Chapter 37
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
T he skylights are dark as I stride through the silent halls. It feels almost illicit to be creeping around at this hour, right out in the open. Until this point, all of my creeping has been contained to the tunnel between my quarters and the royal wings.
A sharp ache of longing scrapes through my chest when I think of Killian. If only I were gliding my hand along the familiar stone, anticipating the warmth of his skin under my fingertips.
We’ve barely seen each other since the night of the ball. He came to my room the day after, when he’d heard about Alpha Markos, to check in on me. We agreed to keep some distance until things had blown over. Last night, though, I went to him, told him everything.
All about how I’m now the Strategos Alpha. He swept me into his arms in pride, but I didn’t let things get much further. I’m not ready to try filtering my bond with Anassa again—it’s too raw between us still.
And now I’m here, walking through dark hallways while the other Rawbonds sleep, headed to find…
Ugh.
Stark, of all people. It feels like I’m waltzing right over the edge of a very perilous cliff. Hurling my body over the side, really.
Granted, the cliff has ridiculous eyelashes and unfairly broad shoulders.
But it’s still a cliff .
I stand in front of his office door, trying to decide how I’m going to play this. I can still hear his voice and feel his unwavering gaze. “My quarters at dawn…”
Shaking off my shivers, I push the door open without knocking, deciding I’d rather be the one catching him off-guard, for once. But I’ve failed again.
Stark’s office isn’t anything like I’d imagined. I was bracing myself for heads on spikes. I was anticipating that I’d need to duck occasionally to avoid the hanging, rusty murder weapons.
Maybe there’d even be some animal bones he and his wolf had been gnawing on together.
Bonding, you know?
But it’s a library. A library .
Or, not entirely. The center of the room predictably has an open space, obviously set aside for sparring. Behind it, there are some wide stone stairs that lead up to a raised section of the room. There, I can see weapon racks, hanging armor, a dormant hearth, and a few comfortable looking chairs.
But all around the central sparring space, there are shelves lining the walls or standing side-by-side to create orderly aisles. The stacks reach all the way to the ceiling, with a ladder propped against the shelf to my right so that he can reach the tallest shelves—similar to the layout in Leader Aldrich’s office.
I stand there, staring, suddenly suffering a series of bizarrely crisp images.
Stark, dressed in casual clothing, climbing up that ladder to reach a book he needs. Or Stark sitting in one of those chairs, feet up, reading in silence. Stark alone in the sparring square, sword in hand, practicing maneuvers.
He’s not shirtless in my imagination. At first.
I run my hand over my face to wipe my mind of it all. I shouldn’t be thinking about Stark like he’s a person with a soul and normal human needs.
He’s a killing machine.
That’s obviously why he has a soft-looking blanket draped over the arm of his chair. Because even killing machines get cold… apparently.
“Surprised?”
Stark’s voice carries that familiar edge of mockery, like he thinks I’m stupid for believing he lives like a feral animal when he acts like one. He emerges between two of his towering bookshelves and leans against one of them, arms crossed.
He’s dressed casually. His pants are fighting leathers, but he’s wearing a white short-sleeved shirt on top, his huge arms exposed—as well as the absurd amount of tattoos covering them, from his fingers all the way up, disappearing under the cap sleeves, dark and twisting and runic. I swallow at the visceral reminder of just how many lives he’s taken.
My brain immediately starts assessing him. How far is he from me? Where are his eyes looking? It’s training from the pits, but it’s also just self-preservation, being in the same room as someone like Stark.
Alone , I might add.
I make a show of letting my eyes wander around his office. Most of the books look freshly bound, but there are a few with broken spines and even some that look ancient, those being secured behind glass cases that glint in the lamplight.
When my eyes land on a doorway that leads to an adjoining room—spotting an unmade bed bathed in darkness—I avert them instantly. Does he sleep here? Surely he has a private room off of the Daemos quarters, just like Egith and I do. Or maybe that bed’s for something other than sleeping…
Another image I don’t need.
“This is a lot of books, hoarder,” I say, ignoring the heat in my face. Even Leader Aldrich’s library pales in comparison. I’ve never seen this many in one place before.
The thought comes to me unbidden: Saela would love this . It’s followed by an immediate ache in my chest.
Stark doesn’t move from his spot, but his eyes roam. Over his books, at first. Then over me.
I feel it again. That same thing I always do, looking at him. Being looked at by him.
