10 - Tentative Truce

I hear muffled voices coming from down the hall and falter my pace to listen. By the time I've reached the end of it, I glance around the corner and find the werewolves all standing in the lounge, speaking in soft, hushed tones. Beau's back from cleaning duty, and he looks far happier for it. They don't look my way, so for the moment I stay quiet and still and just listen, falling into the instinct of eavesdropping like a moth drawn to a flame.

"What if he tries something?" Morgan demands, pacing before the extravagant hearth. There's a bag set on the coffee table that wasn't there before, and I watch as she falters in her pacing to rifle through it. I hear glass vials clinking and rustling and figure it must be some sort of first-aid kit.

"He won't," Rowan assures her with an aloof shrug, bracing his hands on the back of a sofa. "Not yet, anyway."

The confident tenor of his voice and his relaxed stance baffles me. How could he gamble the lives of his pack based on one walk through the woods? Does he know how much self-restraint it took for me to keep my knives strictly tucked away?

"Maybe you've gone mad," Beau muses, crossing his arms and studying the alpha closely. He settles on the arm of another sofa, as though equally keen to relax but eager to keep his guard up.

Lachlan hums tonelessly from where he stands before the window, arms crossed, considering. He's like a stone sentry, or an Anubis cursed to watch and protect for all eternity.

I expect Rowan to snap, to glare, to wrestle back some respect. But he merely rolls his eyes lightly and says, "Maybe I have. But I couldn't just leave him there." He wanders around the sofa and collapses onto it with a heavy sigh. "He's hurt, and he's alone, and he's scared. We all know what that's like."

Scared?

I narrow my eyes. I was doing perfectly fine before they came along playing hero.

But his words strike a chord in them. At once, they back down with conceding shrugs and fall onto a second sofa.

"He's got good aim," Lachlan notes, a hint of worry lacing into his lilting voice.

"I've got fast reflexes," Rowan retorts, resting his arm over the back of the sofa, his posture exuding a casual, refined grace.

We'll see about that.

He's got sleeve tattoos, I realise. Swooping, graceful swirls of ink caressing his arms. I find my gaze sliding down my own arms and the evidence of my kills lurking stubbornly there. The sight of the markings summons an uncomfortable lump in my throat.

I want this day to be over. I want to lock myself in my car and let sleep dull my hazy, racing thoughts for a while.

So, with a steadying breath, I step forwards. "If your rivals are the Duskland pack, what do you call yourselves?"

"Fucking hell," Beau manages, a startled hand on his chest as he whips round to face me. His eyes flicker with golden flames for a moment— there and gone. "How long have you been there?"

His reaction has my lips twitching with a private smile. I was taught to walk silently, to settle my heart rate and tread softly and blend into my surroundings— and it seems my training holds up even in the heart of a werewolf pack. Good to know.

He's not alone. The others conceal flinches and their gazes snap towards me.

And they continue to stare, and stare, and stare.

But they're not looking at me— not in general. They're looking at my arms, and the swirled lichtenberg markings lurking beneath my skin. A map of chaos and blood; tangled roots of runes and symbols and streaks of lightning. Absently, I wonder if they know what it means.

I scowl beneath the heat of their attention and shrug on the jumper. "Is there a problem?"

Rowan blinks, coming back to himself. He clears his throat and sits up as he says, "No problem. We call ourselves the Crescent Moon pack." Once more, subtly, his eyes flicker down before they lift to study my face. A soft frown tugs at his features as a spark of recognition lights behind his eyes.

The others aren't quite so subtle.

"What are those?" Beau asks plainly, only to be hit on both arms by Lachlan and Morgan, respectively. "Ow—!"

Rowan winces— either in sympathy or embarrassment, I cannot tell. "I know you say you're fine—"

"And I am," I swiftly cut in.

"—But Morgan here is our... I guess you would say pack doctor. She can take a look at you, if you're comfortable with that—"

"She's not coming anywhere near me," I dismiss at once, backing up half a step.

He sighs, melting into his seat. "We're not going to hurt you. Actually, I was hoping we could come to some sort of... agreement. If you're willing."

"Agreement." The word spills from my mouth, coated thickly in disbelief tinged with paranoia.

The others are quiet, watching our exchange like a particularly dangerous tennis match, wincing preemptively as though expecting my knives to go flying at any wrong move or word.

My fingers itch for them, too.

Rowan rises from his seat, stretches, and meanders casually towards me. He's going to great effort to appear nonchalant. I narrow my eyes and hold my ground— glad that the others stay where they are, though they watch on curiously.

The alpha werewolf stops before me. It's the closest we've been so far, and I find myself studying him. Checking for weak points, I tell myself.

