Chapter 10 - Layla
She had never been to the cellars beneath the Sawmill. The space was used only for the most important, or most intimate, of the pack’s rituals.
Julian, silent as a ghost, had taken her to a small chamber to prepare. There, she had found a white robe waiting for her.
Nothing else.
Methodically, she dressed, refusing to let herself fall into the pit of dread at what was to come. She didn’t know if she’d be able to come back from it if she did.
An hour later, Julian came for her again.
This time, he led her silently through the old catacombs, sconces throwing their shadows in juddering casts across the ancient stone. She felt as if he were a wraith, her very own grim reaper sent to deliver her to her grave.
It was perhaps a touch melodramatic, but then again, she was wrapped in white silk, being led deeper underground through dark stone tunnels.
And the devil was waiting for her.
She hesitated at the entrance, hiding in a shadow. Julian looked back once, a small crease between his brows.
“I…” she whispered, hands trembling, “I don’t…”
“A piece of advice,” Julian murmured, turning to face her, “if you choose to run, I won’t stop you now. But Dominic will send me after you. And you will not be able to hide from me.”
She swallowed, meeting his gaze. The words should have scared her, but he spoke them so simply, so neutrally. He might as well have been commenting on the weather.
“You underestimate me,” she said in a rare show of boldness.
His eyebrow twitched, the ghost of a smile passing across his strange, serious face. “I have no doubt you are underestimated. But not by me.” His voice dropped low, heavy with meaning.
Her stomach clenched. Could he…could he be talking about her magic? Did he know about it?
No. It was impossible. He would have said something. Told Dominic.
She let her gaze drop. “Let’s just get this over with.”
Julian nodded once and stepped aside. Layla sucked in a breath and moved past him.
Dominic was already waiting within the ring.
The candlelight gilded the hard planes of his face, catching in the silver of his eyes, and for a dizzy moment she thought he looked less like a man than a demon given flesh.
He didn’t move as the old priest of Lunarion shuffled around the circle, murmuring under his breath.
“You may enter,” the priest said.
Layla stepped forward, the cold stone biting into the bare soles of her feet.
She could feel Dominic. His heat, his presence, the steady hum of power that clung to him like smoke. The air thickened.
“Hands,” said the priest.
Layla hesitated, then lifted hers. Dominic met her halfway, his palms rough, warm. The contact was electric, a sudden rush of something that stole her balance, a warmth that traveled up her arms and into her chest, sinking deep into her very being.
The priest began to speak in the old language, a rough mix of old Norse and Latin. Each syllable vibrated through her.
Dominic’s hand was a warm weight in hers. She thought she could feel every flutter of his pulse, every strong beat of his heart. She didn’t know if the sound she could hear was the roar of blood rushing in her ears or the howling of his wolf within him.
His hand flexed against hers, hot and strong. Unbidden, her nipples tightened, her thighs trembled. She told herself it was the cold, the fear.
But when she dared look up, dared to meet his fathomless ice-blue gaze, she knew it was something more. Something deeper.
“Repeat,” the priest murmured, and her eyes snapped back to his wizened form.
Swallowing, she scrambled for the words. Dominic’s face was carefully neutral, giving nothing away. But there…a jump in his throat. A tightness at his jaw. The hand not holding hers was gripped into a fist.
He was so strong. So overwhelming. A storm she didn’t know whether she’d be able to withstand. She’d fallen into the tempest of Dominic Volkhov once before, been churned up and spat right back out again. She’d vowed to herself never again.
And yet here she was.
She nearly choked on the words as spoke.
“I see you.”
Dominic’s reply was lower, the sound catching somewhere deep in his chest, “I see you.”
It felt like a reckoning.
The priest drew a knife from his belt. The blade caught the candlelight, sparking molten gold.
Layla’s pulse tripped. Dominic didn’t look at her; he simply offered his hand.
The priest cut first, a clean, practiced motion.
A thin bead of red welled in his palm. When the knife turned to her, she lifted her hand without thinking.
The sting was quick and bright, and she hissed as her skin split.
Dominic’s scent spiked.
She chose not to read into it.
“Together,” the priest said.
Their palms met.
The warmth between them became heat, immediate and consuming. Her breath hitched, her body instinctively leaning toward his even as she tried to fight it. The moment their blood mingled, the mating bond awoke, alive, wild, impatient.
