22 - Common Enemy

Rowan's office, that morning, is a maelstrom of chaos. There's werewolves coming and going, asking Rowan all sorts of questions about supply runs and secondary hideouts and distractions for the younger wolves. To his credit, even after his admission of feeling out of place last night, he settles like a king donning his crown and falling onto his throne, directing with ease and care. It's all for the benefit of those he speaks to, I realise, when everyone seems to come into the room radiating apprehension and leave looking a whole lot calmer.

I stand with my back to one of the grand windows, arms crossed, brows tugged into an idle frown as I try and breathe through the discomfort of having so many werewolves so close to me. I cannot help my nature, and as more and more people appear to offer advice and comments and plans, unease chips away at my fragile patience. They are my allies, now, but I cannot simply switch off the instincts that were drilled into me. A few days ago, they were my enemies. I cannot forget that so easily.

Lachlan's on the phone, pacing back and forth and weaving through helpful crowds. As far as I can gather, he's checking in with Matteo for news of Duskland and hunters, but with little success. Beau stands at Rowan's side at the head of the table, surrounded by werewolves all pointing at the map and exclaiming routes to Duskland and potential plans for taking out hunters (and fervently avoiding my scowl). They're both listening politely, but from the pinch to their features and the way their gazes never shift from the map despite many fingers pointing out distractions, I can tell they're busy making up their own conclusions. Morgan is with a group of werewolves near the door, organising patrol schedules. Voices talk over one another, desperate for focus. There's another knock on the open door, another curious face peeking into the room, another suggestion.

In short, I cannot hear myself think, let alone dare get close enough to the table to make some plans of my own. The scowl cuts into my features with such ferocity I wonder if it could become permanent. I spend my time staring at the latch on the window, fighting against the overpowering urge to unlock it and climb out and find somewhere quiet.

Right as I'm running out of slack on my patience, Rowan sharply calls for order.

"I appreciate your suggestions, and we will look into all avenues, but for now I think it best if we switch out the patrols."

In other words, I muse, get lost.

As people trickle from the room, he meets my gaze and offers a little wince of apology. I roll my eyes and look out the window once more. Alert and watchful.

Morgan closes the door after the last werewolf with a satisfying click, and the room descends into some much-needed peace and quiet.

Beau sighs, collapsing onto an armchair and rubbing at his temples. He looks as ruffled as I feel. "What did Matteo say? I couldn't hear myself think, just then."

"He says Duskland has gone quiet," Lachlan says. He braces his hands on the back of another armchair, his gaze sweeping from one window to another. His methods mean he's scrutinising me as much as the view. "Not exactly surprising. They've always hated dealing with hunters."

The others make noises of assent and understanding, and they all offer me grimaces of apology.

My brows tug together. "Don't you all?"

"Well, none of us are fond of being slaughtered," Morgan tells me, perching on the armrest of Beau's chair and crossing her arms. I shrug concedingly. "But Duskland had a... let's just say a bad experience with hunters a few years back. Been traumatised ever since."

"Hunters cornered Elsie and almost beheaded her with a silver scimitar," Rowan tells me, his features twisting with something close to remorse. I raise my brows with mild admiration— after all, I may be indebted to werewolves, but I have to appreciate the brazen approach of a fellow hunter. "The scar never fully healed. I suspect Duskland will wait out the hunter threat with their heads in the sand until your family either move on or kill us for them."

"They won't move on," I dismiss at once. "It's not the way of Ferreus hunters to turn our back on an enemy. They want me dead. They've shown their hand, revealing themselves. They'll want to keep us on the defensive by pushing further without giving us a chance to rally. That way, they keep the advantage."

"Wonderful," Beau says with a shiver. "Is there a way for us to get some sort of advantage over them? Maybe pretend you're a hostage?"

"If you hold a knife to my throat, and I don't kill you first, you'll be doing them a favour."

"Noted."

Morgan shudders, hugging herself. "I'm sorry, River. Whatever you did to upset them, it must be awful knowing it's your own blood out there."

Her empathy hits me like a strike to the face and I recoil a little, caught off-guard. Rowan hasn't told them, then. I appreciate that. And I appreciate that the rest of them are still willing to help me even without knowing what I did. They have faith in Rowan, and he has faith in me.

