Fury Bound (The Wolves of Ruin, #2) — Chapter no 9

9

MERYN

’m on edge. The Sovereign Alpha arrived last night with her travelingI party, and I’m due to welcome them to the castle with a dinner this evening. Which means I’ve spent the last hour getting ready with my new primary attendant, Brionna, who can barely look me in the eyes.

Apparently, the Castle Matron and I have differing opinions on what a “willing servant” looks like.

Maybe she can’t recognize true consent after so many years servicing the Valtieres.

After Brionna nearly drops the gilded brush for the fourth time, I turn to face her directly, and she jumps.

“You and the other castle staff have nothing to be afraid of, whatever you might have heard,” I tell her. “Until the past few months, I spent my entire life in the Eastern Quarter. My goal is to make life better for the common people.”

Brionna dips her head. “I’d heard that, Your Highness.”

Grimacing, I say, “Highness, huh? I’m not a Highness. Please, just call me Meryn.”

Her shoulders loosen. She blinks, easing up a little. “Okay… Meryn.”

I smile in relief. “That’s less awkward, isn’t it?”

Brionna nods and blushes a bit. Finally, she’s loosening up.

We chat while she works on my hair. She tells me she’s from the Central Quarter. We discover that Brionna went to the same school as Saela, about a decade earlier, which makes me happy and also leaves me with a sharp sting of grief.

Saela will never return to that school and very likely not to any other.

The crushing weight hits me again: the life I’d imagined for us both disappearing into thin air. Nothing but daydreams in the end.

Saela’s not even talking to me. It’s been only a day—a day locked in that room, not a dungeon cell but a prison all the same. Still, the ache of it is everywhere.

And I hate that I look at her and wonder… if Killian is in her head, too.

Aldrich and I spent all morning researching Siphon reversals and found nothing to show for it. Still, I can’t give up hope.

By the time my hair is done—two elegant braids wrapping together around the base of my skull, as close as we can get to an updo with my length—Brionna has relaxed. She doesn’t flinch any longer. And she places the crown of wolves on my head with something approaching reverence.

Power floods my veins, and I try not to flinch at the unfamiliar surge.

I’ll get used to it soon, I tell myself. To all of it: the magic and everything else.

A knock at the door alerts us that my friends have arrived. I told them they had to attend the dinner, too, as interim members of my Council Palast.

Their first responsibility: shielding me from whatever weird power battle I’m about to engage in with the Sovereign Alpha.

Izabel’s eyes light up at the silver-blue tunic and dark suede trousers I’m wearing, an outfit Brionna picked out for me. “Ooh, pretty. Elegant but not soft. A perfect choice.”

Tomison grins toward Brionna, exposing his line of perfectly straight teeth. “Great job, new girl.”

Her entire face turns red. I try to imagine Tomison through her perspective—the rich auburn hair, the tall and toned stature, the confident look in his eye. He seduces people without even trying.

Izabel scoffs a little too hard. “Must you flirt with every woman you see?”

“Rude,” Tomison retorts immediately. “I’m not allowed to pay people compliments?”

Izabel crosses her arms over her chest and levels him with a snippy gaze. “If only I believed your intentions were so pure.”

Nevah groans, sidling over to me. She’s in a vivid yellow satin dress.

“Can these two just fuck already? The bickering is getting tiresome.”

“Izabel loves lengthy, angry foreplay,” Venna jokes. Her twin turns toward her, sputtering in outrage, but Venna continues, “It’s time to go or we’ll be late.”

“Fine,” Izabel says tersely, sweeping past Venna and linking her arm with mine. She tugs me out the door, and I wave goodbye to Brionna.

“What should we expect from this highly important royal gathering, anyway?”

We move down the echoey halls of the castle, and I wonder that myself.

The first time I met Siegrid Therion, the day she told me I was chosen as Strategos Alpha, I was a sweaty, nervous mess. She made me feel so small.

Like I was a clumsy child who stumbled into something I didn’t understand.

It was true, sort of, but still… She knew. Even before I did. She knew who I really was, and it seemed like she found me lacking.

I pull my shoulders back, channeling the energy I would bring to my pit fights. Our roles have changed.

I will not let her see me as weak or uncertain.

“I’m not sure,” I answer honestly. “Matron Alienor said this was just a welcome meal for the Sovereign Alpha and her party. But you know I didn’t exactly grow up attending fancy dinners. If I’m breaking some sort of Bonded or court protocol at any point, could you let me know?”

