Chapter 9 Meryn #2
He’s in a dark jacket, because of course he is. The soft fabric makes his dark eyes look harder, sharper. The long column of his golden-brown neck is uncovered, exposing his many kill marks.
And two thoughts instantly pop into my head: Dangerous. Delicious.
My breath hitches. Audibly. In a room full of important people.
What the fuck is wrong with me?
I stifle my reaction, covering it up, focusing intently on my facial muscles so they won’t betray whatever is happening in my out-of-control brain to the rest of the room.
Noemi has no such constraints. She turns, sees him, gasps, and leaps to her feet.
“Valstark!” she shouts.
She throws herself at him, into his arms, and I instinctively recoil. Who is she? A friend? A… paramour?
The thought makes me weirdly uncomfortable.
Sudden flashes of memory hit me: Stark’s tongue on my neck. His teeth on my arm. The heat of his body next to me in the bed in Linsfall.
Unfortunately, it’s entirely too easy to imagine him in the position of someone’s lover, and goddess knows the Bonded are casual about sex.
I swallow, trying not to blush.
Stark’s arms come up and close around Noemi, and it looks almost protective. Then his eyes meet mine over her shoulder.
I lean an elbow on the table and mouth, Valstark?
He scowls at me in response, pulling away from her gently. He tucks one of those long, gorgeous, shimmering locks of hair behind her ear. It’s intimate enough that I look away, feeling like an intruder.
Yeah, they’re probably lovers. People this beautiful belong together.
I can control my facial muscles, but I’ve failed at controlling my blood. My cheeks are hot.
“Hi, Mimi,” Stark tells her, his voice a low and rasping rumble. There’s genuine affection there, the sort I think I’ve only ever sensed from him when he’s with Cratos. “I’ve missed you.”
So. That’s quaint. They have pet names for each other.
I really don’t understand why this is bothering me so much. It’s Stark. We’re nothing to each other beyond protector and queen.
Does it have something to do with the mate bond? Perhaps Anassa and Cratos’s connection will always mean it’s uncomfortable to see Stark with another woman, to think of him as intimate with someone.
Anassa must have heard me think her name, because her presence lights up in my mind. “No,” she says with amusement. “I told you; I am fully shielding you from my love toward Cratos. This petty jealousy is all of your own making.”
It’s hard not to scowl. “Who is she?”
And Anassa, the bitch, just replies, “Someone important to him.”
“Choke on an elk bone.”
Stark folds his huge body—I swear the jacket’s seams almost burst when he pulls his seat out—into the chair beside Noemi’s. Immediately, Noemi leans closer to him, her graceful arms draped over the armrest. He leans in, too.
As servants bring out the first course, their heads remain bent together in quiet conversation I can’t quite hear.
I ignore the strange lump in my throat and focus on chatting with Nevah and Izabel instead.
Jealousy, Anassa said. As irrational as it is, I think she might be right.
But it’s so… stupid. I only just escaped a disastrous relationship. I don’t have room to think of other men. The last damn thing I need is to develop something for a person whose wolf just happens to be mated to mine.
Someone who I don’t even like.
Besides, I don’t think I’d ever trust that my feelings were truly my own and not just my mind accommodating the entanglement of our wolves.
Bonds getting knotted up and manipulating me the same way…
Just, not again.
I’ve almost tricked myself into believing this, and then Noemi touches Stark’s arm. She says something quietly, and he smiles.
Oh, fuck, he smiles. It’s a real smile. A face-splitting, sun-coming-out, unreserved smile that makes him look younger. I’ve never seen him smile like that. I didn’t know he could smile like that.
Siegrid clears her throat pointedly, and the smile slips from Stark’s face as he looks toward his mother.
“We have much to discuss, so forgive me for jumping directly to serious matters,” Siegrid says. “I have been discussing the Killian Valtiere situation with my Alphas.”
I bristle. I am one of the Alphas. And I’m the queen. So why was I not involved in the conversation?
Does she not trust my judgment when it comes to him?
Siegrid continues, “It has been decided that Phylax Alpha Tormun will be tasked with leading a specialized hunting party to track down the former prince and eradicate him. They will head out as soon as possible.”
I have so many questions.
“We’ve already received intelligence suggesting that Killian is establishing a base in a western fiefdom. We have yet to—”
“If you’re going after him, I’m coming with,” I interject, the words coming out of my mouth before I can think too hard about them.