Her knees nearly gave out. Dominic’s grip tightened reflexively, steadying her. Their mingled blood dripped to the floor.
The priest’s voice deepened, “Under Lunarion’s gaze, you will be mated. Bound and kept. Protected and strengthened.”
The light climbed higher, coiling around their arms. It wasn’t pain that made her gasp; it was too much feeling. Every nerve hummed, every breath a tremor. Her vision was turning blurry, her heart racing in her chest. She was building towards something, something bright and unnamed.
“Do you consent?” the priest asked, his voice muted and faraway.
Layla opened her mouth, but no sound came. The pull was a living thing, drawing her toward Dominic, toward the heat and the heartbeat and the impossible safety of it. She wanted to step forward, to surrender. She wanted to run.
He looked at her then, really looked, and what she saw in his eyes was not arrogance or anger. It was restraint, iron-willed. If you don’t want this, that look said I will stop.
The choice steadied her.
“I consent,” she whispered.
The priest spoke a prayer.
It poured down around them like a veil, cold fire licking across their skin. She felt the binding take hold, threads sinking into her blood, winding through her heart, finding the pulse that matched his.
She could feel him now. Not thoughts, not words, but sensations, the rough cadence of his breathing, the ache in his chest, the shock of his control slipping for one fractured second. It filled her until she couldn’t tell where she ended and he began.
Dominic made a small, strangled sound and gripped her hand tighter. The magic pulsed once, twice, then sank deep, leaving only a whisper in the air and the scent of burnt pine.
Silence.
The priest stepped back, voice gentler now. “By Lunarion’s light, you are mated.”
The ethereal haziness faded, leaving only the darkened room.
Layla swayed, light-headed. The air was thick with the aftermath, cloying and sweet. She realized her palms were still pressed to Dominic’s, her skin tacky with their mingled blood. When she tried to pull away, his fingers tightened fractionally before he let her go.
The separation felt like the sharp spray of salt breeze.
Dominic’s breath was unsteady now. He reached out his hand for a brief second towards her before letting it drop down in a clenched fist.
“You’re shaking,” he said softly, not meeting her eyes.
“It’s the magic,” she managed. “It’s still inside me.”
His eyes flicked to her hand, where her palm throbbed. “It’s inside us both.”
Their gazes caught and held. The air between them was charged, fragile.
For a long moment, neither spoke. The priest turned away, murmuring a final benediction to God, giving them the mercy of privacy.
Layla broke the silence first, her voice barely a whisper. “What happens now?”
He looked away, jaw working, something like fury sparking across his features. She didn’t think it was aimed at her. “Normally we would…consummate.”
“Oh,” she whispered, hands pressing into her stomach.
Sometimes, late at night, all alone in her bed, she thought she could still feel him inside her, thick and hot and all-consuming. She couldn’t imagine feeling that with anybody else.
She wanted it.
Cautiously, she stepped forward, her legs moving without her fully realizing it. Dominic’s attention snapped to her, his predator eyes watching her move, calculating and untrusting.
He was close now, close enough to touch.
Her heart skipped a beat.
“What are you doing?” he said, his voice rough.
“I…” she whispered, stepping closer again, “I don’t know…”
He blinked. Then moved, the motion so fast she didn’t have time to process it. One second, she was standing, hovering in front of him, leaning over the metaphorical cliff, and the next she was in his arms, crushed against his hard chest, his lips a hair’s breadth from her own.
She couldn’t help but gasp. His fingers dug into the soft flesh of her hips. She’d always hated how big her hips were. How big all of her was compared to the slim, athletic girls in the pack.
But Dominic…Dominic held her like she was the last cup of water in a desert. Hot and desperate and wild.
Their breaths mingled, panting and damp.
For a single, aching second, she thought that he was going to reach down and kiss her.
And then reality slammed back into her.
With a sharp gasp, she tumbled backwards, nearly tripping over her feet. Dominic didn’t stop her, his eyes following her every movement.
Layla didn’t remember leaving the room.
It was too much. The air was too close, the scent of him everywhere, iron and smoke and power. She couldn’t breathe it any longer.
Barefoot, still in the white of the ceremony, she fled.
