14 - Dinner in a Wolf Den

I don't watch Rowan fight. In fact, I go to great effort to keep him out of my line of sight as I head for the woods, leaving thuds and grunts and cheers behind.

A part of me is curious to see Rowan in the heat of a fight. I only saw a glimpse, back in the alley. After nearly being choked to death, though, even I have to admit I need some space. I need to think.

I need, most of all, some time away from werewolves. They're messing with my head.

The woods glitter with emerald flecks as a cool breeze stirs leaves into mournful ballets in the air. Golden sunlight filters through the canopy, casting a speckled, warm cluster of spotlights across the forest floor.

If I think hard enough, I can pretend I'm back at the den, making the most of a peaceful afternoon before Esme hauls me into another round of training.

I'm not entirely certain if I've happened upon a quiet area of the woods or if any lurking wolves have swiftly retreated to avoid close contact, but either way, as I sit myself against a tree trunk, I'm greeted by nothing but trees sighing and birds singing and wind whistling.

My guard has been up for so long that I simply cannot imagine what it would feel like to sit back and close my eyes and let this peace sway me to a serene state of mind. The rivalry hounds my thoughts, and my every waking moment is dedicated to keeping myself alive and hidden. There's no room for peace.

Despite this, in the whispering woods, my thoughts drift. In just a few days, my entire life has been torn apart. I watched my sister get shot because a werewolf bit her. I killed my cousin. I ran from my home and found myself in this quaint town I can't seem to leave behind. I've stumbled into the middle of a rivalry between my sworn enemies and to get rid of one pack, I've gone against all my morals and sided with the other. What a fucking mess.

It all flickers through my head. Esme's limp form in my arms. Myles' neck beneath my fists. The Welcome to Crescent Valley road sign. The body torn apart. The Othala. Seb and his friends crowding into the alley. Rowan's shoulder against the wall as he studies me and suggests an arrangement. Esme. Myles. Othala. Rowan. Esme. Rowan. Esme.

Tears sting my eyes but I force them back and sniff, stamping on the embers of grief until nothing remains. Eager for distraction, of any kind, I search the mossy forest floor around me until I find a substantial, flat rock. After tossing it from hand to hand a few times, I deem it worthy enough, and I set about sharpening my blades.

It's a ritualistic practice— and one that, usually, would require a bit more effort and time. But this rock is all I have, and it will work as a replacement.

I swipe the edge of my knife against its surface, the sharp hiss like a sort of therapy.

Time melts away as I lose myself to my task. The distraction doesn't work. Thoughts drift stubbornly over the past and the rivalry and Seb's warm blood on my hands. I find myself thinking of Esme, of her bright smile and her annoying laugh and her constant jibes at me to do better, to plant my feet, to swing with greater force. She was annoying as hell, but I loved her. And now she's gone.

"Planning an ambush?" an unexpected voice asks pleasantly.

I startle, tensing to send the knife flying for the source— and it's an effort to keep hold of the hilt and back down.

Rowan raises his hands in surrender as he emerges between two trees stretching lazily for the sky. His approach is punctuated with snapping twigs and rustling leaves, as though he's making the effort to be heard to keep from alarming me further. "Sorry. I hope you're not planning on killing Lachlan in his sleep with that."

I scowl at him. That's twice today Rowan has startled me from some shade of peace.

"I want to be alone," I tell him sharply, my glare as cutting as the knife edge in my hand. I finish my demand with another hiss of the blade against rock.

"I won't disturb you, then," he says with a casual little shrug as he settles against a trunk opposite. He crosses his arms and slides his gaze over the woodland absently.

I roll my eyes and focus instead on sharpening my throwing knives. I've got the upper hand if he tries anything. All it'll take is a flick of my wrist and the obedient blade will nestle into his neck.

But the heat of his attention is a difficult one to ignore. Hazy expectation lurks in the air between us, and I find my gaze lifting towards him. Studying the set to his shoulders and the pinch to his brows and the thoughts lurking behind his dark eyes.

The first few times, I haul my gaze right back to my work, but my attention strays stubbornly towards the alpha again and again.

"I'm not going to ambush you," I grumble, glaring at my knives as though they're the ones being persistent and annoying. "And I'll lure Gale onto your land. It's the fastest way to the heart of their pack and it's our only option."

