Chapter 3 - Rowan #2
The moment of silence was deafening as I stood over his body, blood dripping from my muzzle, my chest heaving with exertion. The pain in my foreleg was excruciating, but I didn’t let it show. Couldn’t let it show.
Around the circle, the Denraider wolves erupted in cheers and howls of approval. They pressed closer, their eyes bright with bloodlust and satisfaction. This was what they lived for — death served up as entertainment, weakness culled from their ranks.
“Now that’s how you earn your place!” Keith called as though he’d been in my corner all along.
“Told you the big bastard had it in him,” another added.
I shifted back to human form, my bones cracking as they reformed. I would heal faster in wolf form, which was exactly why I should shift to human form now, to show my strength. The transformation sent fresh waves of agony through my injured foreleg, but I kept my expression neutral. Stoic.
The kind of cold indifference Denraider respected.
The throb of phantom wounds reminded me how close I’d come to losing control. How close I’d come to failing Freya and her sister both.
The ache in my chest where the Howling Echo pack bond used to be throbbed in rhythm with my injuries.
Three days since Gage had severed that connection with the cold formality of exile, and I still felt the hollow emptiness.
But beneath it, warm and constant, flowed the Bonded link — my lifeline to Freya, to the promise I’d made to return to her.
“Welcome to the pack, rogue,” Keith said, clapping a heavy hand on my shoulder. My wolf bristled, but I forced myself to stay calm. “You’ve got the killer instinct we’re looking for.”
I nodded, not trusting my voice yet.
They wanted individuals vicious enough to dominate others, then forcing submission through fear. It created a pack of powerful wolves, but also one seething with barely contained violence and ambition.
Around us, other Denraider wolves were already dragging the body away, probably to add his teeth or claws to the pack’s trophy collection. The casual brutality of it made my stomach turn, but I kept my face blank.
My wolf paced restlessly beneath my skin, confused and agitated by our isolation. Being packless again brought back memories I’d tried to bury — the first few months after my exile, when I’d learned that mercy was a luxury I couldn’t afford.
But this was different. This time, I had something to go back to. Someone to go back to. A mate, maybe even more than one.
“Don’t get too comfortable,” Keith crowed. “You’re not pack until you’re wearing the pack alpha’s bite. Unfortunately, Lydell isn’t around to give it to you.”
My blood ran cold at the name. Lydell. The enforcer who’d cast me out, who’d told me this pack was for conquerors and kings, not weak little boys who couldn’t shift. Apparently, he’d killed the old pack alpha and taken the title for himself.
Which meant eventually, I’d have to face the man who’d destroyed my childhood. The man who might be the only one, aside from my parents, who could recognize me.
I kept my expression carefully neutral as Keith and the others kept talking, cataloging which wolves seemed approachable and which ones I needed to avoid. My survival instincts were in overdrive, analyzing threats and opportunities with the cold calculation that had kept me alive in the wildlands.
The Bonded link tugged at my consciousness, Freya’s worry bleeding through despite my barriers. I wanted nothing more than to reach out to her, to let her soothe the ache in my chest where the pack bond used to be. But not here. Not now.
I couldn’t afford any distractions. No matter how much my wolf whined for the comfort of my mate’s presence.
I rubbed my injured left forearm where the rogue had bitten me in my other form. I’d need to shift back to wolf form soon to speed the healing. Assuming they’d let me rest long enough.
Keith’s eyes fixed on my wrist.
“That’s right where a pack mark would be,” he said, his voice carrying a note of suspicion. “Convenient place for a burn.”
My hand stilled over the distinctive witchfire scar that covered where my Howling Echo tattoo used to be. The raised, angry flesh was impossible to miss — Zak had literally burned away my connection to the pack.
The scar reminded me of what waited for me when this mission was over. The pack that had chosen me when my birth pack had thrown me away. Freya’s unconditional love. Zak’s dark eyes full of trust.
Denraider would hate them both based on the scent of magic alone, which made my wolf howl internally.
Protect mates, he growled.
I silenced him. Now wasn’t the time to be thinking about one mate, let alone the potential for more.
I glanced from the burn mark back to Keith to get my head back in the game. Wearing such an obvious witchfire burn should endear me to them, if I could spin it right.
Meeting his stare to remind him my dominance matched his, I said, “I’d rather catch witchfire on the wrist than the face.”
