Chapter 11
Fern
Three new Solvekh women had arrived in the servants’ quarters, along with around a dozen men, distributed between the castle and grounds.
Norden had apparently been busy the last full moon and had finally finished rounding up and binding his marks.
Fern was in the kitchen when she saw them, left to make a meal with whatever scraps had been made available for her by the cooks. Everyone pretended it hadn’t been done on purpose.
“Why does she eat like that?” one of them whispered.
Fern looked down at the stale crust of bread she’d been gnawing on in the corner, her eyes drifting out towards the shadows along the wall where a rat was eating a small piece of cheese someone must have dropped.
She wondered if it would be willing to trade.
“Don’t look at her—that’s the Ashpaw,” Vedia replied, steering her away.
“Do you ever get used to being talked about like you can’t hear them?” Fern asked the rat.
It squeaked, stuffing the cheese in its mouth and squeezing through a crack in the wall.
Once everyone was gone, she grabbed her broom—her shield, her prop—and shuffled into the dining hall.
The hall was loud that evening, her own thoughts overpowered by shouts, laughs, and stomping feet.
Another courtship rite for the happy couple. Apparently this one had involved chasing the mate-to-be through the woods until she was “caught,” followed by enough mock screaming and laughter to make sure everyone knew she was delighted by it.
She now knelt at his feet, a pillow under her knees, as she fed him from her hand.
Luckily Fern had missed most of the theatrics, and could concentrate on her own burgeoning acting skills by pretending to sweep an invisible layer of dust for the next few hours.
“He’s wasting you here.”
Fern jumped, flattening herself against the wall and bringing the broom to her chest.
Harland, the beta who hadn’t quite gotten the message that she was a pariah, stared at her, nostrils flaring. He took a heavy swig from his cup, wiping the drops of ale that had spilled from his lips with the back of his hand before coming closer until he was right in front of her.
His forearm rested above her head, and he leaned in, his nose running along her skin.
She wished it was anyone else before her, but Fern was desperate for the feel of someone’s touch. Her hands tightened around the broomstick, and she whined softly on an exhale of breath, which only brought him closer.
“Do you have any idea how good you smell?”
She pressed her lips together, her chest heaving, remaining silent. She couldn’t talk, couldn’t react…
“I never thought I’d actually want a she-wolf to speak, but I miss your voice. Just say my name, please. I promise I won’t tell the big, bad alpha.”
The Ashpaw is not spoken to.
The Ashpaw is not touched.
The Ashpaw stands apart.
The Ashpaw does not belong.
“Harland? Sir?”
Behind him, one of the new Solvekh women stood with a smile and pitcher, her curly, red hair lovely in the firelight. “Allow me to fill your cup,” she said, her voice low. “I was told you may need some personal attention tonight.”
Oh, please, Fern thought, while a tiny part of her also hoped he might stay and touch her further.
With a low growl, Harland turned and looked past her towards the head table, and Fern followed his gaze right towards Darion.
His eyes were dark and his scowl murderous, even as Kyntha shoved another cut of meat between his lips.
Harland grabbed the pitcher out of the woman’s hands, chugging the whole thing as he stared down the alpha, belching loudly and throwing it on the floor once it was empty. “Tell the one who sent you I will no longer be distracted with random offerings.”
His head whipped around, and he pointed his finger in Fern’s face. “I don’t know what Alpha Darion is playing at, but I will force that wolf out of you with my bare hands if necessary to end this. You’re mine.”
He slammed his fist against the wall once for emphasis, then stormed out of the hall, Darion’s eyes following him the whole way.
The other Solvekh woman watched him go as well, then spat at Fern’s feet. “Disgusting Ashpaw. Maybe you thought you were too good for a petition, but I know my worth here. I’d never sink as low as you.”
She kicked the empty pitcher towards her and turned tail, leaving Fern confused over how quickly this new Solvekh had learned the rules, envy coiling inside her like a serpent. Her alpha had probably explained things when he’d bound her so she wouldn’t find it as difficult to adjust.
She would have taken practical information over a pillow to hang over her head any day.
Resuming her sweeping, Fern moved to another area of the room and hoped to survive the night without any more run-ins, when a guard approached her.
“You are to report to the Council Chamber now.”
Her lips quivered, her eyes blurring and dropping to the floor. She gave a shaky nod, and followed him out of the dining hall, feeling every eye on her as she passed, wondering what she could have done to deserve this.
It was Harland who had sought her out, not the other way around. She’d followed the rules by not responding to him. She’d kept her head down, and hadn’t drawn attention to herself.
