2 - Devotion

Rowan

All my life, I've heard stories of fated mates. Growing up in a pack of werewolves lends some truth to fairy tales, so my parents — the former alpha and luna — would have to get creative at bedtime when I was a kid. Some of my earliest, fondest memories were the times my dad bundled me up in an old, worn blanket I'd had since I was a baby and set me down in his lap to tell me the story of how he met my mum. It was a story I'd heard thousands of times, but I never grew tired of it. It never lost its magic no matter how many times it was spoken.

They kept the magic of their bond alive in every lingering look of devotion and in every word unspoken.

My mum would sit with us, ruffle my hair, and listen with a soft smile on her lips as the story weaved before us on a golden ribbon. She'd stare at my dad as though he was the sunrise after an endless night; he'd stare at her as though she was a stunning sunset he never wanted to take his eyes off.

I'd fall asleep like that, despite my best intentions to stay awake; wrapped up in their arms, warm and safe and with their devotion seeping like silk through the air.

You'll find your fated one day, Rowan, and then you'll see there's nothing as powerful and sacred in this world as the moment you find them.

I found him, in the end, but it had not been devotion at first sight. It had been a chaotic blur of slashes and grunts and gasps and my fated in the middle of it all, covered in blood, twirling a knife, his eyes electric with fury.

I hadn't known then, of course. The scent of silver and blood overpowered everything else. I'd looked into those eyes of his and saw a brittle, cracking mask. He was alone and injured and, though he tried hard to hide it, afraid. I couldn't leave him, hunter or not.

It was later, when I brought him home, once he'd showered and the distracting fog was gone, that I caught his scent and I knew.

It seemed impossible — an alpha werewolf having a hunter as his fated — but I looked in his eyes and something deep within me fell into place. Aligned. Then I felt that devotion, as immovable and ever-present as the mountains watching over my home.

He was wary, mistrusting, and downright terrifying when he wanted to be, but I'd known in that moment I couldn't lose him. I couldn't let him slip through my fingers.

Hence the truce, which formed an alliance, which formed something deeper, more trusting, and utterly perfect.

Amidst the rivalry with Duskland and his hunter relatives hellbent on revenge, we found something powerful and sacred indeed. A force to be reckoned with.

We have fought hard for this peace, tackling rivals and hunters and Hazes, which is why I cannot stand seeing him as he is now.

I know the thought of the remaining Ferreus hunters out there is worrying him. I know he's not one to bury his head in the sand and ignore a problem until it is upon him. I cannot stand the thought of him rushing off to tackle the demons of his past on his own.

Whatever he chooses, I will be by his side.

He's fighting, again. I'd woken to an empty bed and found him out here, in the training circle, twirling and slashing and tearing apart invisible foes. Even as dawn gives way to a hazy morning, he does not slow. Unlike yesterday, when Beau fancied a challenge, he fights on his own. Indecisive and eager to do something he can control.

I'm braced against the porch fence, watching from a short distance, but I don't disturb him. Nor do I announce myself. He knows I'm here because it is in his nature to be alert and aware of his surroundings. I lose myself a little to admiration. Watching him fight is like watching unruly ocean waves bear down on a coastline, furious and unyielding and remarkably beautiful.

River is not entirely human and, watching him now as he settles into his training like it's an archaic art form, I can believe it. He is something other. Something as sharp and deadly and gorgeous as the knives he twirls in his hands. His eyes are silver — just the irises at the moment, mercifully — his hair dark as midnight, his sharp features set in a semi-permanent frown. His form is tense and lithe as a wary panther. Every movement is swift and calculated. He holds himself with the grim certainty of a god of war who knows a fight is around every corner. To relax, to let down his guard, would make him vulnerable, and vulnerability is not something that agrees with him. On his exposed arms, I catch the tangled roots of symbols and lichtenberg figures, like pale strikes of lightning surging beneath his skin.