His velvet brown eyes peer at me from beneath silken curls of dark, tousled hair. His complexion is olive and smooth, his gaze honeyed and imploring. Rowan crosses his arms and braces himself on the wall; graceful broad shoulders give way to a lean torso and narrow hips, and his very form seeps with power. It curls into the air around him, a haze of elegance and danger, and despite the casual posture, there is no doubt in my mind.

Rowan is a force to be reckoned with. And I'm not seeing any weak points. His form is poised and lithe, like mine, but his must be the result of shifting whereas mine is due to years upon years of ceaseless training.

Similarly, as I find myself staring, he gazes right back at me. His chocolate gaze slides down my form and back up, but any conclusions he makes remain locked away behind his eyes. His nostrils flare a fraction and the embers in his eyes spark into an inferno of gold.

He's sniffing me.

I glare at him. "What do you mean, agreement?"

He startles back to himself, the flames sputtering out into an assuring brown once more. "Um—" he begins haltingly, clearing his throat. "I'm guessing you're on your own out here— is that right?"

Before I can start to argue, before the light of challenge sparks in my eyes, he forges on with a placating tone.

"It's none of my business, I know. I'm offering mutual support. We'll give you a place to stay, some extra eyes and hands on... whatever it is you're doing, and in exchange, you help us take care of the Duskland pack."

"Amicus meus, inimicus inimici mei," I murmur, tentatively considering his offer.

Beau leans close to Morgan and whispers, "Is he reciting a spell?"

Morgan jabs him with her elbow with practised efficiency. Lachlan merely sighs; a long, tortured sound.

"Exactly," Rowan says, his features lighting up as though — at last — he's found some common ground with me. "Whatever resources you need, we can help. Do you want some food? It's a little late but I'm sure I can find some leftovers— it was Kay's turn to cook tonight and they're incredible in the kitchen. We've got a few rooms going spare, too, if you wanted."

His onslaught has me taking an unconscious half-step back, overwhelmed with his insistence. He trails off, his brows tugging into a light frown.

"I've got a place to stay already," I dismiss. "And I don't want your scraps."

"That's not—" he begins, but he falters. With a deflating sigh, he amends, "It's an offer, that's all. Will you help us?"

If my family could see me now...

But they cannot, I hastily remind myself. And this is my mission, not theirs. I'll do whatever I must to survive— even if it means...

"Fine," I relent grudgingly. "I'll align myself with you until the Duskland pack is gone. After that—"

"You'll kill us all in our sleep. We read you loud and clear," Beau cuts in swiftly.

At his side, Lachlan winces and Morgan's sharp features pinch with discomfort.

"Good."

"It's a deal, then," Rowan says, looking pleased even despite my promise. "Can we shake on it?" he continues, offering a tentative hand.

"Fuck off."

"Thought not."

Beau grins. "This is going to be fun."

– ➶ –

I can't get away quick enough. Even despite my hostility, Rowan insists on walking me back through the woods. At first, he claims it's so I don't get lost finding my way back to town ("It's dark out, all trails look the same") and then, as I scowl at his unwavering dedication, he says he'd like to make sure there's not another Duskland incident.

That only deepens my scowl. "I'm not helpless, you know," I mutter as he leads the way towards the front door.

The moment I leave the lounge, I hear the others engage in hushed, eager tones, but I can't quite make out words. I've got a feeling I know exactly who they're talking about.

"I know you're not," Rowan says, placating, as he opens the door and falters.

It's raining. Heavily, too. Drops hiss against the ground and shudders slide down the spines of billowing trees. The sharp, pleasant scent of ozone rises on the cool air that sweeps into the house and tousles our hair.

Rowan glances at me over his shoulder, a brow raised in silent question.

I narrow my eyes and head outside, making my choice perfectly clear. I wouldn't stay here even if the world outside was on fire. A bit of rain won't stop me.

He says nothing and leads me back through dark trails towards Crescent Valley. As I walk, and as every step takes me further from the heart of his land, paranoia melts into obscurity.

This alpha does not have the upper hand anymore. It's me against him, and I'm the one with the silver knife. The thought is a comforting one, and it has me risking getting a little closer.

"Why do you want the Duskland pack taken care of?" I ask.

Rowan tucks his hands into his pockets, lines of tension pinching his smooth features. "Because we were here first. Or, rather, my parents were. They used to govern the whole valley, you see. But my mother passed a few months ago and my father followed not long after. The land and title fell to me. The Duskland pack has always lurked on our borders, and when the power transferred, they decided to try their luck and creep closer. Every day, they're testing the strength of our walls and nudging closer and closer, looking to take as much land as they can. They've started killing my sentries and leaving symbols in their skin like a morbid warning—"

"The Othala. I've seen it."

"You have?" he asks, raising startled brows.