He’s mine. Mine to hunt. Mine to kill. I won’t let anyone take that from me.
Siegrid takes a casual sip of her emberwine. “Absolutely not.”
“With all due respect,” I say, “Killian is unlike any threat you’ve faced before.
He has access to my magic. You’ve experienced for yourself that he can access our pack communications.
Alistair Brightbane, an ancient and unknowably powerful Siphon, is inhabiting his body.
And, as you know, this is personal for me.
I need to do this myself. Moreover, you need me—I’m the only one whose powers might match his own. ”
“With all due respect,” Siegrid throws back at me, “Your Highness, we are dealing with a single Siphon, not an army. I have been fighting Siphons since before you were born, and you have been a queen for less than a week. You have not even been Bonded for half a year.”
“You are underestimating him, and it’s a mistake,” I shoot back.
“You are wrong, as you know very little about war,” she seethes. “And at this moment in time, you have one job and one job alone—attending your own coronation and officially being named queen of Nocturna. If you fail at something as simple as that, you do not deserve the title.”
Her words hit me like a slap and leave me stinging.
The entire table is silent as we glare at each other.
“Your Highness,” Alpha Tormun says with significantly less condescension, finally breaking the standstill. “I’ll get the job done.” His smile is warm as he lifts his massive, tattooed arms and flexes above the table. “I’ve killed more Siphons than nearly any Bonded warrior in history.”
Stark lets out a small scoff, and I get the sense this is an accolade he and Tormun argue over.
Tormun seems kind, but he’s backing Siegrid. Dismissing my concerns. Dismissing me.
The shadows around the room start to stir, and I watch Siegrid notice it in her periphery. Her lips thin.
The only thing I’ve ever been good at is taking action. Being left behind is wretched.
Is this how it’s going to be from now on? Am I to become a figurehead? Sequestered away in the palace, taking direction from my Sovereign Alpha?
“There is a time and a place for you to be involved,” Siegrid says, her voice gentler, trying to coax me into a calmer place. I know what she’s doing; she wants to avoid an uncontrollable explosion of my power. “But it cannot happen until after you’re crowned.”
Taking a deep breath, I tap into some of those Strategos instincts. Use my ability to think instead of my ability to react.
I don’t want to give in so easily. He’s mine. I won’t rest easy until I know how red his blood can run.
But I’m their queen. I don’t have to accept this without concessions.
“Very well.” I keep my spine straight and my head high. “I defer to your expertise, Sovereign Alpha. However, I know Killian and his abilities the best out of everyone, so I will brief Alpha Tormun before he departs. And I would like him brought here so I can execute him myself.”
Siegrid accepts with a slight nod of approval.
Compromise. What a beautiful thing.
“Moving on,” Siegrid says firmly. “Preparations will begin immediately for your impending coronation. I propose it takes place in three weeks’ time.”
I try not to drop my fork in surprise. That seems awfully fast, although I’m sure the sooner we lay claim, the better. “Three weeks? Can we… do that?”
Siegrid straightens, as if offended that I would question her ability to do anything. “Obviously.”
“Okay, then. Let’s get coronating!” My joking tone falls flat with this crowd. I clear my throat and then gesture to Izabel, who lives for this shit. “I’d like Izabel to be involved with the planning.”
Her grin spreads ear to ear, and I instantly wonder if I’ll regret this choice. “Yes, please. Put me to work, Sovereign Alpha!”
Siegrid shrugs. “Fine.” Her eyes slide over to Venna. “You too?”
Venna’s mouth turns down, and she narrows her eyes. “I’ll pass.”
“Venna is busy with other tasks,” I add. Like finding out how to get this stupid fucking shackle off my wrist so my magic is no longer manipulated.
“The Mother Priestess from the Sect of the Faceless Goddess has traveled with us here to Sturmfrost,” Siegrid continues.
“You will need to meet with her once or twice before the ceremony to prepare. She’s staying with the order in the commoner side of the city, but she’ll come to the castle for your meetings. ”
I nod. “Anything else we need to prepare for?”
“The nobles. The coronation cannot happen without the majority of them in attendance. After all, if no one attends the ceremony, is it even legitimate? As mentioned, Noemi will travel to the seven fiefdoms over the next three weeks and secure noble attendance. Since she is one of them herself, the nobles should accept her overtures.”
