Pawn Or Partner

Chapter 4

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Zen

The first time she cried, I expected her to beg.

Most do. Wolves abandoned by their pack usually crawl on their knees, bargaining, spitting empty promises of loyalty.

But Estelle didn’t do that.

She folded into herself on the cold ground, shaking like she was breaking apart, and I stood there watching, arms crossed, daring her to prove me right.

Her father’s message still burned in my hand. She means nothing to me. Do with her as you please.

Nothing. That was the word he used. The great Alpha Ronan didn’t even bother with excuses. He had disowned her with a single sentence.

And yet she wept like she still belonged to him.

Pathetic. Or maybe… not.

I wasn’t sure why I didn’t throw her out that night. It would have been easy.

My men hated her already, the daughter of their enemy, sitting in our den like a lamb waiting for slaughter. Some wanted her executed, others wanted her dragged back across the border as a warning. I silenced them with a look. For reasons I didn’t care to name, I told them she stayed.

But staying meant she would learn. And she would suffer.

The next morning, I dragged her to the training field. Her eyes were swollen, her hair tangled, her hands trembling.

She looked more like a ghost than a wolf, yet when I tossed her a wooden blade, she caught it clumsily instead of letting it fall.

“Pick it up properly,” I ordered.

She blinked at me. “I— I don’t know how.”

“Then learn.” I closed the distance, shoving her shoulders back and forcing her spine straight. “Out here, no one cares that you were once promised a crown. You’re a rogue. You fight, or you die.”

I expected her to drop the sword. To spit at me. To collapse.

She didn’t. She adjusted her grip, awkward, but trying.

The warriors jeered. One, Brannon, the largest of the lot, stepped forward, sneering. “Let me test the princess. I would love to know if she bleeds like the rest of us.”

I almost allowed it. Almost. But something in the way she stiffened, jaw set despite fear flashing in her eyes, made me wave him off. “Not yet. She’s mine to break.”

And so I did. For days I pushed her, mocked her, forced her to spar until her arms trembled and her knees gave out. She stumbled, fell, gasped for breath. But every time, she got up again. The jeers softened. The warriors began to watch with something sharper than scorn. Respect, maybe.

I told myself it didn’t matter.

It was the night of the third moon when the attack came.

The camp was quiet, firelight flickering low, warriors asleep in their quarters. I was reviewing border maps when the first cry split the air.

I heard the sound of clashing steel. I heard my wolves snarl. The acrid scent of blood flooded the night.

Assassins.

I burst from my tent, shifting halfway, my claws tearing through the throat of the first intruder before he reached the women’s hut. My men scattered into formation, blades flashing beneath the moon.

And then I saw her.

Estelle stood near the fire pit, frozen, a blade pointed at her throat by a masked wolf. She should have cowered, but instead, she swung wildly with the wooden sword I had forced her to carry during training. I almost froze, surprised by her determination.

It wasn’t much, but it bought her a heartbeat. Enough for me to strike.

The assassin fell. She staggered, her chest heaving, her face smeared with dirt and fear. But she was alive.

“Stay down. Go into the hut or something,” I growled, pulling her behind me.

She didn’t listen. Another attacker lunged, and instead of hiding, she shoved a burning log into his chest. He screamed, catching fire.

She stumbled back, her eyes wide with shock, as if she didn’t believe what she had just done.

I myself wouldn’t have believed it, but I didn’t have time to stop and reflect.

One after another, the assassins fell, until only silence and the stench of blood remained.

I turned to find her kneeling, clutching her arm. Blood seeped between her fingers. Her breath came in sharp, broken gasps.

“Idiot,” I muttered, crouching beside her. I tore at the sleeve of her dress to examine the wound. That was when I saw them.

Marks.

Faint at first, glowing beneath her skin like threads of silver fire. They pulsed against her veins, stretching up her arm, across her collarbone. I paused, furrowing my brows as I tried to recollect.

These weren’t the scars of battle or…abuse. She didn’t seem like she was abused.

Her eyes fluttered open, dazed. “What… what’s happening?”

I didn’t answer. My chest tightened as realization struck. Her father hadn’t just discarded her. He had hidden her, and whatever this was.

The girl wasn’t just a fallen bride. She was probably something far more dangerous.

Something he feared.

When she finally slept, exhaustion dragging her under, I sat at the edge of her cot, studying the faint silver glow that still lingered beneath her skin.

The question was no longer whether to keep her. The question was whether I could afford to let her become my enemy.

Or if I should make her… my partner.

I reached out, brushing my fingers near the markings that burned across her skin, and whispered to the sleeping girl who had once been my enemy’s daughter, “What are you, Estelle?”