13 - Loyalty & Other Lies

Rowan is quick to assure me that I don't have to be the one to lure Gale away from his pack. He claims they can find another way — any other way — to get the beta out on his own.

But there's nothing for it. If hunting werewolves all my life has taught me anything, it is that they are fiercely loyal to the ones they love. I'm not entirely sure of the intricacies of the mate bond — only that they believe it is fate or divine intervention — but I know well enough their reactions when their mate is taken from them.

It's a feral, explosive fury.

And it's the only way to lure Gale into our trap. Once he's dead, we can shift our focus to Elsie, and finally to the alpha pair, Alessandro and Natalia. Once they're gone, their pack will fall. Rowan and his pack will trust me, and they'll let their guard down. I can finish it all.

Easy enough.

It's the quickest route to the heart of Duskland, and I've only got one attempt to finish things. If we fail, they'll know our plan and prepare for it. They'll come charging and ready to tear this place apart.

Despite the Ferreus blood souring in my veins with every moment I spend in the company of werewolves, I can't help but feel some semblance of relief that I don't have to fight a pack on my own. Numbers are important. It's a means to an end.

"I don't like this," Rowan admits. His focus is locked on me, a spotlight burning holes in my defence, and it's a little unnerving.

I find my attention flickering between Lachlan, Beau and Morgan, instead. If only to avoid his intense gaze.

"So you'd be willing to lure him onto our land?" Morgan asks, frowning at me. Trying to figure me out.

"Obviously," Lachlan forges on, "we'll be waiting to help when you need us. You haven't got to fight him on your own. He brings his lackeys wherever he goes and they fight dirty."

Beau turns to him and says, "You'll need to brush up on your training, then."

"Morgan, come and get your dog."

Morgan sighs heavily and rubs an exasperated hand down her face. "You're like children. Rowan, what's on your mind?"

Rowan tugs a hand through his hair. "We need a bit more trust before we talk about using him as bait."

I scowl at him. I haven't raised my knife to them once outside of the alley, despite desperately wanting to, and yet he still doesn't trust me. He's the one forcing this alliance, but if he doesn't even believe in it, I haven't a hope in hell of making this work.

He levels my look with one of clinical indifference, reading my frustration as though I've just shouted at him. "I'm not talking about us trusting you," he tells me softly.

Oh.

Before I can unpack all that, he continues, "I want you to see we're not monsters. How about you watch some training? You can make your own conclusions. If you still want to help us, we'll talk plans for luring Gale."

"Ooh," Beau cuts in, eager flames dancing behind his eyes. "Please judge Lachlan, stray, he needs all the help he can get."

"I am going to hit you so hard," Lachlan vows, sending the beta a glare that has him scurrying for his life out the door. He gives chase, hot on the beta's heels.

They remind me, I muse, of Esme and myself. All it would take was a spark to unleash utter disarray. The thought summons a cavernous hole in my chest.

"You know," Morgan muses with a wry smile as their chaos fades down the hall. "Sometimes I wonder what horrible things I did in a past life to end up with his ass."

Rowan laughs. "Something awful, I'd imagine. The Goddess is torturing you."

"Isn't she just. See you outside."

She, too, gets up and leaves the room, only with a load more dignity than Beau and Lachlan— who, I'm fairly certain, I can hear shouting outside.

Rowan sighs, rubbing his hands down his face and melting back against his seat as though exhausted. "I didn't mean for you to put yourself in the firing line," he admits. "It's not our way, to send one person to fight."

"It'll work," I insist, suddenly keen for him to understand just how seriously I'm taking this, how fighting is in my nature and my comfort zone is a training arena. I don't have to prove anything to him, but the words come spilling regardless. "You want an alliance, then you need to have faith in what I can offer. If it goes to shit, we try things your way."

He pulls a face, vaguely disgruntled, and rises from his seat. "I'd rather it didn't go to shit, if possible. Let's go check on Beau and Lachlan before they kill each other."

Rowan leads me back outside, and I go to great effort to ignore all the eyes burning holes in my back. News of my arrival has spread like a wildfire and now it feels as though everyone stops and stares and whispers when they think I'm out of earshot.

We find Beau and Morgan hand-in-hand by the pitiful training circle, feud with Lachlan forgotten. Speaking of the gamma, he's on Beau's free side, arms crossed and expression pensive as he studies the two werewolves locked in close combat. No doubt Morgan has sorted them out with that stern expression of hers.

Rowan joins them and I stand a little to the side, not entirely eager to get close. The crowd has dwindled, but the few remaining have their attention split between the fight and me.