Rowan hums, but he does not say anything. I scowl at him, but he's still not looking. It drives me mad. Here I am, accepting his stupid agreement, and he can't even look at me.

"What do you want?" I demand at last, my patience wearing thin.

His bronze gaze meets mine and something about his features softens. "Several things," he admits. "But mainly I just want to check if you're alright."

Despite hostility stirring in my blood, my mask of anger slips a fraction. His incessant, gentle advances never fail to confuse me. I haul it right back up and reinforce it with silver.

"I'm fine, I'm not helpless," I insist, depositing my blades back into the belt at my waist, hidden beneath the jumper. My knife feels weighty and assuring in my hand, and it takes some deeper level of strength for me to tuck it against my ankle.

"Never said you were."

"You're implying."

"What, so getting choked to near-death is a normal experience for you? And I shouldn't be even slightly concerned that you almost died just now?"

"No, you shouldn't."

He stares at me for a long time, ripples of tension blurring his features. Until at last, very softly, he says, "It's alright to show weakness every once in a while, you know. I imagine it must be exhausting, making yourself strong all the time."

"Weakness gets you killed," I dismiss.

"Weakness makes us human, River."

I glare at him, my gaze fiery and unyielding. "You're not human, though."

"Are you?"

His words strike right where my mask is brittle. I recoil a little, and before I can even consider a reply, the shutters slam down behind my expression. He has no right to go digging into my life.

"Matteo just called," he tells me, wincing a little as though he's noticed my hasty retreat. "He says it'll take longer to fix your car than he first thought. Some... technical difficulties. He explained them, but like I said, I'm no good with cars. Honestly, I have no idea what's wrong with it."

Fucking wonderful.

"But," he forges on, determination strengthening his tone, "you can always stay here." I'm moments from exploding, the fuse burning behind my gaze, but he raises a placating hand and rushes out, "I know you don't trust me, or my pack. I understand this is difficult for you. But if Duskland is searching for you because you killed Gale's mate, I think this is the safest place for you to be. Just... please don't let your hatred for my kind put you in a vulnerable position. If they catch you on their land, or anywhere near it, they'll try and kill you."

"Well, how do I know you won't try and kill me?" I counter, watching him warily.

He offers me a timid smile and says, "I guess you'll just have to trust me. If it helps, I can empty out the pack house for you. I'll stop people from coming in until you're comfortable with it. All the bedrooms have locks on the inside, too."

"You want an armed hunter sleeping in your house?" I ask, frowning. Despite myself, I can't help but wonder why he's being so nice. His attention, his persistence, is a cool wave against my fiery rage. Dousing it all to embers.

I hate to admit it, but he has a point about Duskland. I don't even have my car to hide in, and sleeping on the forest floor would make me little more than an animal. And yet, taking up his offer of the spare room feels sacrilegious. It feels inherently wrong— like submerging my head underwater and forcing myself into taking a deep breath. It goes against everything I've ever known.

"You're making good on your word to help us out with Duskland," Rowan says, using that infuriatingly calm voice of his. "You're putting yourself in the firing line to lure Gale out. At least let me hold up my end of the bargain and offer my resources. If being armed makes you more comfortable here then, by all means, stay armed."

I stare at him, trying to discern any cracks in his features— in his offer. The hostile, suspicious part of me wonders if this was his plan from the moment he saw me in the alley. To get me on his land and kill me when my guard is down.

And yet there's a whisper in my head. An eager one that reminds me Rowan is letting me keep my weapons and lock the door and he's going to great lengths to make me comfortable here. He let me train with his gamma and he called the fight to an abrupt end when he realised I was stuck and sinking deeper.

If he wanted me dead, he would've let Lachlan choke the breath from my lungs when I was unarmed and at his mercy.

Confusing as his motives are, it seems like he genuinely wants to forge an alliance with me.

And I'm so, so tired of fighting. Of looking over my shoulder and sleeping light and keeping my walls higher than I can possibly reach.

I sag against the rough bark of the trunk at my back, let out a heavy sigh, and I say, "Alright. I'll stay until my car's fixed. Then I'm gone."

If my family could see me know...

The smile that lights up his face could lift mountains and chase away storms. It's so bright I can't quite look at him directly.

"Okay. Let's find you a room."