Of course, I knew that firsthand from my past scars, and I let the truth of that fill my words. He wouldn’t smell a lie on me, as long as I didn’t let him know a mage had healed me.
Keith studied me for a long moment, then grunted his acceptance. His eyes slid to the side, not submitting to me, nor forcing me to submit.
“Fair point. Seen too many wolves with their mugs melted off by witch magic. At least you can still eat and fuck with a burned wrist.”
The crude assessment was so typically Denraider. These were the brutes I needed to fit in with though, and it wasn’t hard to channel my long-held anger toward witches.
“Any idea when I’ll get to sink my fangs into some witches’ throats?”
“Lydell’s already advancing with his best alphas.” Keith sounded a little bitter about that, and his next words revealed why. “Including my littermate, Kevin. They’re headed east from Spokane. Heard there’s been witch activity up that way.”
Denraider was moving exactly where the Howling Echo would make their stand with Moonblessed. I’d previously confirmed they were advancing, and Gage was aware as well. That would complicate my ability to extricate myself when the time came.
Keith handed me a threadbare blanket and pointed toward the barracks, but I still needed a little more information from him, first.
“And I suppose I won’t get to fight at the front until after I get his pack bite,” I growled as though I was just as pissed as him to be left behind, when in reality it was the idea of letting Lydell mark me that infuriated me.
“Right,” Keith grumbled as he settled onto a crate nearby.
“Don’t tell me he’ll make us new recruits wait for the full moon,” I said, my earlier anger still bleeding into my voice to sound authentic.
Keith’s laugh was harsh. “Lydell does things differently than some alphas. He’ll get to it when he feels like it, full moon or not, but we don’t waste his time until we have at least ten recruits waiting for his bite. In the meantime, you’ll get assigned some grunt work to prove your loyalty.”
I kept my expression neutral, nodding like this was just another piece of pack politics to navigate.
“But first, Drew here will take you to the mess hall,” Keith said before wandering off, probably to terrorize some recently conquered subordinate wolves.
Another wolf approached — younger than Keith, with the lean build of a scout, and the scent of a strong beta. In the absence of an alpha, Drew could probably cow subordinates with his level of dominance.
He gestured for me to follow him toward the larger structure. “You’ve earned your meal today. Come on.”
As we walked, I noticed how Drew’s shoulders remained tense, his gaze constantly moving. Not the confident swagger of a wolf who’d found his place, but the careful alertness of someone still trying to survive.
“So what’s your story?” he asked. “Where’d you come from?”
I gave him the rehearsed background so he couldn’t scent a lie on me — kicked out of my pack as a teenager, grudge against magic users, looking for a pack that understood real strength.
Even that last part was true, though I’d come to realize what “real strength” meant to me was a lot different from what most alphas thought.
“What about you?” I asked before he could ask me anything else. “How long have you been here?”
“About a year now.” Drew’s voice dropped. “My old pack got absorbed when Lydell expanded north. Most of the alphas were killed, the rest of us…” He shrugged. “Choice was join or starve.”
“And you chose this.”
“I chose to survive.” He glanced around, then leaned closer.
“Look, most of us just want to keep our heads down and get through each day. Lydell doesn’t care much for alphas who challenge him, but he cares even less for dominant betas like me.
The smart ones learn fast — obey orders, don’t draw attention, and maybe you’ll live long enough to see your family again. ”
Family. The word hit me harder than expected. Drew wasn’t here by choice — he was here because Denraider had destroyed everything else he had.
“What about the ones who don’t learn fast?”
Drew’s expression darkened. “You saw the fighting circle.”
He stepped into the mess hall first, and I followed, noticing few shifters here this time of day. The beef stew was thin and greasy, but at least it was hot. I wolfed it down while Drew settled across from me, clearly keeping an eye on me.
I pushed the stew around with my spoon, trying to decide whether Drew would out me if I asked the wrong questions. But the longer I waited, the longer Freya’s sister would suffer under Denraider.
I had to take the risk.
“I heard there’s a slave here,” I said, keeping my voice casual. “Female shifter who shifted late, has blue eyes even in wolf form… Doesn’t listen to alphas very well.”
Drew’s eyebrows rose. “You mean Valkyrie? Why do you care about her?”
Valkyrie. The name jolted my mind like a bolt of electricity — as powerful and fierce as Freya’s own name.