Chapter 3
IRIS
Three days in the beast's den, and I've learned three things: the guards change at midnight, the east tower has a blind spot, and Stellan Varen watches me like he's waiting for me to run just so he can chase me down.
The Pack Commons stretches before me, a cavernous hall filled with long wooden tables and the scent of roasting meat.
Torches line the walls, casting everything in shades of amber and shadow, and a massive hearth dominates the far end, flames leaping high enough to throw heat across the entire space.
Wolves fill every bench, their conversations a low roar that reminds me of distant thunder.
They eat with their hands as often as their utensils, tearing into joints of meat with an enthusiasm that borders on primal.
I stand at the entrance and force myself to breathe.
Helena prepared me for many things. She taught me to fight, to strategize, to read a room and identify threats before they materialized. She never taught me how to walk into a den of predators and pretend I belonged there. That particular skill, I'm learning on my own.
The conversations don't stop when I enter, but they change.
Voices drop. Eyes track my progress across the hall.
A few wolves turn their backs deliberately, a dismissal so pointed it might as well be a shout.
Others stare with open curiosity, their gazes traveling over my body with an intensity that makes my skin prickle.
None of them approach. None of them speak to me.
I am an outsider. A human. A thing that doesn't belong in their world, no matter what ancient blood pacts demand.
A space opens at one of the smaller tables near the edge of the room, and I claim it before anyone can object.
The bench is hard beneath me, the wood worn smooth by generations of use.
A serving woman appears almost immediately, setting a plate of food before me without meeting my eyes.
Roasted venison, root vegetables swimming in gravy, a thick slice of dark bread.
The smell makes my stomach clench with a hunger that feels too sharp, too urgent.
I've been ravenous since I arrived. Another symptom I can't explain.
The food is good. Better than good. The venison practically melts on my tongue, rich and gamey and perfectly seasoned. I eat more than I should, more than I usually would, and when I finally push the plate away, my body hums with a satisfaction that borders on drowsy.
That's when the woman sits down across from me.
She's the kind of beautiful that knows exactly what it's worth, all sharp cheekbones and silver-blonde hair that falls past her shoulders in a shimmering curtain.
Her eyes are the pale blue of glacier ice, and they study me with an expression that hovers between curiosity and contempt.
She wears a simple gray dress that somehow manages to look elegant, and her hands, folded neatly on the table before her, are soft and uncallused.
Not a warrior, then. Something else.
"You're the human," she says. Not a question.
"And you're observant." I keep my voice flat, refusing to be baited. "Is there something I can help you with?"
Her lips curve without warmth. "I'm Signe. The pack healer. I thought I should introduce myself, given that you'll likely need my services eventually. Humans are so fragile."
The insult lands exactly where she intended. I let it roll off me and reach for my cup of water instead. "I'll try not to inconvenience you."
"See that you don't." She tilts her head, studying me with an intensity that makes the hair rise on the back of my neck. Her nostrils flare slightly, once, twice, and the contempt in her expression fades. Wariness takes its place. Or recognition. "You smell different than other humans."
The words drop into the silence between us. "Excuse me?"
"Be careful who notices." Signe rises from the bench in a single fluid motion, her gaze never leaving mine. "The alpha may have claimed you, but that doesn't mean you're safe. Not everyone in this pack agrees with his decision. And some of them have very keen noses."
She walks away before I can respond, disappearing into the crowd of wolves like a ghost dissolving into shadow. Her warning lodges in my mind like a splinter I can't reach.
You smell different than other humans.
What the hell does that mean?
Eight pills left.
I count them again, spreading them across the bathroom counter like a countdown I can't stop.
Eight small white tablets, each one identical to the last, each one supposedly essential to my health.
Helena began giving them to me when I turned sixteen and told me to take one every morning without fail.
She lied about so many things. Why not this too?
My reflection stares back at me from the mirror, and I barely recognize the woman I see there.
Dark circles shadow my eyes despite the hours I've spent sleeping.
