Chapter 7: A Mark Offered, A Mark Withheld

The infirmary had been cleared of cameras by the time Nora arrived after class. Someone, probably Hudson, had made sure of it.

Mason Reed sat propped against a stack of pillows in the corner bed, a tray of untouched hospital food on his lap. His dark hair stuck up on one side. The IV was gone. When she knocked on the doorframe, he looked up so fast that he knocked a spoon onto the floor.

"You came."

"I said I would." She picked up the spoon and set it on the tray. "You're supposed to eat that."

"It's gray."

"It's oatmeal."

"It's a gray crime." He nearly smiled, and the effort made him wince. "Sorry. I'm not very good at this. Hudson said I should say something clever. I've been practicing since breakfast and I've forgotten all of it."

Nora took the chair beside the bed. Up close he looked even younger than twenty-two. Faint shadows under his eyes, a scar along his forearm, hands that couldn't quite settle on the blanket.

"What do you remember?" she asked.

"Sand. Noise." His fingers tightened. "Then something green and warm. Like somebody opening a window in a cold room." He looked at her. "That was you."

"That was a standard C-plus soothing."

"Nora."

"A very standard one."

His lip twitched. "I won't tell. I'll just think about it a lot."

She laughed before she could stop herself, and the sound seemed to surprise them both.

They sat quietly for a moment. Then Mason cleared his throat and straightened, as if bracing for a blow.

"I should explain the warning," he said. "I said you shouldn't go on Saturday."

"You said they know what I am."

"I was on night duty at the Council annex last month." His voice dropped. "Guard rotation. I stood outside a door while Councilor Marlow Vance met with two men from the Pack Registry. They were talking about a girl whose file had been 'adjusted.' Silver Hollow blood on paper, but Greene on the mother's side. They said the Well would reach for her when she came of age. They said they'd be waiting."

Nora's stomach turned over. "Did they say my name?"

"No. But when the matches went out on Wednesday, I saw yours on the list. Nora Whitlock, mother Marian Greene Whitlock." His throat worked. "I knew."

"And you didn't tell anyone."

"Who would I tell?" He gave a small, humorless smile. "I'm a level-eight guard. The Council doesn't listen to me. I thought if I could just reach you before Saturday..."

"Instead you went feral in front of three hundred people."

"Yeah." He looked at his hands. "I'd been holding on for two years. When your name came up on the stream, I think something in me let go."

She didn't say anything. She reached out, took his hand, and held it. His fingers were warm and rough and shook very slightly.

"Thank you," she said. "For trying."

Mason looked at their joined hands as if she had handed him the sun. Then he swallowed hard and sat up straighter.

"Nora. I want to offer you my mark."

Her breath caught.

"I know it's fast. I know we don't know each other." The words tumbled out. "But I've never been so sure of anything. The mark is just a promise. You can refuse. I won't be angry. I just wanted you to know that I'd give it, if you wanted it."

A mating mark, once accepted, bound a wolf to his mate for life. He would feel her pain. She would feel his. In a world where a male's mind was fragile, it was the most intimate gift one wolf could give another.

Nora looked at the boy in the hospital bed, at the oatmeal he hated and the hands that never knew where to go, and her chest ached with something unfamiliar.

"Mason," she said gently. "Can I ask for time?"

His face fell, and he made a heroic effort to hide it. "Of course."

"I don't mean no." She squeezed his hand. "I mean I've spent a lot of my life choosing fast, because I had to. I'd like to choose this one slowly. I want to know your favorite food and what you're afraid of and what you do when you're angry. And then I want to say yes, if it's still yes, with my eyes open."

Mason stared at her.

"That's," he said, voice cracking, "a really good answer."

"I'm told I have a gift."

"Then I'll wait. I'm good at waiting." He turned her hand over, pressed a quick, shy kiss to her knuckles, and went crimson to the tips of his ears. "My favorite food is grilled cheese. I'm afraid of the dark. And when I'm angry, I clean things."

"That's a good start."

"Is it?"

"Yes," Nora said, and meant it.

---

Outside the infirmary, a girl was leaning against the corridor wall with her arms folded.

She had blue-green hair, sharply cut, a white Moonstone blazer with the collar flipped up, and the expression of a cat that had cornered something small. Nora recognized the surname on her badge before she read the first name. D. Frost.

"You're the ten-match girl," the girl said.

"Hello. And you're Gideon's cousin."

"Delaney." Her mouth curved. "I wanted to meet the woman who's been making such a mess of my family's good name."

"I'd say I was tidying it."

Delaney's smile flickered. She pushed off the wall and drifted closer, circling like a gull. "My cousin tells me you're a C-plus. Ten matches and you can't carry a single one. If I were you, I'd be smart enough to release at least a few of them before the Council gets curious about why the Moon Well made such an odd choice."

"That's kind."

"It's advice." The smile sharpened. "Savannah says you'll fall apart by the end of the month. I just thought you should know you've already lost."

She turned on one heel and left.

Nora watched her go, then looked down at her own hands, still warm from Mason's. She had not lost anything. But Delaney had told her something useful all the same: Savannah was already talking about her to the other girls, and she was telling them a story.

Good, Nora thought. Let her write it. I'll write the ending.

---

She was wrestling a tangle of Poppy's dorm gossip, a half-finished essay, and the brass key still warm under her shirt when someone knocked on her door at ten p.m.

Hudson Pierce stood on the porch in full guard gear, black jacket buttoned to the throat, hair damp from the shower. For once there was no lazy smile. His amber eyes were hard and bright.

"Don't turn on the lights," he said quietly. "Pack a bag."

Nora was already reaching for her boots. "The hunt?"

"Preston moved it up. He's sent an order that we leave at midnight, not dawn. He's got a convoy waiting at the east gate." His jaw tightened. "He wants us on that ridge in the dark."

"Why?"

"Because a Thornback is twice as dangerous at night." Hudson stepped closer, close enough that she could smell lemon soap and cold rain. "And because the Council card that registers you as my soother is only valid until sunrise Friday. If we're late, he can claim you broke the Charter."

Nora swore under her breath. It was a good trap. She almost admired it.

"I'm coming," she said.

"I know." Hudson's hand came up and, very lightly, brushed a strand of hair behind her ear. His voice dropped. "I just wanted to say that if anything goes wrong tonight, Mason will want to be told by me. Not by anyone else. So I'm asking you to be careful."

She looked up at him. For a heartbeat, neither of them moved.

"I'll be careful," she said. "You too."

He grinned then, small and crooked, the first real smile she'd seen on him all day. "Always."

Behind him, two more figures stepped out of the shadows of the porch: Jackson Rowe, in his gray security jacket, arms crossed and glowering, and a tall, white-haired man in a dark blue field jacket with silver ears flat against his head, a rifle slung over one shoulder.

"Don't look at me like that," Brooks Callahan said, flashing her a nervous grin. "I told you I'd be here Saturday. I'm a little early."

Nora stared at the three of them, her mates, standing on her doorstep at ten at night in full gear.

"We're not letting you go alone," Jackson muttered.

She picked up her bag. "Then let's not keep Preston waiting."