I tuck my hands into my pockets and watch the fight, trying to distract myself. Despite the borderline hostile environment, and the churning worry that these werewolves could turn on me at a moment's notice, something within me settles at the familiar routine of watching a training session and studying their actions and reactions, their advances and their defences. I feel I can think somewhat clearly when all I have to focus on is a fight.

They're good, I have to admit. Using their opponent's weaknesses against them, goading them into a risky move. But there's something almost... playful about it. Like they're not really trying to hurt one another.

What's the point in that?

Back with my family, training isn't complete unless you've got a map of bruises charting your mistakes and areas to work on.

I find my thoughts drifting, caught on the cool breeze stirring leaves into flurries. These werewolves don't look particularly murderous, and even despite the rivals lurking on their borders, they're having fun. Making the most of the peace.

They're surviving, I realise as I glance around and catch the curious gazes of a few werewolves wandering past. They don't want a fight with Duskland any more than I want to take on two packs at once. They've been forced into a war with rivals they don't want, but they're surviving. They have to.

I suppose, in a way, there are things that unite us. I didn't choose to be a hunter— that life was chosen for me.

I wonder what I would've chosen, if I'd been given a shot at freedom back when it still mattered.

"Why do they fight for you?" I find myself asking.

Rowan gives me an odd look— all furrowed brows and an uncomfortable twist to his mouth. "They do not fight for me, River. They fight with me."

"They're not scared of you, either," I note. All my life, I've been told alphas rule out of fear. They force their subjects into compliance because it is in their nature. But he gives me his food and he lets his subordinates question his motives.

Werewolves are vile creatures, Liliana's voice hisses in my ear. It is our duty to rid the world of vermin— or else we have no purpose.

My fingers itch for the reassuring hilt of my silver knife.

The closest werewolves give me strange looks.

"Of course not. That is not our way," Rowan tells me patiently, turning his focus to the two werewolves in the arena. "What good will fear be in a fight? I want to earn their loyalty and have them join me because they choose it, not scare them into compliance. This is their home as much as mine, after all."

I narrow my eyes, scrutinising his expression now he's not looking at me, checking for cracks. "You're the strangest alpha I've ever seen."

His lips twitch, as though he finds my insult vaguely amusing. "If that's the case, I'm afraid you've seen some awful alphas."

Or perhaps, I muse as he calls an end to the fight, I haven't seen enough of them. I haven't learnt their ways or the reasons for their loyalty— I've learnt their weak points and exploited them and called it purging the world of beasts. I've killed them for simply being.

But these people aren't beasts. Even the wolves are remarkably docile despite there being a hunter on their land. They trust their alpha and his intentions and, if he trusts me, then I'm not a threat to them.

It's a delicate loyalty forged on trust and rules I'm only just beginning to understand.

And yet here I come with a silver sledgehammer ready to shatter it all to pieces.

"Do you want a go?" Rowan asks me, his imploring voice dragging me from the depths of those melancholy thoughts.

I startle back to clarity. My soul feels uneven and brittle and I don't know what to think.

And only one thing works when I need to clear my head. It's not ideal, and my nerves tingle with little static shocks at the thought.

But I've got a hell of a lot of tension I need to work out.

"Okay," I assent, running my gaze along the crowd of onlookers, searching for a potential rival.

Abruptly and conveniently, none of them want to catch my gaze anymore.

"I'll fight," Lachlan says, stepping into the arena. "Let's try without the weapons, shall we?" he suggests, stretching and rolling his shoulders as he meets my gaze. "I'd quite like to come out of this living, if I can."

Fear, like a jolt of lightning through my veins, has me taking an unconscious step back. Getting up close and personal to a werewolf is bad enough, but to do it without my knife in arm's reach...

What if he tries to kill me? What if it's all just an elaborate ploy to get me unarmed and defenceless?

You're not defenceless, I remind myself. You've been training with your fists longer than you have with silver.

That was with other hunters. Not werewolves.

"How about this," Rowan suggests, crossing his arms as he studies me closely. His voice grabs hold of my flighty thoughts and drags me to awareness once more. "No stabbing on your part. No shifting on Lachlan's. A fair fight."

Lachlan shrugs concedingly. "No shifting. Got it."

I can agree to not stab him all I want, but in the heat of a fight, when reason gives way to instinct, I don't think I can stop myself from reaching for their comforting hilts.

"Fine," I say, plucking the throwing blades and shurikens from my belt and dropping them in an unceremonious heap on the dusty ground. The knife at my ankle is a particularly difficult one to rid myself of. It doesn't hold much sentimental value, but I've grown used to its assuring weight and to be without it feels inherently wrong.

