Chapter Twenty The Pack That Fights Back #2
Wounded shoulder newly wrapped. Hair loose. Face shadowed by firelight.
The mark between them was quiet.
Waiting.
“You are angry,” Willa said.
“Yes.”
“Still?”
“More quietly.”
Her mouth almost moved.
His lines were improving.
“About my arm.”
“Yes.”
“About the blood.”
His jaw flexed.
“You tore open a wound Riksa had just closed while Rauk watched.”
“Yes.”
“Because you needed my attention.”
“Because I needed your choice.”
His eyes flashed.
“You had it.”
“Not yet.”
The words landed badly.
She saw it.
Felt it.
Torren leaned forward, elbows on knees, hands clasped so tightly the knuckles whitened.
“You think I would have killed him.”
“I think you were close.”
“I was.”
Honesty.
Immediate.
Hard.
Willa breathed through the ache in her chest that was not ribs.
“Then I was right.”
“No.”
Her eyes sharpened.
His did too.
“You were right that I needed to choose,” he said. “You were wrong that your blood had to be the blade that cut me toward it.”
Willa went still.
The fire snapped.
“That is not fair.”
“Yes.”
“Torren—”
“You used what Rauk wanted.”
The words struck deep because they were true.
She hated them.
“Against him.”
“Against yourself.”
“To stop him making you—”
“No.”
His voice cracked hard enough that she stopped.
Torren stood.
Not pacing.
Too much wolf in him for pacing. He crossed to the hearth, turned, came back halfway, stopped as if the room itself had become a boundary he was trying not to cross wrong.
“He wanted your blood to prove debt. You opened your wound and gave the pass the scent of it.”
“I said mine.”
“Yes.”
“That mattered.”
“Yes.”
“Then—”
“Both,” he said.
She stopped.
His chest rose and fell.
“It mattered. It worked. It was yours. And I am angry.”
The mark pulsed.
Not against her.
With the shape of him refusing to make the truth simpler so he could hold it more easily.
Damn him.
She had just admired that in public.
It was less pleasant aimed at her.
Willa looked down at her bandaged arm.
Riksa’s wrapping was clean. Tight. Pain pulsed beneath it in heavy waves.
“I was afraid,” she said.
Torren’s face changed.
“Of Rauk?”
“Of you being taken.”
His brow tightened.
“Taken?”
“Not carried. Not dragged. Named.”
He went still.
“Oh.”
“Rauk kept saying Little Pike. Debt. Blood. Gate. He wanted you inside his words. I could feel the mark, Torren. I could feel how close the old memory was. Not because you are weak. Because he knew where to cut.”
Torren looked away.
Only for a breath.
“Yes.”
“And I could not reach you.”
His eyes came back.
“You did.”
“With blood.”
The sentence sat between them.
True.
Awful.
His shoulders lowered slightly.
“Yes.”
Willa’s throat tightened.
“I am not proud of that part.”
“I am.”
She looked up sharply.
Torren’s face was pained, fierce, impossible.
“I am proud of you for naming your blood yours. For not letting Rauk make it debt. For choosing even in pain.” His jaw tightened. “And I am furious you bled more to do it.”
Her eyes burned.
“Both.”
“Both.”
He came closer, slowly, and sat on the floor beside her pallet rather than on the bench.
Lower.
Not looming.
Not because she had asked.
Because he knew.
Willa reached out her good hand.
He took it.
“When you nearly went for him,” she said, “I was angry too.”
Torren looked at their hands.
“I know.”
“Because I thought, after everything, he still found the throat in you.”
His eyes closed.
“He did.”
“No.”
He opened them.
“He found where it was,” Willa said. “You chose where to bite.”
Torren’s hand tightened.
The mark warmed, deep and painful.
“I wanted to kill him.”
“I know.”
“Still do.”
“I know.”
“He is alive because I need him.”
“And because you chose witness.”
“And because you bled.”
She flinched.
He saw.
“I am sorry.”
“No. You are not wrong.”
“I do not want my exactness to depend on your wound.”
There.
The heart of it.
Willa’s breath caught.
Torren’s voice roughened.
“I cannot let that become true.”
She nodded slowly.
“Then we do not.”
“How?”
“Next time, I throw something less bodily.”
His mouth almost moved.
“That is not enough.”
“No.”
She looked at the fire.
Thought of Rauk’s smile, the gatepost, her blood welling fresh, Torren’s wolf turning.
“We need more than the mark when one of us is too deep in something old.”
“Yes.”
“Not rules.”
“No.”
“People.”
His brow tightened.
“People?”
“Hessa. Noll. Riksa. Orla if she is there. Voices that are not mine. Not because I am not enough. Because I should not have to be the only road back.”
Torren went very quiet.
This was close to old ground.
Not leash.
Not chain.
Not proof he was safe.
He understood.
The mark said he understood before his mouth did.
