”
Because the entirety of this strange new life has felt hostile, pressing in on me from every direction. He’s no different, except in his willingness to back off. Training will never end. I can’t escape Anassa’s bond. The war rages on.
But Killian is willing to give me space. He understands.
He nods. “Even if we never…” His mouth works, testing out the shapes of his words before he says them. “My investigation of your sister’s disappearance is not dependent on anything. Same with me taking care of your mom in your absence. I’m actively going to continue to pursue answers, and I’ll let you know as soon as I have an update.”
I say nothing until he disappears into the wardrobe and leaves me there, staring at the wall and trying to parse out who I am in this place.
I tear myself from the trance and collapse onto the bed. He left the bag of medicine behind. Looking at it upsets me, so I shove it under my bed and roll over to face the wall.
Frustration creeps along the walls of my heart like thorned vines. His sudden presence and even more sudden absence are jarring. I’m left with this cavernous pit in my chest—the space he just occupied, full of sadness and confusion and longing.
I miss him. I can’t lie about that. Right now, having Lee around to talk through all the shit that’s happened to me would be incredible.
And ultimately, he came here to help me. To tend to my wounds. To warn me about the Bonded.
I know he’s probably right about them. I’m definitely an outsider. I know I’ve been marked as one by many of the other Rawbonds, and I’ve seen firsthand how competitive they all are. Eager to one-up each other. Desperate to snuff me out, like pruning a struggling leaf.
But it doesn’t matter how right Killian is. I’m not ready to forgive him for a lie this big.
And I have other things to worry about, anyway. Like figuring out how to get better at this whole Bonded thing. Getting my throat torn out in training would quickly resolve my confused pining, but being dead would be a bit of an obstacle to reaching Saela.
It’s deeply infuriating to be so fucking awful at this. A na?ve part of me thought, at the start of all this, that I might actually make a decent rider if I just swung hard enough and held on tight.
Even when I was green and needed training before the pits, I was a good fighter. I knew how to move. My mind was quick. I caught on fast. It all came instinctively to me. It felt less like training and more like slowly waking up, as if fighting was in my muscles and my blood from birth and I just needed to find it.
Fuck, it would be amazing to feel that way again. To really hit something. I used to shatter the dummies in training, and even with aching muscles and split knuckles, something in me always felt sated.
I sit up suddenly in bed. Maybe that’s a solution to both of my problems.
I’m on my feet and moving before I can second-guess myself. Izabel and Venna are predictably together, settled in the Strategos anteroom and playing a round of the card game Wolves and Siphons. I march right up to their little table and cross my arms over my chest.
“I’m failing, and I need help,” I say.
They both look up, questioning.
I take in a deep breath. “Can you train me? With swords, preferably?”
There’s a scoff to my left. I turn my head to see Nevah draped over an armchair, holding a book in one hand. She doesn’t take her eyes off of it as she says, “It’s about time you asked for help. You really suck.”
“Thanks for the support,” I deadpan. “Want to come train with us?”
Eyes still on her book, she waves her free hand dismissively. “Good luck, though.”
“ Ugh ,” Izabel groans. She throws her chin into her palm. “Unfortunately, I know just the person to ask.”
Twenty minutes later, Venna and Izabel are standing off at the edge of the training yard and Tomison and I are facing each other, practice swords in hand. His hair is a messy burst of color, and that permanent grin he always sports is predictably on his face.
He agreed so quickly to this, I was sure he’d misheard my request and thought we were marching off to a mildly incestuous four-way.
A regrettably good teacher , Izabel called him. And she was right.
Tomison is straightforward and clear. He’s patient. And best of all, he isn’t overly mushy. He doesn’t shower me in praise when I do something easy correctly. When his eyes flash with approval, I know it’s because I earned it. When I stumble over footwork or miss a parry, he just resets and says, “Again.”
We practice several forms. Stances meant to ease mounted combat. Tomison positions my body for me, exercising a clinical touch to reposition my limbs into shapes they’ve never needed to take until now.
“This will all be different on a wolf,” he tells me with an easy smile.
“It’s fucking awkward right now,” I grunt. My arm is raised almost up to my shoulder, the blade arced forward. Apparently, I’ve been holding it too low. Unready, he called it.
“Well, you’ve been making things more difficult for yourself,” he tells me as he steps away. His eyes assess my posture. I can tell he’s testing how long I’m capable of holding it. “Like this, training should be a little easier for you.”
I grunt. There’s sweat on my brow. “Easy. Yeah. This is the easiest thing I’ve ever done,” I say, purposely adding some strain to my voice.
Izabel snickers from the wall, and I hear the distinct sound of Venna whapping her arm. Tomison glances their way. His gaze catches, then flicks back to me.
“Okay. Parry practice,” he says, tapping his blade to the ground.
He swings at me. And keeps swinging. And I’m focusing on my feet. On my arms. On moving my body in ways I’ve never told it to move before. Muscles I don’t normally use are cramping and knotting. Sweat soaks my back and beneath my breasts.
When I manage a pretty perfect parry, Tomison lets out a whoop.
Venna claps. Izabel lets out a long, appreciative whistle. Then quickly adds, “That wasn’t for you, Tomison!”
“ Sure , it wasn’t!” he calls back.
But when I glance her way, Izabel is smiling, and her eyes are definitely not on me.
Unfortunately, that mild distraction earns me a vicious smack to my left arm.
I jolt and grimace, rubbing the spot. “ Easy , prick.”
“Prick? I’m saving your ass,” he protests.
“Don’t talk about my ass,” I grumble, earning a crackle of laughter before we launch back into it.
At the end of the sparring session, Tomison doesn’t hold back. He gives me a list of the muscles I need to strengthen, my apparent weaknesses having become clear to him throughout our practice.
“Side abdominals, too,” he says, patting his side. “But most importantly, thighs and glutes. It doesn’t matter how well you can hold your sword if you’re going to be thrown off of your wolf three seconds into the fight.”
Izabel joins in, then, to offer up her own training regimen in combination with Tomison’s. Venna joins in, demonstrating a few exercises for me. Things like certain stretches that will make sitting on Anassa’s back easier or working out my hands to increase my grip strength and decrease the likelihood of a fall. She even agrees to teach me some sign language.
It’s clear that I need to be strength training every day, if I’m going to stand a chance here. Hours of my life are going to be swallowed up by weights and stretches and buckets of sweat. But it suddenly doesn’t seem impossible.
It seems like a path I can follow, with clear steps and a destination.
And I’m not walking alone. Sparring in the training yard, stretching in the morning, complaining about soreness and bruises with the others… I can picture it already, and something deep in my gut is suddenly heavier in a not altogether unpleasant way.
I look around at the three of them, stare into our inevitably shared future, and I wonder. I watch them smile and laugh, and I wonder. I know in my tired bones and sore muscles that they’ve helped me today, maybe saved my ass , and I wonder.
Is Killian’s warning fair? Is it possible that people like this might actually stab me in the back?