It’s a challenge, like he believes he owns the world but wants to see me try to take it from him. “Did you think being Alpha just meant fighting well?”
I grind my teeth briefly. My skin prickles, meeting his dark eyes. The challenge simmering in the air is tempting. I sort of want to tear him apart. But ultimately, I am here for a reason. A good one.
“That’s why I’m here, isn’t it? Because I don’t know what being Alpha means,” I reply. “Or so I’ve been told. Repeatedly.”
Stark pushes off of the shelf and approaches, arms falling to his sides. To anyone else, it would have looked almost lazy. Relaxed. His muscles are loose and his stride slow. But his eyes are sharper than they were a moment ago.
I don’t think Stark is capable of relaxation.
“And you listen to everything you’re told, princess?” he says, a dangerous edge in his tone.
“Religiously,” I deadpan, lifting my chin to show him that his height doesn’t scare me.
“Then block,” he says.
I don’t even fully process his words before my body snaps into motion. His eyes cut downward, his arm whipping towards my face with impossible speed. The flat of a fist flashes in my vision as muscle memory yanks me out of the way.
He’s not like any of the opponents I fought in the pits. He’s taller, stronger, faster. But more importantly, he’s coldly merciless.
Fearless.
I try to rotate my body, shifting my feet, but I’m too slow.
His second blow cracks against my ribs.
Pain explodes through my left side as I stumble back, shoulder slamming into one of the shelves. I clutch my side, trying to catch my breath.
It was a hard hit. I’m only lucky that he’s backing away instead of ripping a book from the shelf and knocking me out with it.
“Wh…” I wheeze, still winded.
“In your defense, you did as you were told,” he says, raising a brow. “Initially.”
“You f —” The expletive turns into an angry, strangled growling sound. It’s probably best not to curse him out.
This place looks harmless, but there could still be a cellar under the sparring square where he keeps his collection of eyeballs and teeth. The fucker.
Stark gestures to the books. His usual glower is gone, and there’s an unfamiliar spark in his eyes.
“Leadership requires both knowledge and strength,” he says. I force myself to straighten, but I swear I can hear my ribs creaking. “But you’re weak. You have neither.”
My mouth drops open in indignation. It stuns me more than the literal punch he just threw. Just because I don’t have a personal library and years of fancy training doesn’t mean I’m?—
Stark’s fist flies towards my face again. This time, I sidestep and smack his wrist with the flat of my hand as it whips past my head. If he were a stupider opponent, that would have created an opening.
Instead, he ducks under my returning blow and does the exact same countermove to me. The spark in his eyes is a bonfire now, lit with intense focus. “You have good instincts.”
“Thanks,” I grit out.
“It won’t help you against a Siphon,” he says.
Then there’s suddenly cloth in my eyes, a fluttering swath of darkness that has me stumbling backward. I barely have time to process it—Stark threw something—and lift my arms defensively before his blow lands.
He doesn’t go for the same attack, directed at my torso. Instead, his foot whips out and the toe of his boot lands squarely on the side of my knee. I shout and thud to the ground, catching myself and rolling away instinctively even though he doesn’t press the offensive.
“You can’t trust your eyes with a Siphon. You can’t trust what you already know.”
I hiss out breaths, turning the pain to my advantage, using the anger to fuel my focus. Then I wash it from my face, replacing it with fear. I let my eyes well, let my arm tremble as I reach up.
“Okay,” I breathe, nodding. I sniff. “Help me up. I’ll try again.”
Stark stares at me for a long moment, then his brow pinches slightly. My knee throbs as I kneel there, my hand still outstretched. He steps forward, reaching for me.
And just as he’s close enough, I grab the cloth he threw in my face right out from under his foot. His breath rushes from him as his balance is compromised, and I lash towards him like a snake, aiming for every man’s greatest weakness.
But instead of trying to reassert his footing, he leans into the fall, lifting the foot I stole from him and spiking his knee towards my face. I pull away at the last second, thudding onto my back.
Before I can move, he lets himself fall on top of me. His heavy, muscled legs wrap around my hips, pinning my pelvis in place so I can’t kick him again, and he presses a forearm against my throat—hard, then harder.
Psycho. Fucking. Asshole.
I’ll show him.
But then his fingers come up, pressing callouses against my lips.
“Thinking about spitting in my face again, princess?” he says, dark amusement in his eyes.