“Yes,” he said.
Willa exhaled.
“And you.”
His eyes lifted.
“Me?”
“For me. When I am about to turn my body into a point because I am afraid someone else is writing me. You cannot decide for me, but you can stand near enough to make me hear myself.”
His face changed.
“I can do that.”
“You already do sometimes.”
“Not always fast enough.”
“We are practicing.”
He huffed softly.
Not quite laugh.
Close.
“I hate practice.”
“You mentioned.”
For a moment, the fight loosened.
Not vanished.
Loosened enough to breathe around.
Torren lifted her hand and pressed his mouth to her knuckles.
“Do not bleed for my choice again.”
Willa swallowed.
“Do not make me think I have to.”
His eyes met hers.
Hard.
Hurt.
True.
“Done.”
“Done.”
The mark pulsed.
Not magic sealing a vow.
Better.
Two people meaning something while knowing meaning was only the first part.
Willa leaned back, exhausted.
Torren shifted closer.
“May I?”
“Yes.”
He lay carefully beside her on the pallet, wounded shoulder away, one arm curved around the space near her without trapping her in it. She turned as much as her ribs allowed and rested her forehead against his chest.
His heartbeat was steady.
Mostly.
Hers found it.
For a while, neither spoke.
The hall beyond the closed door murmured with pack life: someone carrying water, Bram asking too many questions, Hessa’s low voice, Jory laughing and being told to stop, Noll answering something in monosyllables.
Home.
Not safe exactly.
Safer because everyone inside knew danger had names now.
“Your father,” Willa said softly.
Torren’s breath shifted.
“Yes.”
“How do you feel?”
His hand moved over her hair once.
“Too much.”
“Useful bad or spiraling bad?”
“Both.”
She smiled against his chest.
“Efficient.”
“You said that before.”
“Still true.”
He was quiet.
Then, “He failed.”
“Yes.”
“He paid Redjaw.”
“Yes.”
“He tried to save them.”
“Yes.”
Torren’s throat moved.
“I hated him for one night.”
Willa closed her eyes.
“Which night?”
“Last night. Before the chest.”
Ah.
The ugly truth.
Trusted.
“Do you still?”
“Some.”
Honest.
Good.
“Do you love him?”
Torren’s breath caught once.
Long enough that she wished she had not asked.
Then his hand tightened lightly in her hair.
“Some.”
Willa nodded against him.
“Both.”
“Both.”
He exhaled slowly.
“He is not what Rauk said.”
“No.”
“He is not what I needed either.”
“No.”
That one hurt him.
She felt it.
He let it stay.
Good.
“Hessa thinks she should have saved the truth sooner,” he said.
“Yes.”
“She did save you.”
“Yes.”
“Not the same thing.”
“No.”
He was quiet for a long time.
“I need to tell her that.”
“Later?”
“Soon.”
“Good.”
His hand drifted down to the back of her neck, careful, warm.
“Rauk is alive.”
“Yes.”
“Redjaw is not finished.”
“No.”
“Varric is not finished.”
“Definitely not.”
“Frostmere will try to close around its copy.”
“Yes.”
“Marek and Selka…”
“Are a mess.”
His chest moved with something like a laugh.
“Yes.”
“But a more witnessed mess.”
“Good.”
Willa lifted her head enough to look at him.
“And Pike Hollow?”
His eyes met hers.
Firelight made the gold in them visible.
“Pike Hollow fights back.”
There it was.
Not by proving innocence.
Not by hiding ferality.
Not by asking the north to love them.
By carrying truth correctly.
By guarding witnesses.
By breaking traps alive.
By letting old grief speak without letting it rule every throat.
Willa smiled, small and tired.
He looked suspicious.
“Fever?” he asked.
“Maybe.”
“Riksa.”
“Do not call her yet.”
“Willa.”
“Five minutes.”
He studied her.
The mark warmed with reluctant agreement.
“Five.”
“Good wolf.”
His eyes narrowed.
“Bram is a bad influence.”
“Yes.”
Willa tucked her face back against his chest.
She did not sleep immediately.
She listened to the pack beyond the door.
She listened to Torren’s heart.
She listened to the mark holding steady after blood, rage, grief, and truth.
Eventually, the door creaked.
“Five minutes,” Torren said without lifting his head.
Riksa’s voice answered, “I count faster than lovers.”
Willa groaned.
Torren’s arm tightened slightly, then released enough for Riksa to approach.
“Fever,” Riksa said after touching Willa’s brow.
“Body angry?” Willa asked.
“Body furious. Not invaded yet.”
“Good.”
“Do not sound proud. You are not leading an uprising inside your own arm.”
Torren helped Willa sit while Riksa made her drink something bitter and checked the wound again. This time, Torren did not argue, hover, or crack furniture.
He held the cup when Willa’s hand shook.
Riksa noticed.