He hasn't been sleeping well. Not since the night I told him my suspicions about his natural defences against a bite that would be fatal to a human. Silver surges through his veins, a defence mechanism, and a Haze could descend the moment he's under threat.

Finding him out here has become my morning routine. He fights like others would meditate— as though it helps him clear his mind.

I know he means to return to his former home. I know he intends to target the rest of the Ferreus hunters and ensure the peace we have lasts without their deadly shadows lurking. But as much as he appears unflinching in the face of danger, I know the idea is daunting to him. He ran from them, from a life of misery and torment, and the thought of going right back into that mess can't be a pleasant one.

It is in his nature to fight, but it is in his nature to survive, too.

No wonder he's uncertain.

The clearing is alive with a symphony, this morning. Birds chirping, wind whistling, leaves rustling, knives landing in tree bark with dull thuds. A cool breeze tousles my hair and caresses my skin as the crisp scent of sun-kissed dew and moss has my wolf stirring in the back of my mind, his nose twitching as he emerges from a nap.

A new noise joins the peaceful concert— the click of the front door to the pack house opening behind me.

Though there are many cottages dotted throughout the woods, werewolves are pack creatures and, more often than not, they congregate here. In the heart of our land, surrounded by our family, is where they feel at their safest.

It is a testament to River's progress and his tolerance that he feels safe enough living so close to the very beings he was raised to hate.

"Ro, can I have a word?" It's Matteo— one of the pack's scouts. His voice is soft, tentative, and I hear the door click shut after him.

I turn to face him, leaving River to his fight and his hounding thoughts, and study the pinch to Teo's dark brows and the lines of tension blurring his features. Duty calls.

"Of course. Here or in my office?"

The clearing is empty except for us and River, but the trails might not be so quiet. Werewolves have the ears for eavesdropping even without directly meaning to, and if Matteo would rather have this conversation somewhere private, the soundproofed walls would help.

Matteo's focus flickers over my shoulder, to where River rains hellfire down on invisible foes. As my fated, he has as much control and sway over this pack as I do, though I'm not sure he realises it. As such, it's no surprise Matteo doesn't seem to mind his presence.

In fact, his lips twitch with a little smile and he says, "No, here's fine."

There's a little pause as he clears his throat, tugs a hand through his springy curls, and adjusts his weight from foot to foot.

"I, uh... I heard off Darius, just now."

"Oh," I let out, my brows rising with mingling surprise and intrigue. "What did he say?"

Darius is the alpha of Matteo's former pack. Years ago, as most werewolves do, he decided to leave his home pack in search of his fated. The pull of the fated bond is a guiding light in our world, and it led him here. Though he didn't find Kay until months later, he claimed Crescent Valley called to him and he wanted to settle. This was back when my parents were still alive and in charge. They welcomed him with open arms, as did I.

He searched the town fervently but with no luck. Months passed and he eventually stumbled upon an unfortunate soul bitten and abandoned by a rogue wolf who had wandered onto the outskirts of our home. We took care of the rogue wolf, but not before the damage had been done, and a person was bitten. That person was Kay, caught midway through their first shift with not a clue what was happening to them. Matteo helped them through it and, in the process, he knew he had found his kindred soul, his fated— a platonic bond as strong as any other fated connection.

Not all werewolves mate and become lovers. Some, like Kay and Teo, do not need a sexual connection to realise their devotion to one another.

It is common practice for werewolves to leave the pack they were born into, and common practice for them to keep in touch every now and then. These connections form an interconnected web of security. The only reason Darius would call Matteo would be to ask for help— which is not an assuring thought.

Some echo of tension must tug at my features, because he winces a little and rubs at the back of his neck. "Sounds like he's got something of a hunter problem. I'm asking for your permission to head over there and make sure they're alright."

Of course. Dutiful to the end.

"What's wrong?" River asks, coming up beside me. I had grown so used to the sound of him fighting that I hadn't noticed when he stopped, much less approached to join us.