Venna pats me on the back as we walk. “We’re on it.”

When my friends and I enter the formal dining room, five people are already seated. Everyone stands in deference when they see me. There are only riders in here tonight; Anassa has taken the wolves of the traveling party out for a welcoming hunt.

Nothing says “glad to see you” like violently tearing apart prey together.

The Sovereign Alpha is the last to stand, of course, and she does so with a loud scrape of her chair that echoes through the room.

She wears a perfectly tailored deep green formal jacket with matching trousers. Her graying brown hair with its bloodred streak is pulled into a tight bun, and her expression is stern—although it probably always is.

Like mother, like son.

Her appearance declares to everyone: I’m powerful and in command here.

With a start, I realize that Sovereign Alpha Siegrid has seated herself at

the head of the table. Maybe we riders are in for some violence tonight as well.

I swallow my immediate spark of resentment and say, “Welcome, everyone.”

Siegrid’s eyes dart to the crown I wear. At the sight of it, so long hidden, her nostrils flare and her eyes go slightly glassy. I have the sense this is a remarkable show of emotion from her.

Then Siegrid purses her lips and inclines her head.

“Queen Sturmfrost,” she says. “We came as soon as possible.” She turns, holding her palm toward those accompanying her. “Your Kryptos Alpha, Hannelore Woodward.”

On Siegrid’s left side is a flinty-eyed older woman with a blue streak in her hair. She’s shorter than Siegrid but matches her in severity.

“Your Phylax Alpha, Tormun Belrose.” He stands to Hannelore’s other side, a hulking man with round features, prominent eyebrows, and a tawny streak.

“And, of course, you know Egith.” My Strategos Beta, Egith, is to Siegrid’s right. She has deep brown skin and closely shorn dark hair with a hint of a silver streak.

Warmth fills me at the sight of the woman. Egith was tough on me as my instructor but never unreasonably so. In fact, given how resistant I was to becoming Bonded and accepting Anassa, she had remarkable patience. Our pack Gammas are in charge at the front while Egith is here, but we’ll both stay in contact with them.

“I’m really glad you could come,” I tell her.

She nods, her dark eyes glinting with amusement. “Of course, I had to witness the incredible transformation of my misfit commoner Rawbond into our long-lost queen.”

Standing next to Egith is a woman I don’t recognize, and her presence briefly paralyzes me.

She’s probably the most stunningly beautiful person I’ve ever seen.

The woman has porcelain skin and curly, thick, vibrantly red hair. It’s a color I’ve never seen in nature, and it seems to almost shimmer in the candlelight of the room. Her nose is pert, framed by glittering emerald- green eyes, and her lips are full.

Even though she looks like she might be shorter than me, her

proportions are wild. Everything about her is long. Her legs. Her lashes.

Her slender neck. I’ve never seen the word elegant embodied so wholly in a person before.

My eyes catch on the tawny streak in her hair. Phylax, then. I wonder

why she’s here. Is she a Beta?

Whoever she is, she’s mesmerizing.

As if reading my thoughts, Siegrid continues, “This is Noemi, the daughter of Lord Eisenfall.”

“Oh, you’re a noble?” My brow furrows in confusion. I didn’t realize nobles let their children become Bonded.

“Half noble,” Noemi corrects with a polite smile. “My mother was Bonded.”

That explains the height, then—she’s not as tall as the average Bonded woman.

“Noemi will act as your diplomatic envoy,” Siegrid continues, “and will make contact with the fiefdoms to encourage the nobles to attend.”

The threat in her voice is obvious. Noemi won’t be visiting to deliver polite invitations. Her encouragement won’t leave room for refusal.

I gesture to my friends. “Egith is familiar with these four, but I’ve retained Izabel and Venna Brooks, Tomison Thorne, and Nevah Rivenson.

They will serve as interim members of my Council Palast until I have fully settled into my role here and we’ve selected suitable permanent members.”

Siegrid makes a hmm-ing noise that’s hard to parse. Disapproval, I’d guess. “And I’ve heard your other interim Council member is a commoner?”

Is that going to be a problem? “Yes, Igor. He was my neighbor in the Eastern Quarter and is like family. I trust him more than anyone else I know.”

Siegrid stares at me for a long beat, and I know she’s heard the undertones to that statement. I trust him more than you, so don’t fucking question his appointment.

“Understood, Your Highness. It’s good to have a Council whose advice you’ll follow.” It’s said in a pleasant tone, but there’s a dig there, too.

