Chapter 13
Fern
Kyntha’s speech and Jules’s quick “correction” by Darion had officially labeled Fern not as just the Ashpaw, but a provocateur. Someone who toyed with men’s affections for her own benefit.
A tail-tease, they called her. A term that would almost sound sweet if it were not meant to degrade her further.
Fern had never purposefully batted her eyelashes or swished her hips to garner any kind of favor. She’d been known to engage in a little light banter when she’d been allowed to speak, but that had always been in response to someone.
She supposed it was better this way, for at least now there was absolutely no one to draw attention to her.
It was safer.
Sweeping up one night to the dying light of the fireplace, Fern found an end to a carrot someone had bitten off and discarded.
She considered tossing it for a moment, and then remembered her new friend, Anwen.
Anwen had shown up a few nights ago. Fern had just laid her dress, damp from spot-washing, over herself like a blanket when she spotted her coming in.
She was shy at first, much like Fern, but after a while they began to speak of their mutual interests, such as the state of the crumbs in the kitchen—horrible, hardly worth scrounging for, although occasionally one would find a bit of crust from a pie that wasn’t too burnt or dirty.
Or the end to a carrot.
She pocketed the little stub, and once she was finished, headed back downstairs alone.
Finished with her washing, she settled in her corner, took out the carrot top, and placed it a few feet away from her, waiting for Anwen to arrive.
It didn’t take long these days.
“Good evening, madam,” Fern said, watching her scurry along the uneven stone towards her. “I saw there was a heavy downpour this afternoon. You didn’t get caught in it, did you? Or does most of your work keep you in the castle as well?”
What she wouldn’t give to breathe fresh air again. To feel the sun on her face. The breeze in her hair.
And anything against her skin that was not rough linen and dried sweat.
Anwen sniffed cautiously at the carrot, then took it in her paws, whiskers twitching as she began to chew.
Slowly, she extended her fingers, but Anwen stuffed the gift in her mouth and ran off before she got too close.
“It’s okay,” she whispered after her in the dark, wiping a tear off her cheek. “We’ll try again next time.”
* * *
Sometime during the week, she’d woken with a blanket over her. It was old, threadbare and with holes so pronounced it wouldn’t even be good enough for the horses, but it was a blanket.
Fern didn’t want to guess who had left it for her, because she didn’t want the person to get in trouble, even if the name was kept only to her thoughts.
She also feared leaving it in the servants’ quarters unattended. The woman who’d led the attack against her, Mauricia, had given her a wide berth for a while after the grievance. Fern hoped that being so close to becoming the next Ashpaw herself had been enough to set her straight.
But then Kyntha had decided to call upon Mauricia as an attendant, and her newfound status emboldened her to lash out further.
Fern was regularly smashed into walls, tripped down stairs, and had all manner of drink and food spilled on her from behind, unable to dodge or guard herself.
So she wrapped the blanket under her skirt to keep it safe.
Fern wanted to assume this assignment was all a coincidence, that it couldn’t possibly be some sort of reward for what she’d done. But she’d long since learned she wasn’t allowed to want anything.
It was late into the night, when everyone should have been asleep. Fern had nearly made it to her corner unnoticed before she spotted a few women still awake, giggling among themselves.
The only one she knew by name was Rosen, the others merely faces she recognized.
“Mauricia is so lucky! She gets to eat the same food as Lady Kyntha, and she spends much more time with the Lurvekh than we do. They’ll be petitioning her before the next full moon, I just know it.”
Fern rubbed at her chest, looking inward towards the hollow where her wolf used to be.
She stirred every once in a while. Proof of life.
But Fern had a feeling nothing would convince her it was safe to come out again, which put her in a double bind—forced into estrangement because she could not shift, and yet with each day of her punishment, her wolf drifted farther and farther away.
“Rosen, what’s it like being petitioned? Are the Lurvekh homes grand? Do you—”
“I am a Lurvekh. I was mated, not petitioned.”
The woman waved her off. “Aye, but… really, it must be better than here. Anything is better than this.”
Fern snorted.
“Oh, I can think of something worse,” Rosen replied, the other two continuing their blathering.
“And Mauricia says Lady Kyntha is so kind and intelligent. I mean, you heard her at the grievance. She knew exactly what games the Ashpaw was playing, and was able to help the alphas see her tricks clearly.”
“So clever of her to figure it out! I really do not know what the Lurvekh could possibly have seen in her.”
“Well,” Rosen began slowly. “I suppose the reason why Lady Kyntha would recognize such tricks would be if she’d been taught them herself. I’ve known Alpha Darion a long time, and I’ve never seen him so gentle as he is with her. That kind of cleverness is never spent in only one direction.”
The conversation quieted for a moment, and a small squeak stole Fern’s attention. Anwen was making her way along the edge of the wall, and Fern quickly dug out the green bean shell she’d found in the kitchen when no one was looking.
She held it out, pinched between her fingers, so still she didn’t breathe.
Anwen’s nose and whiskers twitched as she weighed the danger.
A few tiny steps closer.
“If Mauricia is properly petitioned,” one of them continued, undeterred by Rosen’s observation, “then Lady Kyntha may have need for a new attendant. I think I’ll ask her to recommend me, if such a thing is allowed.”
“Not if I ask her first!”
They giggled until someone moaned, begging them to be quiet, and the laughter rolled back out like fog at the break of day.
Anwen took the shell right out of her hand.
“I think I’ll stay as far away from Lady Kyntha as possible, thank you,” Rosen whispered, lying down on the cot that used to be Fern’s, pulling up the blanket Marin had given her on her first day only a few short weeks ago. “Cunning wolfkin rarely do anything out of the goodness of their hearts.”
* * *
“What stinks in here? Did someone spill a chamber pot?”