I suppress a little flinch of shock and he winces in sympathy. He's not doing it on purpose— in fact, the ability to tread softly, to avoid detection from werewolves, seems to be instinctual for him. Drilled into him from a young age, perhaps.

Unbidden, I think of the confrontation in the woods with a few of his relatives— Orion, Liliana and Charlotte. I think of the fury with which they'd glared at him, demanding he joined them and gave in to his nature. It makes me sick to imagine him growing up beneath their scrutiny. To him, there is no such thing as yielding. In every fight, he aims to win or die trying.

As a hint of his scent weaves into the air around us, all woods after dark, my wolf stirs in the back of my head, his tail thumping with joy. I've grown up feeling his presence in my head, and now it is second nature to feel his reactions as surely as if they are my own. He's elated that we've found our mate. Every time I shift, he wants to bound around like a lovesick puppy and I have to haul him back under control. River may not want to kill us — anymore, that is — but he is still understandably wary of wolves being close to him. A lingering fear of being bitten, no doubt. I will not let my wolf's excitement scare him off. Every step we take has to be tentative and, above all else, down to River.

He has lived with a silver dagger aimed at his back for so long, and I will do all I can to ensure he has control over his life. That's why we're not mated. That's why we may never mate fully. If he does not want it, I would rather die than force him into it. He has lived his life chained to a silver legacy, and now he's free of those shackles, I will not chain him to my fate.

"Teo's old pack are having a bit of a hunter problem," I tell him, idly admiring the way his hair is all tousled after his training. His shoulders rise and fall with deep, steadying breaths and his eyes are alight with intrigue. "He wants to head over there to help out."

"Help out?" he echoes with a frown— an expression that settles over his features with ease, so used to suspicion as he must be. His knowledge of the intricacies of werewolves is steeped in silver. As a hunter, he has seen my kind at our worst and knows only what makes a pack weak, not what makes one strong.

"Not all packs are rivals," I say, crossing my arms and leaning back against the porch fence. "We've built up a network over the years, when my parents were alpha and luna. The idea of it is simple enough— you watch our back and we'll watch yours, that sort of thing. Most of us grew up here, but a few moved to Crescent Valley from their old packs, and these packs have become our allies."

He hums; uncertain, musing. If anything, his frown deepens further. "Why didn't you call on them for the mess with Duskland and my— and the hunters?"

He clears his throat and his features pinch with something dangerously close to agony at the slip, as though merely naming those hunters as his family causes him pain. I want nothing more than to hold him close, to assure him that the danger has passed and we can focus our efforts into hiding instead of falling into another fight— but I know that isn't what he needs. He knows better than any of us the threat those Ferreus hunters pose. We could hide, but it wouldn't last forever. They will find us eventually, and River believes our best chance is to catch them off-guard before they can do the same to us. He doesn't need to be coddled and shielded from the messes of this world. He needs someone to be by his side and to have his back no matter what he chooses.

"When it comes to dealing with rivals," I explain, "if a pack must call on aid, they aren't strong enough to face the threat. It would have been as though we bared our throats to Duskland and said 'come and get us, we're too weak to deal with you on our own'. In other words, we wouldn't deserve the land if we couldn't defend it. As for the hunters, I thought it best to kill two birds with one stone, so to speak. Offer the truce to Duskland and use their numbers to weaken the hunters."

He watches me closely, his brows furrowed as admiration and confusion swirl behind his silver gaze— as though uncertain whether my methods are foolish or impressive.

"Could it be Ferreus hunters targeting Darius' pack, do you think?" Matteo asks, a flicker of worry lighting behind his gaze. I know why. We faced only three of them, a month ago, and that had been a close call. We'd lost people — good people — to them and we weren't even their main target.

"No," River dismisses at once. His expression goes dark, as though a light has switched off behind his eyes. When he speaks, his tone is hard. Unflinching. "They wouldn't make themselves known until they had ensured the upper hand. If it were them, there wouldn't be anyone left alive to call for help."