I shrug, but his piercing gaze does not soften, and it coaxes the words out. "I thought this town was quiet, but I found a body last night. I saw the symbol in his chest and the claw marks and I knew it was a werewolf."

"Well," he muses with a small, private smile. "That explains the smell of silver Lachlan was worried about."

I can't help it. Curiosity gets the better of me, and it's something I've always wanted to know. "Do I smell like silver?"

"Not particularly. It's your weapons— their scent lingers and overpowers everything else."

Absently, as he catches my gaze, I wonder what else the smell of silver is overpowering. Raindrops slide like tears down his cheeks, but he offers me a soft smile.

"How many are in your pack?" I ask, eager to change the subject to something useful. This is a mission, and I cannot let anything falter my progress.

"Fifty, give or take," he tells me with a little shrug. "Beau is my beta, and Morgan is his fated. Lachlan is my gamma. They're helping me with the whole Duskland problem— checking our borders, answering their taunting howls. This is new for us all, but they're naturals."

Fucking hell. I blanch, wondering how in all hell I'm going to get rid of that many on my own. It doesn't escape my attention that Rowan is being particularly helpful, offering confidential information to a hunter he's only just met and cannot trust.

"Why are you telling me all this? What if Duskland offers me a deal, like you have?" I can't help but ask, suspicious and eager to find out his motives.

"Duskland had you cornered and fighting," Rowan says with a little shrug. "I'd say that puts them at the top of your list of werewolves to take out, doesn't it?"

"Perhaps," I allow haltingly.

"I'm telling you this because I know how important trust is when it comes to making and keeping allies. See this as my olive branch, and you can do as you like with it."

An alliance between hunters and werewolves is unheard of. Then again, I'm all alone out here, and if Seb was so eager to kill me after one small disagreement, I dread to think of the lengths the rest of the pack will go to when it comes to snuffing out a hunter who killed their own. For now, Rowan is offering a safety net and I'd be a fool not to take advantage of it. There's a target on my back.

"Where's the other one?" I blurt out, stepping over a gnarled log.

Rowan frowns as he brushes aside a shrub. "What other one?"

"All packs have an alpha pair. If you're the alpha, where's the other one?"

"Ah," he says, rubbing the back of his neck and deftly staring ahead. He clears his throat and says, "It's just me for now. That's why the Duskland pack is so eager to claim as much land as they can. Once I find my fated, my pack will regain its full power. They wouldn't dare steal the land, then."

I hum, considering. "So you're vulnerable until you find your fated."

That gives me a window of opportunity. Take out Duskland and take out the Crescent Moon pack before Rowan finds his pairing. I can do that.

But Rowan huffs out a laugh and smiles serenely at me. The shadows sharpen his features and make his eyes fluoresce. "Indeed, I am. What about you?"

I frown. "What about me?"

"Well, how come you're all alone out here? Hunters are supposed to move in groups, are you not? Or are you just scouting ahead?"

I sniff and forge onwards. There are street lights flickering through the trees; a constellation of urban life. "If I was scouting, I wouldn't tell you."

He hums tonelessly, not convinced.

We emerge soon enough onto the quiet street near the alleyway where the Duskland werewolves cornered me. The car park is close by, all shadows and silence, and my car is a beacon nestled amongst the trees.

"Try and stay out of the Duskland pack's way, if you can. If we're going to get rid of them, we need a plan," Rowan tells me. "Do you remember the way to the pack house?"

He crosses his arms and rests his shoulder against the rough bark of a tree trunk, idly surveying the street. Checking for threats, I presume.

I scowl at him. "Of course. I memorised it the first time, you didn't have to walk me all this way."

He chooses not to rise to my bait, and any aggression I send his way dissipates in the air between us before it can reach him. His lips twitch with the ghost of a smile. "Very well. When you're ready, come and find me. My offer still stands, whenever you need it."

"Why are you helping me?" I demand.

"We're helping one another," he dismisses with a shrug. "I'll see you soon, River."

I'm all too eager to get away from him, so I cross the quiet street and head straight to my car. The heat of his gaze sends goosebumps prickling along the back of my neck and my arms, and when I check over my shoulder, his shadowed figure stands at the treeline, still. Observing. Great.

I need to clear my head after the fight and after the risky venture into the heart of his land. I need to sort all my scattered thoughts into a plan of action. What I will not do, under any circumstance, is take up his offer of the spare room. It's bad enough I'm bending my morals working with werewolves, I will not stoop so low as to live with them, too. No, this is a temporary, uncomfortable business arrangement. I'll use his resources as a last resort, but otherwise, this Duskland mess is mine to handle.

I have to do this on my own. I have to prove I can live outside of the shadow of my Ferreus legacy, no matter what.