They all raise their brows at the sheer number of silver weapons I drop before me— even though this is a dwindling pile of nothing compared to what I'm used to when taking on a pack of werewolves. I don't have any of the fun stuff. No crossbows or bolts, no arrowheads laced with aconite, no gas canisters, no spark grenades, no guns loaded with silver bullets. Just old-fashioned knives.

As I advance into the arena — more of a crude circle in the dirt than anything else — the crowd of werewolves back up out of range and begin whispering to one another. There's a substantial gap in the crowd where my weapons lie, and even as a few more werewolves wander over, no one goes near my silver.

"Three taps to yield and stop the fight," Rowan tells us both. "Wherever you can reach."

At his side, Beau crosses his arms and smiles eagerly, his focus flickering between Lachlan and me.

Morgan sidles up to his side and murmurs something into his ear. She offers her hand and Beau shakes it with a little nod. A bet if ever I've seen one.

It's an instinct that comes as naturally as breathing. The moment Lachlan approaches with swift intention, his muscles tensing in preparation, all distractions go quiet in my head.

He's taller than me. Heavier. His fight pattern will centre around using his strength to his advantage.

So I must use it against him, instead.

I relax my arms, roll my shoulders, and feign hesitation even as I set my weight on sturdy feet. My gaze flickers to Rowan in the crowd. He's frowning, looking tense and on the verge of charging in even though we've barely started, but Beau puts a hand on his shoulder and shakes his head. He's beaming, though whether because he believes Lachlan will have an easy time or because he has faith in my own abilities, I cannot say.

It works.

Lachlan notices my divided attention and lunges for me, meaning to tackle me to the ground.

My reaction is lightning. I swiftly turn out of his way and descend on him with a level of eagerness and fury my sister would be cheering at. I force my offence onto him— jabbing, dancing free of his attempts to claw back the advantage, wrenching his arm behind his back and twisting and twisting and kicking his knees out so he topples to the ground.

I bury my knee into the back of his neck, pressing him into the dirt as I keep his arm folded at an awkward angle. One slight movement and his shoulder will snap out of place. The fight is over as quickly as it started.

Tap tap tap.

For half a second, I consider finishing it. I think of how easy it would be to snap his arm back and render him useless.

I do not. I don't fight dirty in training.

I release him and stand up, dusting myself off.

Beau is laughing, clutching onto Rowan's arm for dear life as he wipes at his eyes. "Brilliant," he gushes. "I love him."

At his side, Morgan is openly gaping, looking vaguely impressed.

Rowan rolls his eyes, but he's smiling and his form is more relaxed than before. "Again," he says. "Lachlan, you good?"

"I'm good," the werewolf confirms, pushing himself up.

I expect him to glare, to vow to make me pay, to come charging with murder in his eyes.

His face is smeared with dirt and he's smiling — actually smiling — as he rolls his shoulder to check it's still working properly. "See, Beau? This is a real fight. Not your weak ass."

"My ass is perfectly strong, I'll have you know. Stray, finish the job and kill him for me, will you? Make it hurt."

"Keep calling me stray and I'll make you hurt," I grumble.

"Don't threaten me with a good time, you little tease. My mate is right here."

Morgan sighs torturously. "At this point, I'll pay you to get rid of him for me."

"How much am I worth?"

I leave them to their bickering and study Lachlan as he backs up in preparation. In training and out on hunts, I must treat every fight as a new one. Just because something works the first time does not guarantee it will work a second. No, Lachlan knows what approach I'm taking now. He'll expect it. He'll come at me cautiously and wait for me to make the first move. To make myself vulnerable.

I study him, trying to discern his approach, but he stays back. Defensive and waiting.

I will have to go to him. Just as I guessed.

So I do. Fists raised, posture fluid, I advance on him.

He meets me halfway, his eyes sparking with golden flames.

I feign for him; he reacts. He aims; I back out of his reach. It's an artful sort of dance we lose ourselves in— with both of us eager to catch the other off-guard.

It reminds me of being out in an arena with Esme as dawn melts away the dark sky. Jabbing and feigning and falling back and advancing and striking until the sun glares over the trees. Figuring out her patterns, pulling apart the threads of her advances until she makes a mistake.

But Lachlan does not make a mistake. Not this time. He's careful and every movement is swift and calculated.

The crowd of werewolves watching on start calling out suggestions and cheering on their gamma.

I catch a flicker of a smile as he rushes for me, but I'm too quick and too used to distraction to let their voices sway me. He misses. My fist connects solidly with his kidney and he falls back with a breathless laugh.