Oh good, so no one here’s forgotten that moment.
Suddenly, I realize what a vulnerable position I’m in. We’re alone; everyone else in the castle is still sleeping. This violent butcher who hates me has me pinned and choked. A spasm of fear ricochets through me and Anassa perks up on the other end of the bond, though she doesn’t say anything.
He could kill me. He might kill me.
Stark tilts his head slightly, as if listening to something—maybe his wolf, demanding he finish me off for good. But then, to my utter surprise, he lessens the pressure on my throat, removes his rough fingers from my lips.
He blinks down at me, a slight frown flickering across his face, then rolls off of me and stands up.
Probably would piss his mother off if he murdered the newly named Alpha.
“Decent attempt,” he says.
“Decent,” I grumble spitefully, pushing to my feet. “How did you get the upper hand? Did you know?”
“I’ve seen you take much harder hits than that without whining,” he says, gaze steady. “And I am always ready, even when my opponent plays at weakness.”
Because he’s merciless. I cross my arms. “You just finished calling me weak.”
“There are different kinds of strength. Different kinds of weaknesses,” he says. He rubs his palms together, eyes darting over me again. He’s assessing me for openings, I realize instantly. He’s going to attack me again. “Why do you think the packs are separate from each other?”
“Because we needed somewhere to put all the bloodthirsty killers, Alpha Daemos,” I respond lightly, with a sweet smile.
His fist lashes out. I step back, then again when another strike comes for me. I make the mistake of blocking with the flat of my palm, and the force of his blow causes my arm to bend at the elbow and pain to burn up my right side.
“Maybe you shouldn’t test the patience of a bloodthirsty killer , then,” he says. But the cold ferocity of his voice is offset by the same simmering glow in his eyes. By that challenge.
“I’m trembling,” I snap sarcastically, as if we aren’t both incredibly aware that he just scared the shit out of me on the floor.
Stark takes a deep breath and straightens. “The real reason is because every pack has a weakness. Just as every soldier does. Strategos are intelligent. Masterful on the battlefield. But their reaction times are often slowed by the information they must constantly process. Phylax are physically formidable, but they’re less maneuverable than Daemos.”
“And your pack’s weakness?”
The question earns me another physical assault. Footwork carries us across the room, between the shelves. I’m sweating by the time he relents.
“Daemos get… carried away,” he rasps. The breathlessness in his voice and the way his eyes dart over me makes the hair on the back of my neck lift.
My gaze jumps unwillingly to that dark room off the side, where the unmade bed is. I think about the crack that Tomison made about Stark once—about how he seemed like the type who’d do all the riding.
I curl my fingers into fists, letting my fingernails bite into my palms, letting the pain drag me away from that deeply unwanted line of thought.
“And so we compensate for each other’s weaknesses,” I say, stepping slightly farther from him to ready myself for his next probing attacks.
“Correct. Just the same, every soldier has weaknesses and strengths,” he says.
“And our packmates compensate for those. Our?—”
“ No ,” he snaps harshly.
Another flurry of attacks. I’m stumbling away from the shelves, panting by the time he explains. The severity of his expression is haunting.
“You are an Alpha . You are not permitted the luxury of open weakness.”
Fuck, this man is intense. “Everyone. Has. Weaknesses,” I hiss.
He steps closer to me, crowding my space. His chest is rising and falling rapidly from the exertion. His musky, amber smell reaches my nose, and I immediately breathe through my mouth because I need to stay sharp.
“You’re right,” he says. My eyes widen. I thought he’d die before saying those words to me. “But we are selective about who we show those truths to. Understand?”
I swallow roughly. He doesn’t wait for my response, turning away abruptly and striding away from me. I study the slope of his shoulders for a moment. They’re rising and falling as if he’s agitated.
For a moment, hidden meaning gathers around us like angry storm clouds. His name forms on my tongue. I can’t say why. There was just something so heavy, so charged about the way he turned away from me.
“St—”
He whirls on me. I don’t have time to dodge fully, so I try to lessen the impact of his blow by moving my body parallel to his momentum. It hurts, but it doesn’t break anything. I dance away quickly, catching my balance near one of the glass cases.
Annoyance fizzes in my blood. I can feel bruises already forming.
“Was that playing at weakness, too?” I growl out.
He strides towards me. Quickly . “How many gammas are in each pack?”
“Wh… Two?” I say.
