Chapter 5

Killian

It’s been hours, and no matter what I do, nothing can take away the scent of burnt pine and blood that seems to be stuck to my very being. Three men are dead; the wall that had been standing since my grandfather’s time has been turned to kindling, and I am left sitting here, staring at a door. 

Cormac, one of my most trusted friends, speaks up, “You are going to burn a hole through the wood if you keep staring like that.”

I glance toward him, and he also looks like hell, his jacket torn at the shoulder, and dried blood is crusted around his face and hands.

He hasn’t left to wash up yet; he's standing here watching this door while I get myself cleaned up. Guilt builds up in my throat, but I can’t allow her to go unwatched, especially after that attack and after learning who she is.

My voice is flat, “She’s sleeping.”

“Good for her. Meanwhile, we still have work to be done.” He drops a stack of papers at my desk, and the thud makes my temples throb.

Cormac’s voice is tense as he states, “The traitor is still walking around, and whoever let those rogues past the eastern ridge knew the patrol blind spots.” He huffs, “We’re questioning the night shift guards again, but so far, no one has seen anything.”

“Right,” I drawl, “Why would anyone be useful?”

My gaze drifts back towards the hallway, five doors down; that’s all there is, only five doors between my desk and that girl. That girl who is wrapped up in a blanket and breathing as if she did not turn an alpha rogue into a hollow shell. 

The black smoky tendrils not only killed the rogue but had eaten him from the inside. I know what she is, there’s no denying it.

It just doesn’t make sense. The council swore that they killed them all three hundred years ago; they committed the Purge of the Dark Bloods. Now, it’s better known as a bedtime story meant to scare young kids into behaving. Be good, or the shadow weavers will get you. 

The stories never mentioned that the shadow weaver could look small and tired and bleed when she tripped.

Cormac huffs as he leans over my desk, blocking my view of the door, “Killian, are you even listening to me?”

I blink as I focus on him, and he shakes his head, aggravated at having to repeat himself, especially on a night like this, when he is already exhausted from the fight earlier and hasn’t had a moment to refresh himself.

“Skylar Raver sent a formal request. The southern delegation wants to visit the border in two weeks. They will be on their way any day now.”

I murmur, “Skylar can wait at the line until his boots rot.”

My mind spins while my body remains still. If she has that blood, then the council will come and burn my entire territory to find her.

They love to burn things. They did the same thing to my father because he wouldn’t hand over the northern trees. They called it treason; I call it a land grab. If they found out what is sitting in my high tower, they would not only steal my land, they would erase us.

Maybe this is what I’ve been waiting for.

Could this be a great gift from the goddess? Could she be gifting me a weapon to tear down the people who murdered my father? Is that it?

This feels less like a gift and more like a bomb with a broken timer.

I don’t know if I should use her or kill her before she can use me.

Cormac drops his voice, “We cannot tell Skylar. If the south hears about what happened to our wall...”

“They won’t hear anything,” I respond as I stand, needing to move. I huff, “Tell the guards to double the perimeter. Nobody goes near her room. If she asks for water, you bring it yourself.”

“Do you trust her?” He asks, his voice lower than before.

“I don’t trust anything that doesn’t have a heartbeat that I can understand,” I answer as I walk to the window. The eastern wall looks like it’s missing a tooth from here.

With a heavy breath, I add, “But she is here now, and I am not throwing away a knife just because it might cut me.”

My mind drifts to Skylar and soon, I’m murmuring his name. 

I clench my jaw tightly as I think of the perfect golden alpha with his clean borders and spotless reputation.

That man was supposed to have her. He was her fated mate before everything twisted and the swap happened.

Heat crawls up my body; it’s not the kind from tactical threats or border disputes; this is something different. Something stupid. Something that makes me want to rip a man apart with my bare teeth, which is a ridiculous reaction to have about some person who isn’t even here.

I’m a logical man, but my mind is looping on the fact that this man was supposed to have her. I hate it.

“Deny it,” I snap before Cormac can move, “Tell him the border is closed due to structural damage. Tell him we have a wolf cough outbreak. I don’t care. Just tell him to turn his pretty little traveling parade around.”

Cormac blinks in surprise, “We have never denied a formal southern request without a council review, Killian. This is going to look like we’re hiding something.”

“We are hiding something,” I state.

My mind twists sharply as a dark and strangely satisfying thought slips in. 

Skylar has no clue what he threw away. He traded for whatever easy life he was living in the south. He thought he had won something by letting her go, or whatever happened. He thought that she was just some broken thing. He didn’t know that the power she holds is the kind of power that can liquefy an alpha in thirty seconds.

I want to see his face. I want to be in the room when he realizes that he gave up a goddess-level weapon because he couldn’t handle a little dark blood.

“Wait,” I say as I hold a hand up before Cormac can move forward with the plans. I state, “Never mind. Approve it.”

He frowns, completely lost, “But you just…”

“I know what I had said,” I cut in as I stare out at the ruined wall. “Let him come and bring his entire delegation. I want him to cross the border in two weeks; it’ll be funny.”

xxx

The next morning, the air is freezing, and the sky is an ugly gray. I don’t give Reya a choice; I pull her into the thickest part of the pine forest, where the trees grow so close together that the light doesn’t touch the ground.

She moves as if she’s trapped. Her shoulders are tight, and her weight shifts on her toes. It’s sloppy.

“Fix your feet,” I say, and I don’t wait for her to listen. I hit her with my full alpha force. If she is going to break, then I need to know that now.

She does not break; the shadows burst forward. One moment, it’s cold air, and the next, a perfect black sphere solidifies around her. I slam into the edge of it, and it stops me instantly.

It doesn’t just block me, and that is unsettling. The tendrils creep forward, sliding along my skin; it’s light and freezing as it tastes my aura. They feel for my strength, measuring the pulse under my skin, learning the exact way I move.

It’s like someone is looking inside my ribs, peeling back my layers until they find my wolf. It’s disgusting; it’s intimate.

I growl, “Keep it up.”

I push my weight against the dark wall, making myself heavier and faster, forcing her to hold the shape. “Hold it, Reya; if you drop it, then you’re dead.”

She’s shaking; I can feel the quivers through her shadows. Through a haze of black smoke, I see her, pale and gritting her teeth. She holds the sphere for ten seconds, fifteen, and then the sphere slowly dissolves into nothing.

Her knees buckle, and she falls like a dropped stone. I’m moving before my mind can stop. I catch her before her head hits the pine needles.

The moment my skin touches hers, something snaps within me. A jolt shoots down my spine, hot and electrifying, and it has nothing to do with her shadow magic.

My heart thumps hard as I stand here in the woods, holding this unconscious girl, feeling completely derailed.

She is a weapon, I remind myself as I lift her and bring her back to the pack house. 

I’m only keeping the asset functional. If she broke, she’s useless to me against the council. That’s all. I repeat this in my mind with every step I take until we’re back inside the high tower.

By nightfall, she’s still out.

I stand at the edge of her bed, staring down at her. The room is dark except for the moonlight spilling through the window. The blanket has slipped, revealing the side of her neck and shoulder.

I see it.

On her collarbone is a thin silver line that curls slightly, shaped just like a crescent moon. 

My breath catches, my mind is silent. 

I know that mark. I spent 15 years scrubbing the image from my memory.

My mother had that same scar. I saw it, the night they put a blade through her chest and left her on the floor.

I lift my hand; it’s shaking, and I hover an inch above the silver mark, the entire world tilting beneath me.