Because we all know you’re bad at following advice.

The five of us move to empty chairs, and I take the seat of power, directly across from Siegrid.

As all sit down, the door to the dining room slams open. I startle and raise my gaze.

Stark enters, his familiar, powerful stride wrapped up in formal clothing, and all the air in the room seems to evaporate.

He’s in a dark jacket, because of course he is. The soft fabric makes his dark eyes look harder, sharper. The long column of his golden-brown neck is uncovered, exposing his many kill marks.

And two thoughts instantly pop into my head: Dangerous. Delicious.

My breath hitches. Audibly. In a room full of important people.

What the fuck is wrong with me?

I stifle my reaction, covering it up, focusing intently on my facial muscles so they won’t betray whatever is happening in my out-of-control brain to the rest of the room.

Noemi has no such constraints. She turns, sees him, gasps, and leaps to

her feet.

“Valstark!” she shouts.

She throws herself at him, into his arms, and I instinctively recoil. Who is she? A friend? A… paramour?

The thought makes me weirdly uncomfortable.

Sudden flashes of memory hit me: Stark’s tongue on my neck. His teeth on my arm. The heat of his body next to me in the bed in Linsfall.

Unfortunately, it’s entirely too easy to imagine him in the position of someone’s lover, and goddess knows the Bonded are casual about sex.

I swallow, trying not to blush.

Stark’s arms come up and close around Noemi, and it looks almost protective. Then his eyes meet mine over her shoulder.

I lean an elbow on the table and mouth, Valstark?

He scowls at me in response, pulling away from her gently. He tucks one of those long, gorgeous, shimmering locks of hair behind her ear. It’s intimate enough that I look away, feeling like an intruder.

Yeah, they’re probably lovers. People this beautiful belong together.

I can control my facial muscles, but I’ve failed at controlling my blood.

My cheeks are hot.

“Hi, Mimi,” Stark tells her, his voice a low and rasping rumble. There’s genuine affection there, the sort I think I’ve only ever sensed from him when he’s with Cratos. “I’ve missed you.”

So. That’s quaint. They have pet names for each other.

I really don’t understand why this is bothering me so much. It’s Stark.

We’re nothing to each other beyond protector and queen.

Does it have something to do with the mate bond? Perhaps Anassa and Cratos’s connection will always mean it’s uncomfortable to see Stark with another woman, to think of him as intimate with someone.

Anassa must have heard me think her name, because her presence lights up in my mind. “No,” she says with amusement. “I told you; I am fully shielding you from my love toward Cratos. This petty jealousy is all of your

own making.”

It’s hard not to scowl. “Who is she?”

And Anassa, the bitch, just replies, “Someone important to him.”

“Choke on an elk bone.”

Stark folds his huge body—I swear the jacket’s seams almost burst when he pulls his seat out—into the chair beside Noemi’s. Immediately, Noemi leans closer to him, her graceful arms draped over the armrest. He leans in, too.

As servants bring out the first course, their heads remain bent together in quiet conversation I can’t quite hear.

I ignore the strange lump in my throat and focus on chatting with Nevah and Izabel instead.

Jealousy, Anassa said. As irrational as it is, I think she might be right.

But it’s so… stupid. I only just escaped a disastrous relationship. I don’t have room to think of other men. The last damn thing I need is to develop something for a person whose wolf just happens to be mated to mine.

Someone who I don’t even like.

Besides, I don’t think I’d ever trust that my feelings were truly my own and not just my mind accommodating the entanglement of our wolves.

Bonds getting knotted up and manipulating me the same way… Just, not again.

I’ve almost tricked myself into believing this, and then Noemi touches Stark’s arm. She says something quietly, and he smiles.

Oh, fuck, he smiles. It’s a real smile. A face-splitting, sun-coming-out, unreserved smile that makes him look younger. I’ve never seen him smile like that. I didn’t know he could smile like that.

Siegrid clears her throat pointedly, and the smile slips from Stark’s face

as he looks toward his mother.

“We have much to discuss, so forgive me for jumping directly to serious matters,” Siegrid says. “I have been discussing the Killian Valtiere situation with my Alphas.”

I bristle. I am one of the Alphas. And I’m the queen. So why was I not involved in the conversation?

Does she not trust my judgment when it comes to him?

Siegrid continues, “It has been decided that Phylax Alpha Tormun will be tasked with leading a specialized hunting party to track down the former prince and eradicate him. They will head out as soon as possible.”

