Chapter 10
How long has Nordin been staring at Tyron and me? Long enough to hear the shifter calling him dull? Why do I even care whether he overheard the comment and it pricked his ego?
The observer shape-shifts into skin, which doesn’t dim the glow of his eyes in the slightest. “Feeling better, Zaskja?”
“Much. Sorry I missed all the fun,” I drone as I dunk all the arrows inside my quiver and retrace my steps toward Tyron.
“I bet you can’t hit the bull’s-eye twice in a row,” I tell my archery buddy, partly to distract him from Nordin’s intrusion and partly so the intrusion understands I have nothing more to say to him.
I hand Tyron an arrow, dragging his gaze away from Nordin. As I back up, the shifter nocks it. Dead center, again.
Perhaps I should invite Tyron to trek through the Wilds with me in exchange for a new dagger or my virginity. I wrinkle my nose at the idea of trading my body for a favor. Especially my first time…
It isn’t that I’m the greatest romantic, but I find no appeal to transactional sex. Maybe I am a great romantic. Of course, that leads me to think of my first love. I jam my fingers into my hair and rake it back, wishing I could till all thoughts of Nordin from my mind.
“You should train on moving targets, since nothing stands still in the Wilds.” Nordin’s offer echoes through the bruised chambers of my heart.
If the male’s not my mate, why must he invade me so?
Why, Fenrir?
Why?
“Are you offering to act as the prey, Stormsson?” Tyron asks, making a breath rush through my teeth.
“Hmm. I wasn’t, but why not?”
I whirl around. “Are you fucking mad, Nord?”
“Since you ask, yes, Zaskja, I am, in fact, feeling rather fucking mad.” He bites out each word, but none more than the last two, which he inflects in a way that makes me think he means angry instead of demented.
Because of the gloves? Because I failed to show up for his betrothal? Because I refuse to forgive him?
I realize how selfish it is to believe myself the source of his irritation, but my gut tells me this is personal, and my gut is rarely wrong.
“Well, then, I hope Tyron doesn’t miss, so it rids you of your idiotic urge to play moving target,” I mutter.
“Will you be shifting? Or am I shooting at you in this form?” Tyron asks.
“How about I mix it up to make it more fun?” Nordin proposes.
I gnash my molars. “Imbeciles. Both of you.”
Tyron smiles nice and wide. “What do I get if I land an arrow, Stormsson?”
“The pleasure to gloat about it.”
I cross my arms and roll my eyes so far back that it succeeds in flexing my strained neck.
“Once I shift, count to ten. You get three shots. Keep count, Zas?”
I slam my gaze back into Nordin’s, then narrow it to a notched point. “I’m not getting involved in your crazy scheme. You count your own damn arrows.”
Nordin must sense I’ll be counting the damn arrows because, right before he gets into fur, he chuckles. What’s wrong with these men? Why must they all be so cocky?
Tyron has started the countdown. He’s down to six seconds, and Nordin has yet to move or to look away from me.
I’m about to yell at him to run when he shimmers into fur before bounding into the shadows. A moment later, provocative barks cut through the darkness.
Tyron bolts off. I try to stave off getting involved, but my feet carry me after him. I stay behind, keeping one eye on his arrow and the other on the abounding obscurity. A burst of white appears.
My lungs seize as the bowstring hums. I don’t breathe until the arrowhead sinks into the tree trunk behind which Nordin has taken refuge.
My inhale is so copious, I believe I might become the first Isriken to expire from an overdose of oxygen.
“Nice aim, Gustafson.” Nordin’s voice rings out, just as taunting as his earlier barks.
I will him to get back into fur. He moves faster in fur.
As Tyron backtracks toward me for an arrow, I hear Nordin bellow, “Stay behind Tyron, Zas, and watch his aim at all times.”
I plant a hand on my hip. Is Nordin seriously giving me advice? I’m not the one who offered to play pincushion.