The onlookers start calling his name, throwing around encouragement and tactics to take me down. And then one of the werewolves whistles.

All at once, I'm hauled back to the arena with Esme, grappling in the dirt with a knife in my hand. Myles watching on and blowing a whistle to call our fight to an end.

Before I can drag myself back to clarity, my defence slips obediently.

And Lachlan throws everything he has at me.

The impact knocks the wind from my lungs as he tackles me to the ground. We land in a flurry of limbs, rolling over one another for the advantage. People are cheering. There's a bullet nestled between Esme's eyes.

No, no. Not now. I'm not doing this now.

Lachlan wrestles back the upper hand in my distraction. He hauls me against him and traps me in a swift headlock. My back is pressed against his torso, my head wrenched back at a painful angle. My arms are free but his strength is immense.

The crook of his arm is a boulder pressing down and down against my throat— unyielding. I'm stuck. I can't breathe.

Instinct blurs into terror and I find myself reaching for the knives at my belt.

Gone.

Fuck.

I grapple in the dirt, trying to wrestle back the advantage. Lachlan's brute force is unforgiving and he's got me pinned.

Still, I struggle. I scratch at his arm and jab at him with my elbows, but he merely tightens his hold to keep me still.

My fight becomes desperate and jerked as reason gives way to hysteria. I need my knives— I need them now— I can't feel anything— I need to breathe— I can't fucking breathe—

The woods and the crowds and the dirt fracture. Darkness claws at my peripheral. White noise breaks like a cresting wave over my head. Focus dissolves into a hallucination.

"Do not yield," Orion spits, his boot pressing firmly against my sternum as I scramble in the dirt— young and weak against his fury. "You cannot yield in a fight or it will be your last. Now get up and fight me."

Right as my eyes flutter, right as the world starts melting and contorting into a blurred mass of colour, right as my struggles go weak, I hear Rowan's voice sharply calling for the fight to end— a distant echo.

At that exact moment, Lachlan releases me— ripping his arm free.

I suck in a shuddering breath and collapse into a coughing fit as blood surges liquid fire through my temples. Feeling rushes back; unfocused and dull. Shimmering and fuzzy.

"Fuck, I'm sorry—!" Lachlan rushes out as Rowan drops to his knees before me. "You didn't tap, I thought— Why didn't you yield?"

There's hands on me. Everywhere. On my shoulders, on my back, fingers pressing into my neck and my wrists.

I can't fight them off. I'm too busy gasping in eager lungfuls of sweet air.

They help me sit up and, the moment I'm upright, Rowan says, "Let go of him."

And they do. The hands are gone. I brace myself in the dirt to keep myself up.

He's crouched before me, his features pinched with concern. For a moment or two he just stares, studying me closely as I urge my racing heart to slow, as I take deep, shuddering breaths. Beau, Morgan and Lachlan kneel at his side, watching me with wide, uncertain eyes.

When at last I've gained some semblance of control, Rowan asks me, "Why didn't you tap out?"

My defences are up in flames as I work through the panic. It leaves me uneven and shattered and the words fall from my lips with minimal resistance.

"I'm not allowed to tap out."

A flash of golden fury lights behind his eyes. There and gone. He glances at the others and they share bleak looks with discomfort twisting their features.

"Of course you are," Beau says, hesitance thick in his voice as his attention flickers between me and his alpha.

"He doesn't mean here," Rowan tells him softly.

"Oh," the werewolf lets out, abruptly sombre. "Fuck, okay."

"Can I help you up?"

It takes a moment for me to realise Rowan is talking to me. His gaze is uncertain and his features are pinched, but I catch a spark of something else. Something I can't quite place. He's offering me a hand but doesn't move to grab for me— something I'm glad of. He merely kneels there and patiently waits for my answer.

I shake my head and force myself up, even though my thoughts are sluggish and sliding around uselessly.

"Okay, I'm ready," I say, shaking out the lingering numbness from my limbs. My voice sounds strained and brittle to my ears.

The others rise, too, and share another round of uncomfortable looks.

"I think that's enough for today," Lachlan says, wincing a little as he catches my gaze. "Really, River, I'm so sorry. I was waiting for a tap."

I'm more than keen to carry on fighting, and Rowan must see some light of intention behind my eyes because he swiftly steps forward and shakes his head.

"Beau and I will fight, instead," he decides, studying his beta. "You could do with some humbling."

Beau gasps melodramatically with a hand on his heart. "I'm so humble. I'm the most humble person here."

All around, werewolves stare at me with pity flickering behind their pinched features.

I can't stand it. I snatch up my silver weapons and retreat into the woods, desperate to be alone.