Chapter 7: Sting of Contempt

LYRA

The noise in this hall is too loud, and it’s taking away my breath… more like choking me. Even the bowl of stew in front of me now looks like a grey mush, another remainder that I don’t belong here, another part of this cage, another thing I’m supposed to be grateful for, another reminder that I’m here and my father is dust.

I keep my head down trying not to make an eye contact with anyone, my shoulders are tight but still every looks feels overwhelming, every whispers feels like I’m being judge, and I just want to scream, to flip this whole table and watch there feast burn.

Then Fenris appears, all snarl and heave, and he walks by like a boss, and his shoulder bumps into mine. It was quite obvious that it was on purpose but I stand my ground, I refuse to let him have the pleasure of seeing me upset, I just grip the edge of the table so tightly that my knuckles turn white.

"Heh," he mutters, in a dark and nasty tone, and he pretends to trip and spills his mug, that the whole scene gets frozen for a moment while the cold, bitter ale is poured all over me, it flows through my hair, a shocking and sticky wave, dripping from my face, neck, and soaking into my shirt, and then the laughter of the people in the hall becomes like a hammer hitting me from all directions.

“Pardon me, little wolf," Fenris mocks, his smile like a hunter. "Clumsy me. My feet seem to have a will of their own where strays are concerned."

That’s it. Something snaps inside me, a wire strung too tight, and I am there, the chair squeaking on the stone like a wounded animal, ale spilling from my hair and face, my entire body convulsing with an anger so absolute that it is all I am. “Touch me again,” I hiss, the utterance tearing from the depth of my stomach, “and the other hand will be your eating hand for a good whole month.”

Mara, a woman with a thin face, leans over another table, her eyes sparkling with unpleasant satisfaction. “Oh, she’s got claws,” she says. “What are you going to do, pet? Crawl to the high table and cry to the Alpha?”

His name hits me like a slap. “I don’t cry to anybody,” I say with a snarl, and the lie is unpleasantly metallic in my mouth. “Especially not him.”

“Oh, is it?" she taunts, her voice a witch-like sing-song full of venom. "Because from my vantage point, he’s the only reason you’re still alive. You should be kissing his feet, not saying something you can’t back up."

And I can’t help it… my eyes are pulled away from hers, a magnetic, idiotic, self-destructing pull across the length of the hall, up to the high table, and he's there. Kael. Just standing there, looking. Not moving, not speaking, elbows on the dark wood, his hands were folded and rested on his chin, and those gold eyes are on me, unblinking, sharp, talking it all in… the spilled ale, my harsh breathing, the rage twisting my face… and he feels none of that there, none of sympathy, just this… this heightened stillness, as if he’s observing some strange caged beast, and the heat of his attention is a caress. It moves over my wet skin, my fists tight, and it stirs something deep inside me, a burning, shameful spark that has no place here, not now, not with him, and I hate it, I hate him, It pisses me off that I still flush, even with cold ale dripping down my body.

Fenris sees where I’m looking and laughs, a cruel, knowing sound. “See? He doesn’t care. Why would he? You’re just something he took. A prize from a dead pack. And not even a whole one at that.”

The words are meant to break me, but all I can envision is Kael, that maddening, electric stillness, and my voice sinks to a hard whisper, meant for him only above the noise, a challenge and a prayer combined. "Is this the game, then? Shame the broken prize?"

Roric shifts next to him, his expression uneasy, and rises at last to his feet, his voice tiredly, as if he's acting. "Fenris. Stop. Sit down."

Fenris merely smiles and bows mockingly. "Just greeting our guest, Roric. Helping her feel at home." And then he strolls away, not interested in Roric's words… a clear indication that this was allowed, this was rehearsed, this was all him.

The hurt of it… the beer, the words, but his crushing, clinging silence most of all… is worse than any blow. It's a burning that flares through the anger, stripping me bare and shaking, and I cannot remain here, I can’t breathe, I need to leave. I spin around to leave, to find some dark corner to cry out, I take two steps, my heart an enraged, caged bird in my chest.

And then his voice cuts through the uproar, smooth and cold and authoritative, like a lash of a whip that stops me in place.

"Lyra."

I freeze, my back stiff and straight, all the muscles tensed. The whole hall is frozen, waiting, holding their breath, and I can feel his eyes burning into the nape of my neck like a burn, and I won't, I won't turn, I won't give him that.

His tone is soft on intention, but it still has that steel, that hard, clutching note that churns in my stomach, a perilous, unwanted fire. "You are dripping on my floor."

A cold, heavy silence with no terminus, where the only sound is the drip, drip, drip of ale from my hair on to stone.

"Go and wash up."

I flinch. The order is so casual, so disdainful, that it hurts more than a shout. He stops again, the meaning of his previous words registering with me, and all of us, sealing my disgrace.

"When you sit in my hall, you are an extension of me. Your present situation is… disappointing. Don't shame me again."

And there it is. That is what I am. An extension. A disappointment. A thing to rinse off. The laughter resumes. not the jeering before, but low and menacing, the laughter of a pack that's pleased a lesson has been learned, their pack leader showing his new toy her place… and it stays with me, haunting me as I finally collapse and run, the laughter ringing out behind me down the cold dark stone corridor, accompaniment to my bruised pride, and all I can feel is the cold dampness on my skin and the burning, awful heat of his eyes.