Chapter 6
Despite his best efforts to keep busy—and his head down—Soren couldn’t avoid the situation forever. He gave it a valiant effort, driven half-mad by his impatient, snarling turuk, but in the end, Diar found him with the news that changed everything.
Diar had told him about Miss Maeve holding evening classes for adults when it was proposed the previous week. Although he’d said it with a smug expression Soren wanted to punch right off his face, Soren had shored up his patience, nodded, and done nothing with the information.
What was there to do, anyway? Offering to teach additional classes was commendable.
For a week, he dodged Diar and his needling. “All the single men will be going,” he’d say. “Are you really going to let them all stare at your kigara like that?”
Gritting his fangs, Soren hadn’t bothered to reply. What Miss Maeve did—and with whom—was none of his business. He’d no right to have an opinion about it.
As the day of the first class drew closer, Danann turned its speculation away from Soren and his flight to instead ponder over Miss Maeve’s lessons.
There was excitement about the opportunity, not just from all the single men (and Maritza) looking to flirt, but to learn Eirean.
It felt like another momentous step in integrating with the humans of the Darrowlands.
Soren’s fallen feather was positively old news by the time the afternoon of the first class came. So much so, Soren had deluded himself into thinking that it wouldn’t truly be every single man in town going.
And then he walked around to the front of Ulmo’s half-finished pub, grabbing a rag off the railing to wipe off his muzzle.
He watched in stunned silence as every single man streamed from the village on his way down to the school. There were others, of course, and it was far too early for the class to begin, but already over a dozen potential suitors headed right for Miss Maeve.
The ruff at the back of Soren’s neck stood up, and a growl reverberated in his throat.
Keep them away, kill them, claim her—
A hearty slap smacked him on the shoulder, catching him by surprise.
He turned to see Diar’s insufferably smug face. “What’d I tell you?” He nodded at the great migration headed to the school. “They’ve all heard about her beauty, and many have been finding reasons to be near the school. If you’re not careful, you’ll be out a mate and a job.”
Catching Diar’s stupid, dumb face in his paw, Soren shoved him. “Go away.”
Straightening, Diar laughed. “They’ve all convinced themselves they have a chance, what with you so politely getting out of their way. You’ve fooled them all, brother. But have you fooled yourself?”
Diar leaned in, his smile showing off all his teeth, but Soren didn’t react. Oh, he wanted to. Wanted to swipe his claws and catch Diar’s big mouth with their sharpness. He wanted to wing down to the school and bar the door, roaring that they leave his kigara alone.
Rip out the throat of any who look at her! howled his turuk.
The violent thought made him queasy, and so Soren stood strong, ignoring Diar’s taunts.
Finally realizing he wouldn’t get the rise he wanted out of Soren, Diar shrugged. Waving over his shoulder, he turned in the direction of the school. “Fine, fine. But don’t bellyache to me when you have regrets.”
No, Soren would never be so foolish as to take his thoughts to Diar. His brother had trouble enough with his own.
Huffing, Soren finished wiping himself down as something to do rather than glare at all the strapping men headed out of town. Oh, he certainly did that, it just wasn’t all he did.
Still, he caught a few wary glances as they passed him on the unfinished porch.
Soren just kept his lip from lifting in a warning growl.
Enough, he scolded the beast inside, we must let her be.
Pretty, available, ours, growled the turuk in response.
Soren let out his growl, but it was for his own beast more than anything.
Scrubbing the rag hard over his face, he tried not to focus on the many pairs of feet walking past. His fur bristled, his feathers ruffled, and all he could do was shake himself from head to toe to try working out the uneasy itchiness.
Pressing his paw to his chest, he sank his claws into his own hide until he felt a prick of pain.
That only made the turuk angrier.
Your fault, your choice, no! it raged.
A rumble grew in his chest. You’re why I can’t, he snarled at his beast. So angry, so possessive, you’d scare her away.
His turuk shuddered but wouldn’t back down.
The truth was never easy to face, even for his bestial half.
Soren had always had a tight rein on his inner beast. His abbat always stressed the mark of a man was his strength and the control he wielded over it. “A strong hunter knows when to bend,” his abbat would say, “and when it is better to purr than roar.”
Soren never allowed himself to roar and had never had reason to purr.
To do so would allow his fearsome, troublesome lukan of a beast too much control. His turuk was headstrong, domineering, and fierce. Such a beast would’ve led Soren straight into trouble as a cub—there were many cubs stronger than him, and all of them loathed him. Well, except Balar.
An unruly, untamed beast was looked down upon. And so Soren had trained harder than anyone else, tried harder than anyone else—he ruthlessly subdued his own beast, and he was convinced it’d kept him alive within the pride.
But now, the beast had smelled blood. There was something precious at stake now.
His turuk had never cared about rank within the pride, had wanted to roar just to be heard and fight to claim a modicum of respect through sheer strength.
All that predatory, belligerent desire now narrowed onto one being, one goal.
Pity the one who catches its gaze.
Soren didn’t realize he was moving until he heard the crunch of dried pine needles beneath his toes. He looked down at them, surprised to see his feet following the path of the others toward the school.