Noemi smiles at this, blushing prettily. Everything she does is pretty. Stark’s barely taken his eyes off her since he sat down, so he’s surely aware.
And that ugly seed of jealousy is back again, coupled with a spiteful voice that says, Good, get the fuck out of my city. Am I jealous of his relationship with her or just… her? Her looks and her grace and her effortlessness?
I might be wearing the crown, but she looks more the part.
“Stark will accompany Noemi on this diplomatic mission,” Siegrid continues.
And my stomach drops to the floor.
Well, that answers that question at least. I am most definitely jealous of their relationship. The idea of the two of them out on the road together, sleeping under the stars…
Stark’s head snaps up toward his mother, his glower burning enough to singe. “I was not made aware of this.”
Siegrid shrugs. “It’s been decided,” she says coolly. “You’re a necessary component of this strategy.”
The two of them stare each other down so viciously that I start to grow uncomfortable. Surely this is worse than Siegrid’s and my glaring match. I know the Sovereign Alpha is also his superior, but is this seriously what his relationship is like with his mother?
The frost between them bites as hard as the worst of winter.
Eventually, Siegrid shifts her attention away from him and back to me, as if deciding that his opinions about this don’t matter.
“Stark’s reputation makes him particularly persuasive in these matters. Certain nobles may hesitate to pledge allegiance to a new queen, but none would dare refuse the Daemos Alpha’s… invitation.”
I glance over to him, only to discover that Noemi’s put her hand on his arm and is stroking it lightly, as if trying to calm him down. It seems to be working; he’s settled back in his seat, brutally stabbing at the meat on his plate but no longer murdering his mother with his eyes.
“If he can be spared here,” I say, “then—”
“He can,” Siegrid interrupts, her tone brooking no room for argument. “As I said, it’s been decided.”
I spend the rest of the dinner living with the unsettling feeling that despite being queen, I am very much not in charge of anything.
After the meal ends, I find Anassa in my chambers, curled up in front of Saela’s door. “Has she fed again?” I ask her quietly.
“No need yet,” Anassa replies.
I open the door silently and duck my head inside. The room is dark. Saela is fast asleep, curled on her side in a tiny ball as she used to do when she was a smaller child.
Asleep, she looks almost herself—a normal girl of eleven without the weight of unimaginable trauma on her shoulders.
I kneel beside her bed and slowly brush a strand of hair from her face, careful not to wake her. When she opens her eyes, the weight will fall on her again. I know that. But for now, her face is relaxed and her expression peaceful.
Hopefully, that peaceful expression means she’s not trapped in some shadow realm with Killian while she sleeps, or otherwise being manipulated by her Siphon sire.
I sigh and settle my chin on the edge of the mattress. I watch her slowly breathe. When Saela’s fingers twitch in her sleep, I fight not to cry.
A soft knock on the external door has me sitting up. “Anassa?”
She responds without words; she left for the woods again and can’t tell me who’s at my door. I look back to Saela for another long moment, soaking in the quiet, then I stand, leaving Saela’s room and locking her in.
The knock comes again moments before I answer it.
And when I pull it open, Valstark is standing there.
He’s still wearing his formal wear, except it looks like some of his wildness is starting to tear free from it.
His jacket is unbuttoned, as are the top buttons of his shirt, revealing more runic ink.
His cuffs are undone. His once neatly arranged hair looks like he’s dragged his fingers through it a few times now.
Or maybe Noemi did, says that wretched jealous voice.
Before I can question why my heart is beating so loud or if he can hear it, Stark lifts his hand to show me the tattoo pen he’s carrying.
“You need your marks for the Bonded you killed in the arena,” he says plainly.
His words hit me like a splash of cold water in the face. Fuck.
It’s not that I’ve forgotten what I did.
How I entirely lost control in front of everyone, how I effortlessly killed so many of the Bonded who had just graduated the Trials. But between Saela, the Sovereign Alpha’s arrival, and my nightmares, it’s been easy to ignore my own vicious, ruinous mistakes.
I took those lives, and it’s my job to remember them.
I step aside. Stark doesn’t look at me as he enters my chambers. I listen to the gentle tap of the ink bottle as he sets it down on the low table next to the chaise. My chambers are still dark. Quiet.
And the two of us are excruciatingly alone.