It just… it wasn’t fair. None of it was fair, and she couldn’t even defend herself because Darion would find some other way to punish her for voicing it.
No, he wanted her to live with the failure until she was so broken, there’d be nothing left for anyone to find beautiful or desirable.
The guard opened the door for her, and she found the room empty, the fire so small it was outshone by the waning moon.
“Wait here,” he ordered, locking her in.
She let out a shuddering breath, releasing enough tears to relieve the pressure building behind her eyes, and then stepped up to the wall, almost laughing as she realized she’d brought the broom with her.
Fern set it on the ground, then clasped her hands behind her back and waited.
A familiar ache crept up her arms and across her shoulders, but she held still, choosing not to ignore it because it was better than feeling nothing.
A key turned in the lock. Her heart jumped, but she didn’t move. Didn’t speak.
Didn’t breathe.
“What are you doing?” a voice snapped.
It wasn’t Darion.
Could… could she turn around? Or would that reset the punishment?
Or perhaps Eidan had his own preferred methods…
“Fern?”
His hands grabbed her wrists gently, prying them apart. The relief was tinged with pain, and his touch moved up to her shoulders, massaging them. “Who told you to do this?”
She bit her lip to keep from replying. This had to be a trap. They wanted her to slip because of the scene she’d caused in the dining hall. She’d disrupted Darion’s ceremony…
“Speak!”
The command ripped the answer out of her. “I thought Alpha Darion was coming!” she cried, instantly feeling like she might throw up.
His grip on her tightened. “He makes you stand here like this?” he asked, his voice fraying.
When she didn’t respond, he sighed deeply, taking a few moments to calm himself. “You are not the Ashpaw with me, Fern,” Eidan said, much softer. “I give you my word that you can speak and act freely when we are alone without repercussions.”
She didn’t want to trust him, her mind still holding fast that this must be some sort of trick, but her need to believe in something, anything, won out, and a sob burst out of her chest, ugly and loud.
Eidan moved quickly, picking her up and carrying her to the very chair where Darion had sat only a week or so ago, reading his book while she learned her lesson about keeping her thoughts, even unspoken, to herself.
A deep sound rumbled to life in his chest as he held her, stroking her hair. “My father’s mate used to make me stand like that. I think my record is seventeen hours.”
That brought a surprised gasp, enough to distract her for a moment as she looked up at him. “How did you survive it?”
He smiled, his eyes crinkling. “Alphas are a little sturdier than Solvekh she-wolves, I assure you.”
“Still,” she replied, shivering at the thought of it.
A log, nearly spent, cracked and fell, small sparks burning bright and disappearing quickly.
“Why did you summon me here?” she asked.
He hummed as his hand stopped at the nape of her neck, rubbing her softly there.
Oh, she could feel the wolf in her now, wanting to kick her leg in pleasure.
“I was bored.”
At this she laughed, tearing up not in misery but out of pure humor and joy.
“And what am I, the clan jester as well now?” she replied, dabbing the corners of her eyes with the pads of her fingers.
“Aye, didn’t Darion tell you the last rule? ‘The Ashpaw shall be entertaining.’”
Eidan’s mockery of his brother was doing the entertaining for her, lightening the tension in her muscles and the heaviness in her chest.
“I’m afraid I’m out of jokes today. Shall I round up some tomatoes for throwing instead?”
It was Eidan who laughed now, so deeply her body bounced off his chest where he held her. “Still a little early for tomatoes, I’m afraid. Would asparagus be an acceptable substitute?”
“Hardly!” she scoffed. “It’s peas or nothing.”
“Ah, well, that reminds me of the other reason I brought you here.”
He tapped her to rise and she slid off his lap reluctantly. Eidan then led her towards the table where a bowl of split pea soup and a small loaf of fresh bread with a dab of butter sat on a tray.
“To think I almost brought the asparagus custard…”
The smile died on her lips, and she waited, too afraid to move.
Eidan frowned. “What’s wrong? Are you not hungry?”
“I… I don’t know.”
Because she really didn’t. She’d grown used to scraps, to knowing the scents of fresh meat, pies, savory stews, and sweet puddings weren’t ever going to be for her again.
Even something as simple as butter, a staple she’d grown up eating, felt like a luxury, so rich it would hurt her stomach more than fill it.
“It’s too much.”
“Too… too much?” The idea seemed to offend him. “Pups no taller than my knee eat more than this. I was about to get more.”
She shook her head. “Please, no… just the bread is plenty.”