The stone of The Sawmill was cold underfoot, the corridor echoing with every footstep. The farther she ran, the louder her heart became, until it drowned out everything else, the bond, the fear, even the storm outside.
She passed no one. The guards had withdrawn to the outer halls, the pack dispersed to their homes. When she pushed open the great doors, the sea wind struck her like a slap.
The trees stooped towards her, vast and dark and merciless. Beyond, she could hear the roar of the waves. Skymist glittered in the half-light, the town’s lanterns blurred by fog. Rain thundered down, and her feet sank into the soft mud.
She didn’t stop.
The path wound down through the pines, roots clawing up through the wet earth.
Her gown caught on branches, her bare feet scraping on rock.
The mark on her palm pulsed, a faint silver burn, as though the bond itself disapproved of her leaving.
Every few steps, she felt Dominic at the edge of her mind, steady, watchful, infuriatingly calm.
“Stay out of my head,” she half-yelled to the wind.
No answer came.
When the trees broke open onto the road that led toward town, she ran faster.
The storm had thinned to steady rain now, the slick streets reflecting the cool halo of streetlamps.
Her lungs burned, her feet were bleeding, and her dress clung to her like a second skin.
But still she ran. Past the bakery, the empty square, the shuttered houses, until her little shop appeared through the drizzle, dark and waiting.
She reached it shaking. Her fingers fumbled with the latch before the door gave way. The smell of paper and dust and wood enveloped her, familiar and grounding.
She slammed the door shut behind her and pressed her back to it, chest heaving.
Only then did she start to cry.
Not loudly, just quiet, broken sounds that came out of her in shuddering waves.
The tears left salt on her lips. When they were gone, she stood for a long moment, staring at the faint outline of her reflection in the shop window.
Her hair was tangled, her face pale, her eyes ringed in dark circles.
The ritual gown, once white and holy, was torn and muddied.
Without thinking, she lifted the trapdoor and descended into the basement.
The air there was cooler, and she waved her hand. Immediately, the candles jumped to life, the flames flaring up before settling down into a warm embrace. The shelves were still a mess, books and paper scattered across the floor, but she couldn’t find it in herself to care.
Sinking to the floor, she blindly reached out to pull one of her throw blankets around her, her eyes too full of tears to properly see what she was doing.
Sleep came all too heavily.
***
She was standing in the snow.
Endless white spread in every direction, a frozen plain beneath a moon far larger than it should have been. Its light bled across the landscape like liquid silver. She couldn’t feel her feet, but she knew she was moving, drawn forward by something vast and unseen.
The air shimmered.
From the horizon, a shape emerged. Tall, slender, cloaked in a pale light that wasn’t human. It had no face, only eyes like shards of the moon itself.
“Layla Hawthorne,” said a voice that wasn’t a voice at all, but a vibration through her very being, “daughter of wolves.”
She couldn’t speak. Her mouth formed words, but the sound died before it reached the air.
“You have been chosen,” the figure continued, stepping closer. “The God watches. And you are part of the things to come.”
She took a step back. “I don’t—I’m no one.”
The figure tilted its head, “Then why do you see?”
The air rippled.
A low growl rose from the darkness behind her, deep, primal. When she turned, a wolf stood at the edge of the plain. White as snow, nose to the earth. It pawed at the ground, then glanced up.
The air tore open.
Something unseen struck the wolf, claws and fangs and teeth. The creature convulsed, light spilling from its wounds. Layla screamed, running forward, but the snow swallowed her steps. The wolf fell without sound, its body dissolving into a swirl of snowflakes.
A harsh slash of crimson stained the snow.
When she looked back, the pale figure was closer now, its glow dimmed.
“Wake,” it said.
***
Layla jolted upright, gasping.
The candles had burned low; wax pooled on the floor. Her dress clung to her with cold sweat. For a moment, she couldn’t tell if she was still dreaming; the mark on her palm throbbed, bright and alive, pulsing in rhythm with her heartbeat.
Her breath came shallow. The scent of snow and blood still lingered in the air.
Then the vision faded, leaving only a faint silver hue across her eyes, and the silence of the basement returned.
Layla pressed her palm to her chest. Her skin was cold, but her heart…her heart was burning.
Somewhere, far above the cliffs, the moon shone down over Skymist. And a wolf from the Nordan Pack began his patrol shift.