"I have an idea," Rowan muses aloud, rubbing absently at his jaw. "Though I doubt any of you will like it."

"I'm not being your bait, this time," I cut in at once, metaphorical hackles raising at the mere thought.

He meets my gaze, a startled flicker shimmering behind his eyes. "Of course not. We're keeping you as far away from them as we can. I'm considering a... well, a truce with Duskland. A temporary cease-fire."

The room goes silent— like the heavy fog of nothing after a deafening explosion.

I blink. And again. Thoughts won't quite stick. I stare at him, bewildered, trying to figure out if I imagined his words. "You'd do that?"

Rowan shrugs. "The more wolves we have, the more divided their attention will be. If that means aligning ourselves with Duskland to take out a common enemy, then so be it."

His admission is alarming, I have to admit. And I'm fairly certain he has gone mad. Willingly siding with the enemy just to increase our chances of survival— he's going against his own nature just to try and keep me safe.

I find myself staring at him, trying to figure out if he is sincere or merely weighing up his options. He holds my gaze, a fierce dedication blazing behind his eyes. It has me feeling exposed yet strangely safe— and I can't quite work out which is worse.

"They won't trust us— not after Gale," Lachlan says, his brows pinching.

"They don't know River killed Gale," Beau reminds him, his eyes alight as the plan formulates behind his gaze. "The hunters took care of that by killing all the witnesses."

Morgan hums, her lips twitching. "If they believe the hunters killed Gale, they'll want revenge. It could work."

"What about Seb and his friends?" Lachlan ventures, searching for cracks. "Beau— you said River's scent was all over them, but we were all there too."

"It's a risk," Rowan admits with a conceding shrug. "But if they have made that connection, surely they would be beating our front door down, by now. Hunters be damned."

I shake my head. "I don't like this." They're willingly throwing aside their feud with Duskland for my sake— and I can't quite comprehend their dedication to keeping me alive.

"It's only temporary, stray. Werewolf politics is messy, that way," Beau assures me at once. "Would your family stay on the offensive if they're facing two united packs?"

"No," I allow grudgingly. "Then again, they love a challenge."

"So do we."

"And what about when the hunters are gone? That is if we can even get rid of them. What will you do then?"

Rowan tells me, "Then I'll see if we can come to some sort of agreement. Who knows— with Gale gone, they're weaker. Maybe they won't want to fight us because they're at a disadvantage. And if they refuse a call for peace, then the fight is back on."

Of course. I should've known. Rowan's taking a leaf out of my book and plans to infiltrate his enemy, use their resources, and run them into the ground once they've served their purpose. I've taught him well— maybe a little too well.

Maybe that's how he'll get rid of me, too. And yet, the thought of him last night, baring his soul to me just as I did to him, won't leave my head. Maybe it was all a lie to earn my trust, or maybe I'm a hunter raised to hate werewolves— not trust them. How much of this wariness is my own, and how much have I learnt from my family?

"Then it's settled," Rowan says when I stay quiet, rising from his seat. "River, I need you to stay here. We won't be long."

"What if they try something?" I argue, thinking this is only the foundations of a halfway decent plan and nowhere near the stage of execution, just yet. "I'm coming with you."

"They know the old laws as well as we do— if we meet on neutral ground and initiate a parley, neither side can attack the other," he explains. "With hunters rallying, like you say, we cannot afford to wait. Either Duskland help us or they don't— either way, we'll have our answer and can plan accordingly."

"If we bring a hunter — a threat — then we forfeit the right to parley," Lachlan tells me as they all start for the door. "Especially given Duskland's... past experiences. We'd be inviting them to attack us all."

"You're rushing into this," I forge on, fire coating my tone. Our roles have been flipped on their heads. Now Rowan is the brazen, reckless one, and I'm the reasonable think-this-through one. I don't like it. When it's not my own life on the line, I absolutely hate it.

Some shade of frustration — or fear, perhaps — must crawl its way into my voice because Rowan stills and turns to face me. Before he can offer assurances, the words come spilling.

"My family are out there, Rowan. If you leave, there's a chance you won't come back." Even despite my rigid posture, even despite discomfort weaving a stoic suit of armour over my face, my voice trembles a little.

And I watch as his features crumble with leaden understanding. "Give us a moment," he requests softly.

Obediently, the others share looks and leave the room, closing the door behind them.