My skin looks pale, almost translucent, and there's a flush high on my cheeks that won't fade no matter how many times I splash cold water on my face.
My hair hangs lank around my shoulders, and my fingers won't stop trembling.
Three days in this fortress, and my body is falling apart.
The symptoms started small. A heightened sensitivity to smell that made the food too pungent, the wolves themselves almost overwhelming in their musk.
Light that seemed too bright, sounds that rang too loud.
Temperature fluctuations that left me shivering one moment and burning the next.
A persistent awareness of where Stellan is in the keep, even when I can't see him, as if some invisible thread connects us across the stone walls and locked doors.
I tell myself it's stress. Captivity. The natural response of a human body to an unnatural situation.
The rational explanations comfort me, even when they don't quite fit.
I calculate how long I can stretch the remaining pills. If I take one every other day instead of every morning, I can make them last sixteen days instead of eight. Sixteen days to figure out what they really are, what they're suppressing, what happens when they run out.
Sixteen days to find a way out of this cage.
My hand closes around the pills, and I sweep them back into the bottle with unsteady fingers. Eight pills. Eight days if I stick to the schedule Helena established. Sixteen if I ration.
The smart thing would be to ration. The cautious thing. The disciplined thing.
But Helena also told me these were vitamins. Helena also sent documents to Stellan Varen before she died. Helena also spent my entire life preparing me for a fate she never bothered to explain.
I don't trust her anymore. I don't trust anyone.
The bottle disappears into my bag, hidden beneath a fold of clothing where the guards won't find it during their daily inspections. My secret. My lifeline. My countdown to something I can't name and don't understand.
Eight pills.
The number haunts me as I dress and prepare to face another day in this fortress.
The armory lies at the heart of the fortress, down three flights of stairs and through a corridor that smells of smoke and hot metal. I discovered it on my second day of exploring, when a wrong turn led me past the forge and into a room filled with more weapons than I'd ever seen in one place.
Helena would have loved it here.
I slip through the door and pause to let my eyes adjust to the dim light.
Racks of swords line the walls, their blades gleaming dully in the glow of the forge fires.
Axes hang from hooks beside them, their heads polished to a mirror shine.
Spears stand in wooden holders, their points sharp enough to pierce steel.
And everywhere, scattered across workbenches and displayed in glass cases, knives of every size and shape wait for hands to claim them.
My fingers itch to touch them. To test their balance, their weight, the way they would feel in my palm during a fight.
A hunting knife catches my attention, its handle wrapped in dark leather, its blade curved slightly at the tip.
Perfect for close combat. Perfect for someone my size, who couldn't rely on brute strength to win a fight.
I reach for it without thinking, my hand closing around the grip with familiar ease.
"Human." The voice comes from behind me, low and threatening. "That doesn't belong to you."
I turn slowly, keeping the knife at my side.
The wolf standing in the doorway is built like a battering ram, with aggression rolling off him in waves.
His hair is the color of rust, cropped close to his skull, and his beard covers a jaw that looks like it was carved from granite.
A scar runs from his temple to his chin, bisecting his left eye, and the eye itself is milky white, blind and unseeing.
His good eye fixes on me with undisguised hostility.
"I was just looking," I say, keeping my voice calm. "There's no rule against looking."
"Humans don't belong in the armory." He steps closer, and I can smell him now, sweat and iron and the musk of wolf underneath. "Humans don't touch pack weapons. The alpha might have brought you here, but that doesn't give you the right to wander where you please."
"Funny. No one mentioned that rule when they gave me the tour."
His lip curls back from his teeth. "You think this is a joke? You think you can walk into our home, our sacred spaces, and put your hands on things that belong to us?"
"I think you should step back before this becomes a problem."
He laughs, the sound harsh and ugly. "A problem? What are you going to do, little human? Scream for help? Run back to your gilded cage and hide under the covers?"
He reaches for me, probably intending to grab my wrist and wrench the knife away.
I move.