My gaze tapers on the tree I assume Nordin is still hiding behind, but then widens, because Tyron has swept his arms to the side and is fixing his attention on another part of the woods. When did Nordin move?
“What’s going on?” Saga’s voice makes me jump out of my skin.
I plaster my palm over my banging heart. “Holy Fenrir, Saga. You scared the shit out of me.”
She grins as though proud of her feat. “Who are we hunting?”
“Your brother,” I mutter, tracking Tyron’s every move.
“My…brother?”
“Yes, Nordin had the brilliant idea to help Tyron improve his archery skills.”
Without glancing over his shoulder, Tyron says, “The guy couldn’t care less about my archery skills.”
He’s probably right. “Fine. He’s trying to prove to Tyron that moving targets are harder to hit. To demonstrate, he offered to be one.”
A snort that sounds more derisive than tickled drifts from Tyron’s direction.
“What?” I hiss.
“Tyron’s arrows aren’t tipped in silver, right?” Saga murmurs.
I shoot her a look. “Since when do we have silver-tipped arrows on pack land?”
“Far mentioned he’s missing a silver ingot,” she murmurs.
I wonder when he noticed its absence. Last year when I stole it, or only recently?
She taps my hand. “Don’t be alarmed.”
Of course she’s noted my elevated heartbeat.
She squeezes my fingers. “I’m sure he simply miscounted. After all, theft is punishable by scalping. I don’t see who’d dare.”
I would.
“They’re my arrows,” I whisper. “Not Tyron’s.”
“Then I’m doubly reassured that this cock-swinging contest won’t end at the healer’s.”
And I’m reassured that neither she nor her father thinks the thief might be me.
I’m so distracted by Saga that I miss Tyron’s next shot and only become aware of it because he’s trudging toward me for another arrow.
“How many more arrows to go, Zas?” I hear Nordin call out.
“No clue!” I yell back. “I’m not counting!”
His dark laughter puffs toward me, sinking past my skin and into my ribs. Teeth gritted, I slap the arrow into Tyron’s propped palm.
A howl sounds from the village. “Shit…I almost forgot why I came out here. Gotta go. Tell me if Tyron succeeds.” She smacks a kiss onto my cheek before morphing, loosing a howl of her own, and scampering toward the village.
Leaves crunch under my boots. Tyron halts. I halt in turn.
And then he twists around and snaps, “Can you stop moving, Zas? I can’t fucking focus.”
I freeze, not appreciating the aggressiveness of his tone. I almost say something about it but decide it’s not worth the energy and let him stalk off on his own.
I keep an eye on him, though, the same way I try to keep an eye on Nordin. Though, admittedly, I have no clue where he is at the moment, or in what form. As I scan the gloomy thicket, a branch snaps somewhere behind me.
Tyron swirls.
I freeze. “Whoa! Don’t fucking shoot.”
“Stop fucking making noise, then,” he growls.
Actually, he’s not the one growling. The noise is coming from elsewhere. I’m guessing from Nordin, unless another wolf has joined our little pin-the-arrow-on-the-wolf game?
When a warped smile tucks into Tyron’s cheeks, I think he’s spotted Nordin, but then why is he still aiming at me?
The growl turns into a snarl as a large, white body leaps in front of me before thumping into the ground with such force that the vibrations of the impact almost buckle my knees.
“Gotcha,” Tyron proclaims as the white fur cloaking Nordin pinkens with blood.
I suck in a violent draft of air and drop to my knees beside him, reaching for the arrow. Nordin beats me to it by seizing it with his teeth and tossing it aside.
A heartbeat later, he shifts to flesh on the frozen snow.
I sit back on my heels, my quiver trembling against my spine.
“You play dirty, Gustafson,” Nordin rumbles. “Not sure why I was expecting any different, though.”
“I play to win,” Tyron proclaims. “And I won.”
“By using Zaskja.”
“What?” I whisper.
“Should’ve laid down some rules,” Tyron singsongs as he carries over my longbow and extends it.