In the quiet that follows, I find my feet taking me forwards. Only a little.

Rowan starts for me, too, only to falter as though there's an impenetrable wall between us. "Duskland will honour our call. We're not in danger concerning them, I vow it. And as for your family, it's a risk we have to take. We'll take the car and do all we can to look as inconspicuous as possible. Right now, I need to know you're safe here," he tells me. His brows pinch and he closes the distance between us tentatively.

I let him. My mind is quiet beneath his close attention, and when he reaches for me, I feel no danger. No desire to reach for my knives. All I feel is a charge building in my chest. A pleasant one.

Ever so gently, he brushes a few stray strands of hair from my eyes. Sparks of electric bliss fizzle down my spine and I resist the urge to lean a little closer with wavering control.

"I will make it back to you, River," he murmurs, his eyes trailing across my features and leaving fire in their wake. "Promise me you'll stay here."

"Fine," I mutter sullenly, pulling back to study the map and slicing those tentative threads between us apart. I can't follow, anyway, or I'll risk ruining their truce with Duskland. I won't be the reason their parley goes wrong.

I don't watch him leave, but I hear the door click open and shut softly. I do what I do best— distract myself from my thoughts by falling into my instincts. So I survey the map and make plans for killing the rest of my family and I shove all thoughts of Rowan and his shimmering eyes and his hand carefully reaching for me to the back of my mind. I shove down the odd squirming feeling in my gut until nothing remains.

He makes me vulnerable and being vulnerable makes me weak. I've already lost everything I've ever held close. I cannot let myself lose him, too. Better to close off. Shut the emotions away and deal with the threat at hand. If he returns, then we can push forwards with plans for my family. If he does not...

I give myself a firm mental shake and fall into an armchair. If he does not, then I will steal a car and run and find a new home. Easy.

Planing ambushes has always been second nature to me, though I have to admit it feels strange to be working against my family. Guessing their moves and working to undermine them— knowing with every fibre of my being that they are doing the exact same thing.

It's an unnerving thought.

Perhaps they're staying at the motel I found. Or maybe they've found a more strategical base, given that motel is in Duskland territory. Do they know about the rivalry, or are these feuding werewolves simply enemies to take out?

What's their plan? Are they fighting their way to me?

I sigh, melting back against the chair and tugging my hands through my hair. What a fucking mess.

As I glance out the window, an instinctual urge to check the woodland for movement that doesn't belong, my focus snags on shapes emerging from the shadows beneath swaying trees.

Wolves and people alike. Wild-eyed and heading for the pack house with furious, certain strides.

Oh.

Fuck.

My nerves are frayed enough trying to keep Rowan out of my head and planning an attack against my own blood and after the close call yesterday. I see them approach and jump to a swift, logical conclusion.

Namely— holy shit, they're here to finish the job.

Of course. The moment their alpha is gone and they're ready to tear me apart.

I've only been involved with Rowan and his pack for a few short days, and though my hatred has thawed, I cannot shake my instincts. Especially when they're approaching with such grim intent.

I reach for my knives and stare at the closed door, poised and waiting for an ambush.

All I'm granted are five seconds of silence and a warning in the form of a curt knock. Then the door crashes open. People crowd into the room.

I lurch from my seat—

"River, we've got a problem," a werewolf rushes out, hands raised placatingly. I recognise them as the one Rowan passed my car keys off to, the other day. The one with androgynous features. Kay, if memory serves.

My defence falters. As the werewolves gather in front of the door, we watch one another warily.

They're not attacking.

Kay forges on, their eyes flickering with golden flames, "I know what Lachlan said about disturbing you, but this is urgent. I mean, real fucking urgent. You need to see this. It... it's..." They trail off, covering their mouth with a trembling hand. "We were just switching patrols and no one had heard off Finn for a while, so we went to his post and..."

As one of the werewolves covers his mouth with a stifled sob, I frown. "And...?"

Kay composes themselves with a deep, steadying breath. "We found him with his head cut off and a note stuffed into his mouth."

Another werewolf takes a tentative step closer, pulling a crumpled piece of paper speckled with blood from her pocket and holding it before her.

I wince, taking the note from her outstretched hand. I unravel it and my eyes flit over the scrawled hand I know all too well. Liliana. It's a short message that leaves little to the imagination.

Give us the hunter or your pack will fall.