He lashes out again. I grunt and deflect, dodge, then suffer another punishing hit. “Two or three,” he says. “What is a rider’s biggest vulnerability, when mounted?”
I ready myself, widening my stance. “Uneven terrain.”
His assault is brutal. His blows are like battering rams. He’s faster than anyone I’ve ever fought, and he isn’t even slightly slowing down. He chases me entirely across the sparring square, backing me up against the shelves.
“Your legs . If your legs are compromised, you cannot keep seated, no matter how Anassa compensates.”
My chest is heaving. Sweat streaks down my face. And something… shifts in the corner of my eye. A strange energy streaks over my spine. A few of the books on his shelf, wedged far back in the shadows, old and faded but…
“—primary… Cooper!” he barks.
“What?” I say, head snapping back towards him.
“What is a Siphon’s primary weakness?” he practically snarls.
“It’s…” My eyes drift again, pulled back to that shadowy shelf.
Then I sense him moving towards me, and I react as quickly as I can. He launches forward and ducks low under my responding swing, bracing his foot and bringing his fist up towards my chin. I arch my back, yanking my head back just in time, then kick my leg towards his side.
But he literally catches my ankle and uses his mass to knock me off balance.
His muscles bunch, his grip tightens, and he swings me into a shelf. My shoulder erupts in pain, but I don’t have time to process it before he traps my leg between our bodies and pushes me against the shelf so hard that the wood digs into my spine.
I try to leverage my elbow, but he catches my wrist and pins it to my shoulder, his forearm pressed to my throat again.
Resisting, I try to break free from this hold, but I can’t manage anything more than a pathetic, writhing rebellion.
And I’m extremely aware of all the points his body is touching mine. His hand on my ankle, my leg raised between us, his hips grinding against my own. His arm burning against my neck, the clasp of his fingers on my wrist. His scent fogging my mind.
I fall still, chest heaving, jaw clenched.
“You’re distracted,” he growls, the rumble of his voice passing deep into my body.
I’ll fucking say. Clearly, it’s been too many nights without Killian. I need to get over this privacy stuff with Anassa and start scratching this itch again—directing my sexual frustration at the right person.
Blood leaks from my split lip as I take a deep breath. His eyes dart down as it reaches my chin. His brows twitch together slightly.
I shake my head. “There’s too much to learn. I need a plan.”
He releases me. Air rushes from my lungs. I’m suddenly cold. Unmoored. I grip the edge of a shelf to steady myself, disoriented by the way my pulse is throbbing.
“You’re finally thinking like an Alpha,” he says, a touch of approval in his voice.
He jerks his chin, ordering me to follow without a word as he disappears between a couple of shelves. I wipe the blood from my chin and rub my throat, following him.
Stark stands over a desk that’s been tucked away behind the shelves. His gaze follows me as I approach. When I reach his side, he slides a piece of paper towards me across the desk’s glossy surface.
“Write down what you need to improve upon. Everything.”
I perch my hand on my hip and frown. “You mean I should tell you all my weaknesses?”
He laughs. Stark , laughing. He rasps his hand over his stubble, eyes warming slightly, and that deep but barely there sound of amusement emanates from his chest.
“Maybe you do listen to everything you’re told.”
My muscles feel shaky. “See? I’m a star pupil.”
He leans his hip against the desk. “You can choose to hold back, but you’ll fail. And you’ll die.” My hand tightens into a fist. A lesson or a threat? His jaw twitches, and he steps closer to me. “I’m your only way through this.”
“I’m meant to trust you, then,” I breathe.
When he’s done nothing but try to break my will from the moment we met.
“Or you could think of it as using me to grow stronger,” he says.
Using me . Annoyingly, my cheeks heat.
I scoff, and Stark studies me for a long moment. Finally, he rakes his fingers through his hair.
“These are the difficult decisions an Alpha must make,” he says, pushing the paper towards me. “For the good of her pack.”
For the good of my pack.
I dart my tongue over my stinging lip and taste blood. Then I nod and sit at the desk, picking up his quill.
“I’m sure there are things I’ve never heard of that I need to know, so this is on you,” I say. “Tell me your list of what an Alpha needs to be, and I’ll write down what I’m missing.”
His eyes glow again. He liked that answer. “You should… What are you writing?”
I lift up the page to show him what I’ve scrawled out as my first priority. “ Work on my glower .”
His lips press together. “Funny.”