“Honor is an implicit rule, Gustafson.”
Tyron shrugs.
“Wait, you used me to draw Nordin out?”
“No offense, but it’s the first rule of war: Use your enemy’s weaknesses. Ulf taught me that himself.” Tyron looks from me to Nordin, then back to me again. “You two are really screwed. I suppose I should say you three, since Nika’s in the mix now. Did you warn her she’ll need to share?”
“Get the fuck out of here before I use you as my moving target.” Nordin’s timbre is so low and menacing that it sprinkles goose bumps across my skin.
Tyron smirks before he flashes into white fur and lurches away.
I snatch the arrow from the ground and wipe the blood off against the bulging root of a tree. “You should set him straight before he spreads false rumors.”
I climb to my feet and squint at the forest floor for the other two arrows. I have ten left but would prefer to have twelve.
Nordin remains so quiet that I assume he went after Tyron, but when I turn back around, I find he’s still sitting there, at the foot of a tree that’s as wide as he is. I assume his wounded thigh must ache, because I refuse to entertain any other possibility.
“Whatever you do, don’t fall into his bed.”
My head rears back. “Where the Hel did that come from, Nord? And how is it any of your business whose bed I fall into?”
“He’s been pursuing you for years.”
“Just because he’s interested doesn’t mean I am. But again, what I do isn’t your concern.”
“You’re my family. What you do will always concern me.”
My face heats with anger that he dares string my heart along after he so readily destroyed it. “Go away.”
“I’ll never go away. Family never—”
“Stop with the family line! Stop!” I spear my fingers through my hair and tug at the roots.
“I’m not your true cousin! I’m not a fucking Stormsson!
And I will never fucking be…one.” My voice breaks as I deliver the last bit.
As it truly percolates after so many years of dreaming that Nordin and I would marry.
I stalk toward the tree Tyron shot earlier, batting my lashes to keep the tears at bay. Leave, leave, leave.
I yank the arrow from the bark, huffing when I notice that its gold head remains lodged inside the tree’s flesh. I fling the useless stick aside, then canvass the grounds for the remaining arrow, hoping it’ll be intact.
I catch the gleam of Nordin’s boots, but no arrow. The shifter has the good sense not to address or approach me again. However, when I stride back toward the village, he follows, moonlight dripping off his furred body.
I pretend he isn’t there as I head to the forge to retrieve the bag I hid in the supply closet. As I wait for Nordin to leave, I decide on a final enhancement. One that’ll double the efficacy of my arrows.
Then I head to Meadowpoint and, like others have been doing all day, hoist my pack into one of the waiting sledges. The lie “It’s Saga’s stuff” teeters on the brim of my tongue in case someone inquires. No one does.
I add the folded fur stole and tarp I intend to use as a shell, then head home to spend a final evening with Mor. When the valley erupts in excited hooting, I hug her tight and tell her I’ll be warming Saga’s cot tonight—my cousin is notorious for choosing her lovers’ beds over her own.
Even though my mother insists she doesn’t need the pit house to herself, I leave, reminding her to have fun before adding, with far too much cheer, that I love her.
How I will miss her… I pray that her anger and disappointment will outweigh her heartache. And then I quiet my mind and lighten my footfalls, making myself one with the night.
I wait until the time of the blessing—the solemn moment when the wolves from all five packs gather around Gothi Dorson in Meadowpoint so he can sanctify their hunt.
Most shifters have already taken their other form, one they will keep until the full phase passes. It’s only the Alphas who have the power to shape-shift at will on such nights. Even the elders are stuck in fur should they shift before the moon reaches its zenith.
I creep away from the rapt crowd then steal into the sledge, coiling the tarp and fur stole around my body and burrowing amid all the packs. What feels like a full century elapses before the harness finally creaks and the luge jerks forward.
We’re moving!
I can hardly—
We’ve stopped.
Cool sweat forms on my brow, and not from the many layers wrapped around me. Why did we stop?