We can’t, he insisted, she won’t accept it, we’ll scare her. He couldn’t bear to see her frightened of him. The sting of rejection would hurt, of course, but to see fear in her eyes…no, no, he wouldn’t allow it.
The hunter who does not hunt goes hungry.
Oh, now his turuk was suddenly wise, speaking like his abbat in sagely idioms.
He would’ve snorted in exasperation had the school not come into sight.
There was no stopping his feet, although he was able to slow his pace to ensure he was the very last to enter. His thundering heart jumped into his throat as he slipped just inside the larger of the two classrooms.
Packed with adults, there was hardly any room left; mercifully, the windows had been opened to allow for air, and those closer to the front and middle had decided to sit.
That gave those in the back like him, who’d claimed a patch of wall to lean against, a view of the front of the room with its large chalkboard.
And pretty schoolteacher.
It also gave her a good view of everyone in the room, including him.
Despite being one of twenty in the room, Soren’s appearance was noted by all. Diar smirked at him from across the room, elbowing Akila to get his attention. A few peeked over their shoulders to spy him, only to whisper to their neighbor.
Miss Maeve had been speaking with Andreen, but as Soren settled his shoulders against the wall, her gaze locked on him. She regarded him with curiosity, her fine brows arched.
Ibás, she was even prettier than he remembered.
Rather than up in a fillet, her hair laid on one shoulder in a loose plait. Her cheeks were rosy and lips pink, her eyes bright with the liveliness of the group.
At least that light didn’t dim when she spotted him.
Soren let out the breath he’d been holding since leaving the pub.
The lesson was, he assumed, both educational and entertaining. Miss Maeve soon had them all laughing, and they began the lesson seeing each of their names written out in Eirean letters.
If someone asked him afterward what the lesson had been about, Soren would’ve been able to tell them the exact slope of Maeve’s shoulders, how her eyes weren’t quite fully brown but hazel and shifted color with the light, and when she smiled, the right side of her mouth lifted half a moment before the left.
Soren learned everything and nothing that afternoon.
Maeve could command a room of adults as adeptly as she did children, it seemed. Every person there hung on her every word, even those already mated. She won considerable favor by writing out their names for them to see.
Although he didn’t believe it, Soren’s beast obsessed over whether she took special care with their name. Look how she lingers on my letters.
The thought was as silly as it was ridiculous, and Soren was grateful for his pelt hiding the blush burning his cheeks. He was far too old to be thinking such things. Or care that not only did she not meet his gaze but seemed to be actively avoiding it.
We’re staring too much, he warned his turuk.
We want her to look.
As it was the first lesson, it didn’t last terribly long.
Or at least, Soren didn’t think it’d been that long, even if dusk was settling by the time Maeve finished explaining vowels and consonants.
She concluded the lesson by passing around a bucket full of thin sticks already cut and shaped like the styluses Kiri used to practice his own writing.
“We unfortunately don’t have enough wax boards for everyone to practice,” Maeve explained as she walked around the room with the bucket.
“So for now, please practice holding the stylus and moving your wrist.” She made a point to hold out the bucket to Soren and his neighbor with her head turned away, her free hand swooping through the air to demonstrate the motion she’d shown them before.
Once everyone had their tool and Maeve thanked them for attending, class adjourned. A hearty round of applause went up for their teacher, along with a few whistles.
“Oh, Miss Maeve, we’ve kept you too long,” Andreen fretted. “It’s already getting dark.”
Soren’s ears—as well as about a dozen other pairs—perked up.
“I have a lantern, don’t worry about me,” said Maeve.
“But it’s half a league back to your home. Surely, we can put you up for the night.”
All the air was sucked into excited lungs as every single man prepared to offer his cabin and his bed to the pretty schoolteacher.
“I will walk her home.”
The classroom fell quieter than a whisper. Every set of eyes turned to look at Soren, even Maeve’s.
He couldn’t believe he’d said it—nearly crushed the stylus in his clenched fist—but he swallowed down his surprise and desire to take it back. He couldn’t embarrass Kiri again.
And besides, if he didn’t take her home, there might be a bloody riot over the right to host Maeve overnight. Best to get her safely back home.
Maeve stood perfectly still, considering his offer, and left Soren with little choice but to stand there and squirm under her assessment. No one said anything, but more than a few heads bobbed back and forth, waiting to see what would happen.
Others held their own breath, waiting for the moment Maeve would deny Soren and open the field again.
Soren prepared himself for just that. He stiffened his spine and kept his face neutral.
Perhaps she would let him down gently, politely—perhaps that sharp tongue, the one Imogen said she wielded, would cut him down. So be it. Anything was better than this infernal, intolerable silence that stretched—
“Very well,” she said finally, “I’m sure I can’t be safer than with you, Mister Soren.”
Even in the hush, the classroom filled with titters and blown breaths. Soren’s own ears twisted back onto his head, and his whiskers twitched with indignation at her implication.
His beast liked her fire and spite. Soren just nodded and bowed his head, gesturing for her to lead the way.