I have so many questions.

“We’ve already received intelligence suggesting that Killian is establishing a base in a western fiefdom. We have yet to—”

“If you’re going after him, I’m coming with,” I interject, the words coming out of my mouth before I can think too hard about them.

He’s mine. Mine to hunt. Mine to kill. I won’t let anyone take that from me.

Siegrid takes a casual sip of her emberwine. “Absolutely not.”

“With all due respect,” I say, “Killian is unlike any threat you’ve faced before. He has access to my magic. You’ve experienced for yourself that he can access our pack communications. Alistair Brightbane, an ancient and unknowably powerful Siphon, is inhabiting his body. And, as you know, this is personal for me. I need to do this myself. Moreover, you need me— I’m the only one whose powers might match his own.”

“With all due respect,” Siegrid throws back at me, “Your Highness, we are dealing with a single Siphon, not an army. I have been fighting Siphons since before you were born, and you have been a queen for less than a week. You have not even been Bonded for half a year.”

“You are underestimating him, and it’s a mistake,” I shoot back.

“You are wrong, as you know very little about war,” she seethes. “And at this moment in time, you have one job and one job alone—attending your own coronation and officially being named queen of Nocturna. If you fail at something as simple as that, you do not deserve the title.”

Her words hit me like a slap and leave me stinging.

The entire table is silent as we glare at each other.

“Your Highness,” Alpha Tormun says with significantly less

condescension, finally breaking the standstill. “I’ll get the job done.” His smile is warm as he lifts his massive, tattooed arms and flexes above the table. “I’ve killed more Siphons than nearly any Bonded warrior in history.”

Stark lets out a small scoff, and I get the sense this is an accolade he and Tormun argue over.

Tormun seems kind, but he’s backing Siegrid. Dismissing my concerns.

Dismissing me.

The shadows around the room start to stir, and I watch Siegrid notice it in her periphery. Her lips thin.

The only thing I’ve ever been good at is taking action. Being left behind is wretched.

Is this how it’s going to be from now on? Am I to become a figurehead?

Sequestered away in the palace, taking direction from my Sovereign Alpha?

“There is a time and a place for you to be involved,” Siegrid says, her voice gentler, trying to coax me into a calmer place. I know what she’s doing; she wants to avoid an uncontrollable explosion of my power. “But it cannot happen until after you’re crowned.”

Taking a deep breath, I tap into some of those Strategos instincts. Use my ability to think instead of my ability to react.

I don’t want to give in so easily. He’s mine. I won’t rest easy until I know how red his blood can run.

But I’m their queen. I don’t have to accept this without concessions.

“Very well.” I keep my spine straight and my head high. “I defer to your expertise, Sovereign Alpha. However, I know Killian and his abilities the best out of everyone, so I will brief Alpha Tormun before he departs. And I would like him brought here so I can execute him myself.”

Siegrid accepts with a slight nod of approval.

Compromise. What a beautiful thing.

“Moving on,” Siegrid says firmly. “Preparations will begin immediately for your impending coronation. I propose it takes place in three weeks’ time.”

I try not to drop my fork in surprise. That seems awfully fast, although I’m sure the sooner we lay claim, the better. “Three weeks? Can we… do that?”

Siegrid straightens, as if offended that I would question her ability to do anything. “Obviously.”

“Okay, then. Let’s get coronating!” My joking tone falls flat with this crowd. I clear my throat and then gesture to Izabel, who lives for this shit.

“I’d like Izabel to be involved with the planning.”

Her grin spreads ear to ear, and I instantly wonder if I’ll regret this choice. “Yes, please. Put me to work, Sovereign Alpha!”

Siegrid shrugs. “Fine.” Her eyes slide over to Venna. “You too?”

Venna’s mouth turns down, and she narrows her eyes. “I’ll pass.”

“Venna is busy with other tasks,” I add. Like finding out how to get this stupid fucking shackle off my wrist so my magic is no longer manipulated.

“The Mother Priestess from the Sect of the Faceless Goddess has traveled with us here to Sturmfrost,” Siegrid continues. “You will need to meet with her once or twice before the ceremony to prepare. She’s staying with the order in the commoner side of the city, but she’ll come to the castle for your meetings.”

I nod. “Anything else we need to prepare for?”

