Chapter 20

Chapter 20

ELENA

Krystal kept his head down. His hands were shaking around the lavender.

Orrin lifted his boot and kicked the nearest basket over.

Leaves and flowers spilled across the wet dirt. Then he kicked the second one. And the third. He stomped on the lavender, grinding it into the mud with his heel.

The other two laughed and laughed.

Krystal didn't fight back. He didn't even move. He just knelt there with his eyes on the ground, like he had done this a hundred times before. Like he knew that if he fought, it would only be worse.

I didn't think.

There was a row of clay pots by the edge of the garden, stacked up by the wall. I grabbed the top one. It was heavy and full of wet soil.

I threw it as hard as I could.

It hit Orrin right in the middle of the back. It didn't hurt him much. But it burst open, and wet black dirt went everywhere. Down his neck. Into his hair. All over his clean shirt.

The laughing stopped.

Orrin turned around very slowly. His face was covered in mud. His eyes found me standing at the edge of the trees.

I walked forward and put myself between them and Krystal. My legs were shaking. My heart was pounding. I made myself stand up straight anyway.

"Leave him alone," I said.

Orrin stared at me. Then he started to laugh. The other two joined in.

"Look at this," he said. "Look who came to save you, little flower. The human."

"The alpha's pet," one of the others said.

"The human and the freak." Orrin wiped the mud off his face with the back of his hand. "Now that's a pair."

He stepped close to me. Too close. He was a head taller than me, and twice as wide. He smelled like sweat and ale.

"You won one fight," he said softly. "Don't get used to it."

Then he shoved me.

He didn't even push hard. He didn't have to. I flew backward and fell into the garden, right on top of the broken pieces of the clay pot. A sharp edge sliced across my forearm. I felt it cut deep, and hot blood ran down to my wrist.

Somewhere far away, back at the pack house, I knew Kade felt it too.

Orrin looked down at me. For a second, something flickered in his face. Maybe he remembered whose mark was on my wrist. Maybe he remembered what Kade did to Vera.

He spat on the ground. "Come on," he said to the others. "It stinks here."

They walked away up the path, still laughing.

I sat there in the mud with my bleeding arm held against my chest. My breath was coming in short, fast gasps.

A shadow fell over me. I looked up.

Krystal was standing there. Up close, his face was soft and fine-boned, with gentle gray eyes and long dark lashes. There was an old yellow bruise on his cheekbone, almost faded. He held out a slim hand to help me up.

"You shouldn't have done that," he said quietly. "They'll remember you now."

"They already hated me," I said. I took his hand, and he pulled me to my feet. "I'm Elena."

"I know who you are." A small smile touched his mouth. "Everyone knows who you are. I'm Krystal."

He looked down at my arm and his smile went away.

"Come inside," he said. "Let me fix that."

The inside of the hut was small and warm and full of the smell of herbs. Bunches of dried flowers hung from every beam. A fire crackled in the little stone hearth. There was a narrow bed in one corner, a table with two chairs, and shelves full of jars and bottles, all neatly labeled in small, careful handwriting.

He sat me down in a chair by the fire and knelt in front of me. He cleaned the cut gently with warm water and a soft cloth. His hands were steady and quick. He knew exactly what he was doing.

"I'm sorry," he said, without looking up. "For what they said. For what they did. You didn't need to see that."

"Does it happen a lot?"

He shrugged one thin shoulder. That was answer enough.

He reached up to a shelf and took down a small clay jar. He pulled out the cork and scooped some of the balm onto two fingers. It was pale gold, soft and shiny, like honey mixed with butter.

He spread it over the cut on my arm.

And the smell hit me.

Honey. Marigold. The sharp green bite of yarrow. And under it all, faint but clear, a warm, sweet scent of dried orange peel.

My heart jumped into my throat.

I knew that smell. I had known it my whole life. My mother made this balm every summer in our little kitchen. She dried the orange peels on the windowsill in the sun. Nobody else in the whole valley put orange peel in a healing balm. Nobody. It was her secret. She said it helped the skin forget it was ever hurt.

It smelled like home. It smelled exactly like my mother's kitchen.

I grabbed Krystal's wrist before he could pull his hand away.

He looked up at me, surprised.

"Where did you learn to make this?" I asked. My voice was shaking.

Krystal went very still. All the color drained out of his face. His gray eyes went wide, and for a moment, he looked like a deer that had just heard a branch snap in the woods.

He slowly pulled his wrist out of my hand.

"From someone I lost," he said.