Blood beneath silverware

POV SIENNA

At eight o'clock sharp, the main dining room looked like the stage for an armed truce.

A solid walnut table seating twelve people dominated the center, lit by a wrought-iron chandelier whose flames danced over the dark wood, casting long, restless shadows. At the heads sat the hierarchy, Marcus at one end, imposing and composed with a glass of red wine swirling between his fingers, and my mother to his right, wearing an emerald silk dress that screamed a desperate effort to fit in with every carefully arranged fold.

And to my utter misfortune, the seating arrangement placed me directly across from Killian.

He had changed his clothes. He wore a black shirt with the top few buttons undone and sleeves rolled to his elbows, revealing broad forearms crisscrossed with pale scars and pulled tight with muscle. He did not look at me when I sat down, did not even turn his head, yet the air around him hummed with that same heavy, electric charge that made my skin prickle beneath my gray wool sweater.

"To new beginnings," Marcus toasted, raising his glass until the crystal chimed softly. Rory clinked hers with a smile that tried to be dazzling and almost succeeded. "And to the joining of two families that will enrich Iron Ridge."

I sipped my water without lifting my gaze from the rim of the glass.

"Killian," the Alpha continued, his baritone filling the room, accustomed to deference and unanswered obedience, "tomorrow morning you will take Sienna to tour the perimeter and the training grounds. She needs to become familiar with the pack's defenses if she is to live here. She cannot walk blind."

I nearly choked on my water.

"That will not be necessary," I cut in at once, before he could open his mouth to turn me down. "I know how to find my own way, Mr. Thorne. I have survived perfectly well without escorts or guides these past three years. I do not need anyone holding my hand."

Killian rested his elbows on the table, lacing together long, knuckled fingers, and a crooked, sharp, deadly smile curved his lips.

"Of course it is not necessary, Father," he said, his tone smooth silk draped over venom. "A she-wolf without a pack, used to scavenging among humans and rooting through whatever she can find, will hardly know a trail from a tactical combat field. She would only get in the warriors' way."

Rory paled sharply, pressing her napkin tight against her lap until her knuckles blanched.

"Killian…" my mother began softly, trying to smooth waters he was deliberately stirring.

"It is fascinating that you mention where I have found my meals, stepbrother," I cut back, meeting his gaze with all the ice I felt and returning a smile every bit as false as his. "Especially since your pride reeks of exactly the same thing, stale refuse no one has bothered to clear away. Though I suppose here in Iron Ridge, they mistake arrogance for true authority."

Marcus’s fork clattered against the porcelain plate. The sound was sharp, clean, cracking the air like a whip.

"Sienna," my mother whispered, her voice frayed with shame and fear.

Beneath the table, the reply came before she finished speaking. A heavy leather military boot struck deliberately against the toe of my boot, shoving my leg hard back. I lifted my gaze slowly. His gray eyes challenged me openly over the rim of his glass, glowing with defiance he made no effort to hide.

I did not flinch. If anything, I leaned into it. I stretched my leg beneath the tablecloth and kicked back with every ounce of strength I had, planting the heel of my boot squarely over the toe of his and bearing down my full weight, firm, unyielding, not giving a single millimeter.

Killian’s jaw set hard as stone. The only sign it hurt, the only sign he had not expected it, was a near-invisible flicker in the tight muscle along his neck.

"I like that fire in you, little scavenger," he said aloud, speaking to his father with a calm that chilled the blood, never once breaking eye contact. "But in this pack, fire that cannot be controlled gets beaten down. Or chained."

And under the table, his leg moved. With predatory speed he slid his calf between mine. His boot hooked behind my ankle and pulled forward with relentless force, dragging my leg toward his side before I could jerk free. I twisted to yank away, but his thighs trapped my knee in an iron hold that left no room to escape.

The contact through our clothing ignited something I could not stop. A wave of searing heat swept through me, sudden and consuming. Mate, my she-wolf whimpered from somewhere deep inside, rubbing against my resolve, betraying me at the very moment I most needed to keep my head clear. Sparks from the bond skittered beneath my skin, sending a hot, liquid throb straight through my lower belly that stole my breath.

I gripped the table’s edge so hard my knuckles turned white.

"Marcus," I said, fighting with every fiber of my being to keep my voice steady while I wrestled blindly under the cloth, "do they always let the puppies bark this loud before they are allowed to eat, or is that a privilege reserved only for the heir?"

Marcus let out a dry laugh, genuinely amused, completely unaware of the war being waged two feet above the floor.

"She has backbone, boy. I told you. She will not be easily intimidated."

Beneath the table, Killian did not let go. If anything, he pressed harder, and the toe of his boot began a slow climb up the inside of my calf, a caress, invasive and deliberate, that contradicted every harsh word he had spoken. The contradiction between the contempt he showed everyone and the possessive intensity radiating from him only for me was driving me half-mad.

I slid my hand under the tablecloth, pretending to arrange my napkin over my lap. I felt blindly in the shadow, found the thick fabric of his trousers right above the knee, and sank my nails in with all the pent-up rage I possessed, pinching hard, determined to hurt him for real.

Killian froze. A low, guttural growl vibrated in his chest, so deep the others did not hear it, yet thrumming strong enough to raise every hair along my spine. His pupils blew wide, swallowing the gray until only lethal darkness remained.

His hand shot down like lightning. Broad, calloused fingers wrapped around my wrist with the force of steel manacles. He wrenched my hand up, tearing it from his leg, yet he did not let go. He laced his fingers through mine in a crushing grip, pressing our palms together beneath the white cloth as if he meant to force me into becoming part of him.

The jolt was violent, electric, making my back arch almost involuntarily. His skin burned. He squeezed my fingers with a mix of fury and desperation, as if his wolf refused to break contact even while his mind loathed it. His thumb brushed the sensitive inside of my wrist, right where my pulse hammered wild and fast. He felt it. He knew exactly what he was doing to me.

A slow, dark, triumphant smile curled the corner of his mouth.

"Tomorrow morning at six, east training field, stepsister," he announced aloud, lifting his glass with his free hand and taking a long drink without loosening his hold on my hand even a fraction. "Wear something you do not mind getting muddy. I hate waiting for those who cannot keep pace."

"I will be there," I got out, breath catching, locking my eyes to his as his fingers tightened just a little more. "And you had better pray it is not your blood that ends staining the ground."

Marcus raised his glass toward us, pleased by what he mistook for simple rivalry between young, territorial pack members. And far beneath the tablecloth, hidden from every eye, Killian and I held that burning, poisonous clasp, silently sealing the first battle in a war neither of us had any intention of losing.