“The nobles. The coronation cannot happen without the majority of them in attendance. After all, if no one attends the ceremony, is it even legitimate? As mentioned, Noemi will travel to the seven fiefdoms over the next three weeks and secure noble attendance. Since she is one of them herself, the nobles should accept her overtures.”

Noemi smiles at this, blushing prettily. Everything she does is pretty.

Stark’s barely taken his eyes off her since he sat down, so he’s surely aware.

And that ugly seed of jealousy is back again, coupled with a spiteful voice that says, Good, get the fuck out of my city. Am I jealous of his relationship with her or just… her? Her looks and her grace and her effortlessness?

I might be wearing the crown, but she looks more the part.

“Stark will accompany Noemi on this diplomatic mission,” Siegrid

continues.

And my stomach drops to the floor.

Well, that answers that question at least. I am most definitely jealous of their relationship. The idea of the two of them out on the road together, sleeping under the stars… Stark’s head snaps up toward his mother, his glower burning enough to singe. “I was not made aware of this.”

Siegrid shrugs. “It’s been decided,” she says coolly. “You’re a necessary

component of this strategy.”

The two of them stare each other down so viciously that I start to grow uncomfortable. Surely this is worse than Siegrid’s and my glaring match. I know the Sovereign Alpha is also his superior, but is this seriously what his relationship is like with his mother?

The frost between them bites as hard as the worst of winter.

Eventually, Siegrid shifts her attention away from him and back to me, as if deciding that his opinions about this don’t matter.

“Stark’s reputation makes him particularly persuasive in these matters.

Certain nobles may hesitate to pledge allegiance to a new queen, but none would dare refuse the Daemos Alpha’s… invitation.”

I glance over to him, only to discover that Noemi’s put her hand on his arm and is stroking it lightly, as if trying to calm him down. It seems to be working; he’s settled back in his seat, brutally stabbing at the meat on his plate but no longer murdering his mother with his eyes.

“If he can be spared here,” I say, “then—”

“He can,” Siegrid interrupts, her tone brooking no room for argument.

“As I said, it’s been decided.”

I spend the rest of the dinner living with the unsettling feeling that despite being queen, I am very much not in charge of anything.

After the meal ends, I find Anassa in my chambers, curled up in front of Saela’s door. “Has she fed again?” I ask her quietly.

“No need yet,” Anassa replies.

I open the door silently and duck my head inside. The room is dark.

Saela is fast asleep, curled on her side in a tiny ball as she used to do when she was a smaller child.

Asleep, she looks almost herself—a normal girl of eleven without the weight of unimaginable trauma on her shoulders.

I kneel beside her bed and slowly brush a strand of hair from her face, careful not to wake her. When she opens her eyes, the weight will fall on her again. I know that. But for now, her face is relaxed and her expression

peaceful.

Hopefully, that peaceful expression means she’s not trapped in some shadow realm with Killian while she sleeps, or otherwise being manipulated by her Siphon sire.

I sigh and settle my chin on the edge of the mattress. I watch her slowly breathe. When Saela’s fingers twitch in her sleep, I fight not to cry.

A soft knock on the external door has me sitting up. “Anassa?”

She responds without words; she left for the woods again and can’t tell me who’s at my door. I look back to Saela for another long moment, soaking in the quiet, then I stand, leaving Saela’s room and locking her in.

The knock comes again moments before I answer it.

And when I pull it open, Valstark is standing there.

He’s still wearing his formal wear, except it looks like some of his wildness is starting to tear free from it. His jacket is unbuttoned, as are the top buttons of his shirt, revealing more runic ink. His cuffs are undone. His once neatly arranged hair looks like he’s dragged his fingers through it a few times now.

Or maybe Noemi did, says that wretched jealous voice.

Before I can question why my heart is beating so loud or if he can hear it, Stark lifts his hand to show me the tattoo pen he’s carrying.

“You need your marks for the Bonded you killed in the arena,” he says plainly.

His words hit me like a splash of cold water in the face. Fuck.

It’s not that I’ve forgotten what I did.

How I entirely lost control in front of everyone, how I effortlessly killed so many of the Bonded who had just graduated the Trials. But between Saela, the Sovereign Alpha’s arrival, and my nightmares, it’s been easy to ignore my own vicious, ruinous mistakes.

I took those lives, and it’s my job to remember them.

I step aside. Stark doesn’t look at me as he enters my chambers. I listen to the gentle tap of the ink bottle as he sets it down on the low table next to the chaise. My chambers are still dark. Quiet.

And the two of us are excruciatingly alone.