Fern looked down, keeping as close to the wall of the winding stairwell as possible.
Someone still managed to ram into her with their shoulders, and her teeth clenched shut as she breathed through the pain.
Her bruises had turned from purple to a yellowish-green, her eye less swollen, but she still ached.
And couldn’t even blame it all on the attack—sleeping on the floor every night was slowly becoming worse.
She didn’t know how long Rosen had been the Ashpaw before her, and wanted to ask her if she ever got used to the pain.
But perhaps the types of physical hardships humans suffered through were of little consequence to Lurvekh.
Alphas are a little sturdier than Solvekh she-wolves, I assure you.
Her mind drifted to Eidan as she climbed. He still hadn’t returned from whatever business had required his attention away from Sabletail Castle, and she realized she’d never even thought to ask him what he had to do.
Not that she had any right to know.
But what if it was dangerous? What if had to do with that other clan, the Bloodmoons?
After hearing the alphas discuss them in the Council Chamber, Fern couldn’t help but pick up other bits and pieces from the Lurvekh while she worked.
Talks of scouting, training, small skirmishes and raids along borders…
All while Fern swept in the corners.
One afternoon, after everyone had left and the Solvekh had gone to the kitchen for their own meal, Fern took a moment to look out one of the tall, thin windows.
The rain had finally stopped, and with Midsummer approaching, she could practically see the humidity in the air, a heavy haze that caused the wolfkin to sweat as they worked.
Several hadn’t bothered with tunics anymore, taking them off and working half bare. Fern swallowed as she watched, their arms thick and chests broad and dusted with hair. Her fingers twitched at her side, and her mouth watered.
Bodies, made for fighting, for protecting, for…
Heat unfurled like a blossom in the sun low in her stomach, a strange dampness growing between her legs.
Was this what the lack of touch could truly turn her into?
It was pathetic. Almost as pathetic as the soft whine that escaped through her lips.
She ignored the footsteps in the room, until they paused.
“Is that delicious scent coming from you?”
Fern whipped around, gripping her broomstick in her slick palms.
A wolfkin had entered, his skin glistening and tinged pink from exertion and sun. His pupils dilated and he sniffed the air around them, his hand slowly grabbing the crotch of his pants.
“Why… how are you smelling like that?”
The dampness between her legs grew slicker, and it was almost like the wolfkin could tell, fighting with himself to get closer but knowing he couldn’t.
“It’s not fair, Ashpaw,” he growled.
“I’m not doing this on purpose,” she said, surprised she found the will to speak.
He tilted his head, eyes narrowing. “A fucking tail-tease, aren’t you?”
Fern shook her head. She didn’t want to tease anybody. Because if anything, based on the way the slightest bit of friction against her nipples and down below was like lightning shooting through her veins, she wanted very much to see things through with the next wolfkin who approached her.
She’d let them do whatever they wanted to her.
He took a small step towards her, then snarled and stopped.
Her heart pounded. If she met him in the middle, would he—
A Solvekh entered with her arms full of linens, and the wolfkin moved instantly, lunging with terrifying speed.
He slammed her chest-first onto the table and yanked up her skirts, untying the laces of his pants with one hand while the other held her still.
He ordered her to stop screaming as he mounted her.
Fern couldn’t watch this. She ran as fast as her injuries would allow her, past the kitchen, down the stairs, and through the sleeping quarters until she reached the bathing room.
Stripping off her dress and blanket, she jumped straight in, shock from the sudden cold paralyzing her for just a moment.
When she surfaced, she found the closest bar of soap, heat coming off her skin in curling ribbons of steam as she washed her neck, under her arms, between her legs…
anywhere that might produce a strong smell.
Once she was clean as she could reasonably get, she took a moment to let the water extinguish whatever still burned inside her.
She couldn’t let herself stare at the men like that again, her connection-deprived mind seeing possible fathers to future children in every cock-wielding wolfkin who passed.
It didn’t help that many of them were, admittedly, very handsome. Built large with arms meant for holding you…
No, no! she scolded herself. She couldn’t be the tail-tease Kyntha had accused her of. Couldn’t give the woman more reason to convince Darion she should remain the Ashpaw.
Once the water had dragged her back from the brink of lust-addled insanity, she climbed out of the pool and took a look at her dress. She picked it up, bringing the collar to her nose, and instantly gasped.
Her scent was strong. Stronger than even the alphas combined when she’d served them in the Council Chambers.
And it was different, too, from the other wolfkin. Sweet, floral… like honey made from lavender.
The discovery should have brought some clarity to her situation, but instead it only sent her further into worry. If this was how she naturally responded to loneliness, how could she hope to suppress it enough to earn Darion’s trust that she had learned her lesson to not seek comfort?
She cleaned the dress next, not caring if it would still be damp when she wore it. It had to be done, for her own safety.
The job was soon finished and she put it back on, glad the scent had been muted enough that she could keep up her work undetected for the evening.
When she left the bathing room, Rosen stood still as a statue near the fireplace, a frying pan in her hands.
Marin and a few of the other women were behind her.
“Steady now…”
Rosen moved just as quickly as the wolfkin upstairs, bringing the frying pan down hard, a thick, sickening squish and crunch drowned by cheers.
“Knew we needed a Lurvekh for this,” one of the women sighed. “Thanks, that thing’s been hanging around for days, getting much too bold for my liking.”
Fern couldn’t keep herself from looking, knowing exactly what she would find when Rosen lifted the frying pan.
Her stomach twisted again, this time in nausea and grief, and she blinked hard, holding back the tears as the mess of blood, guts, and gray fur revealed itself on the stone floor.
Marin snapped her fingers. “Ashpaw!”
Fern flinched.
“Take care of the mess.”