I pretend to write another note. “Destroy… my… sense of humor,” I mock-record. “What’s next, oh wise one?”
“Pack politics. Military strategy,” he says.
“Thrilling,” I say with false enthusiasm, then turn to the page to start writing.
Over the next hour, we catalog the gaps in my knowledge down to the tiniest detail. Then from there, Stark sets about establishing a shiny new schedule for me. Combat at dawn, strategy lessons until noon, pack politics in the afternoon, independent study in the evenings.
Oh, and don’t forget all of my regular pack courses and training sessions on top of that. After all, I’m still a Rawbond.
I want to argue that I need some time to sleep—and maybe see Killian—but I’ve clearly exhausted the three ounces of patience he keeps on reserve for me.
Eventually, I stretch back in my chair, arching my back, and then point to the shelf behind him. “And those?”
He turns, stares at the shelf for a moment, then looks at me again. “Excuse me?”
I stand and approach the shelf, intentionally barring the memory of Stark pushing me up against it from my mind. I sidestep that confusion and reach out to dust my fingertips over the books that drew my attention earlier.
“Are they part of my training? My independent study?” I ask.
Even now, there’s that shiver of energy along my spine when I look at them. Old, withered, leather-bound and… almost alive.
“Those are books that have passed through my family line,” he tells me, his expression is unreadable. “They are not mine to loan. But if you find yourself drawn to any of them and happen to pick them up while I’m not looking, I won’t be able to stop you.”
“ Yes ,” Anassa’s voice comes over the bond. “ Do your own research .” Thanks for that, Anassa. Could have used your guidance during any other part of today’s training, but glad some dusty old books have gotten you excited.
I scoff. “You realize how cryptic that answer w?—”
Stark’s fist slams toward my face and I stagger back.
“I thought we were done with this!” I shout.
“Done?” he says scornfully, and we pick up the brutal rhythm of interrogation and sparring again. But even as I defend myself, that odd pulsing energy lingers in the back of my mind, right at the base of my skull.
I can’t shake the feeling that those old books are aware. Waiting.
After my long day of torture, I tumble into bed aching and exhausted, thinking I’ll sleep like the dead. But almost the instant I shut my eyes, I fall into a vivid dream. Shadows twist around me, lifting me, pillaging my mind.
The air is suddenly cold, my mattress unyielding.
And then the faint scent of old blood fills my nose.
Beneath my hands, there’s hard-packed dirt.
Not again, is all I can think. No, no, no.
My heart thuds loudly in my ears as I sit up, opening my eyes.
I’m no longer dreaming, and I’m no longer in my room. This is real.
I’m exactly where I was last time, in the very center of the arena floor. But something is slightly different. The usual disorientation that takes me during these episodes is absent, replaced by unsettling clarity.
The moon casts perfect patches of light through the glass ceiling above my head, but around those patches of clarity, strange shadows creep across the earth. At their very edges, they look like they’re… shivering. Trembling like a spider’s legs.
I push myself to my hands and knees, focusing on my breaths. But my own shadow doesn’t seem to follow my movements precisely. Or so I thought, but when I blink, it’s right where it belongs.
Through our bond, Anassa’s alertness spikes. She can sense this, too, then.
“Be careful,” she warns, voice quieter than usual.
I squint into the surrounding darkness. Below me, I can see the center of the draining system again. But as I slide my foot forward to try to find my feet, the angle of the moonlight shifts just enough that something glints in the dark. I lean forward again, peering below.
There’s something metallic. Definitely gold. I press myself to the ground, straining. Beside that glint of metal, there’s a shimmering stone. Opalescent.
And is that… the curve of a wolf’s head?
I shift my weight and push my fingers carefully through the hole, grunting as I reach for the vague shapes lurking down there. I can’t say why.
Generally, I’d avoid sticking my entire arm into strange places. But there’s an almost instinctual need thrumming in my mind. A pull, like a hand around my wrist dragging me in.
A sound echoes through the arena. Footsteps, I realize.
I jerk upright instantly, scrambling away from the drain. The rapid approach of someone else so late at night makes me suddenly certain that I’m not supposed to be here. Not supposed to see this. I can’t be caught.
Hastily, I head for the other side of the arena and slip into the shadows, which have mercifully fallen still. My mind races with questions.
What was buried beneath the arena floor? Why does it feel like it’s drawing me in?
And why, as I flee through the halls, does it seem like death is on my heels?