I push myself up and follow him back towards the pack house. By then, the training circle has disbanded and werewolves rush past with eager grins talking about a quick run around the woods, their eyes flickering golden and their forms rippling with an imminent shift.

Rowan leads me inside and tells me to pick whichever room I fancy. So I do. I wander around with him following at a distance, looking in different rooms and trying to decide which one I want.

At first, I find myself gravitating towards rooms close to the front door, with large windows I can climb out of should I need a quick escape, but my focus is pulled further. I venture into a room close to a library, in the same hallway as the one Rowan showed me last night, when I showered and couldn't have felt more exposed if I'd tried. The urge to settle in a room with the best advantages in case of an emergency is dampened the further I go. For once, I want to choose something I genuinely want— not because of its strategical points.

The room smells vaguely of cinnamon and musk, and there's a bookshelf stocked full of old volumes that permeate the air with traces of dust. The view looks out at the woods gently billowing in an idle breeze and the bathroom is just opposite. It's small and cosy and perfect.

"This one," I decide, appraising the room.

When I turn to look, Rowan is smiling to himself. "Very well. This one's a spare, anyway. Let me find Beau and have him clear the place out."

He wanders off, leaving me alone and unguarded in the heart of his home. What a strange alpha.

A part of me longs to find the study we spoke in, earlier. To find the map and start planning my attack on Duskland. To rid myself of this alliance as quickly as possible. Find weak points, infiltrate, expose, destroy.

But I do not.

My feet take me towards the bookshelf, and my mind urges me to find some peace whilst I can. So I pluck out a book, settle in a little armchair by the window, and lose myself in the pages. I humour myself considering what Esme's reaction would be to the story, and I go a little further and imagine what her reaction would be to this mess I've gotten involved in.

She'd probably look at me strangely. Either you've got mad, or you're actually a genius in disguise. I'm betting on the former— I'm the genius in this family.

A gentle knock on the door tugs me free from the pages, and I glance around to find the sun has sank beneath the distant mountains blotting the horizon. The forest is growing dark and cold and the room glows with a hazy lilac dusk washing across the sky. It's peaceful. I've drifted for longer than I intended to.

Morgan stands in the open doorway, her features pinched even as a little smile tugs at her lips. "I would've never pinned you as an avid reader," she muses. "It's Rowan's turn to cook so he's sent me to fetch you. Please don't make any dog jokes about that, I've heard enough from Beau and Lach already."

I set the book aside and rise. "I'll keep them to myself, then."

I follow her into the hallway and she leads me past the lounge and through an archway into the kitchen. It's chaotic— with Rowan attempting to maintain control as Beau and Lachlan try to shove a stack of plates into each other's arms. Thankfully, they seem to be the only ones in the house. Rowan has kept his word once more.

Morgan is quick to assert herself and orders the two werewolves to just grow up and set the damn table. They scatter with their tails between their legs— metaphorically, of course.

Rowan catches my gaze over his shoulder and smiles. "Yes, they're always like this."

I spend my evening in the company of werewolves, dining with them at their table and eating their food and biting my cheek to stop myself from smiling at their reckless, ceaseless jibes at one another. It feels strange, being so drawn to their comfort but so opposed to it all after years of learning to hate their kind.

Back with my family, dinner was a sombre affair. Complete silence except for Orion musing plans for tackling a nearby pack, or Liliana telling us of a new training technique, or my mother commenting about how we must train more if we are to rise in the ranks. Esme and I would catch one another's gazes and speak through expression alone, until we could read one another's thoughts behind our eyes. Ferreus hunters trust one another with our lives, but I never felt entirely... comfortable in their presence. Not knowing what they were all capable of. It was all smiles above the table and clutching silver knives beneath it. They could turn their weapons on me at a moment's notice— just like they did with Esme.

Rowan, Beau, Morgan and Lachlan appear more comfortable with one another than my family ever was. They laugh and tease and complain about mundane things like no one is watching. Like no one could possibly disturb their peace.

Perhaps this is what it means to have a family.

And I find myself longing for it. For comfort, for safety, for the knowledge that there are people that would fight by my side not because it is their sworn duty but because they care about my well-being enough to ensure it. People that would not turn on me or fire a bullet in my skull without remorse or leave me for dead.

A family. A real, true family.