15 - Conspiracy & Confession

When it's late enough, I dismiss myself and retreat back to the spare room, leaving the werewolves to their amiable chaos.

I lock the door behind me, feeling lighter but more conflicted than I have in days. Perhaps this alliance thing will work, after all.

Rowan and his pack certainly don't seem dangerous. They ate the same food as me and let me sit at their table without a fuss. They're letting me stay in their home and accepting my help to rid themselves of Duskland.

The ice of my legacy is beginning to thaw, and in its place, an idea surfaces that perhaps not all werewolves are monsters. Perhaps not all of them need to meet an untimely end at my hands— or at the hands of any hunter.

They are simply surviving and wishing for peace, just like me.

I think of turning my silver blades on them once Duskland is gone and it doesn't feel right. It doesn't feel as necessary as it did before.

Vile creatures. Vermin. Monsters. Liliana. Orion. My mother.

You always have a choice.

I'm tearing along at the seams.

They're not hurting anyone— at least, no one innocent. They are merely retaliating to the ceaseless pursuits of the Duskland pack.

Perhaps my family's teachings aren't quite the absolute truth I believed them to be. They were wrong about Esme. She wasn't a monster, and they killed her like one. They moulded their hatred into a facade and shoved righteousness down my throat until I choked on it.

And I believed them for all my life.

But Rowan is a werewolf and he's not a beast. He's not a monster. He's kind and he's helping me even despite the markings on my arms and the silver in my blades and the fire of hatred in my eyes.

I fall onto the plush bed and sink into a world of warmth, my mind torn in two and my morals fighting dirty. I don't know what to think anymore. I don't know what's right and what's wrong.

I don't know if the markings on my skin are a trophy of my accomplishments or merely the chains to a legacy I do not align with.

With a heavy sigh, I force myself up to change, or else I'll fall asleep right here. The spare room is stocked with clothes that smell of musk and cinnamon, and I change into soft ones to sleep in.

I set my belt of throwing blades on the bedside table, close if I need them, but it doesn't feel quite enough.

Perhaps Ferreus hunters are too quick to raise their silver knives to werewolves, but I cannot shake those instincts so easily. It's in my blood to be wary of their kind, to be distrusting and uneasy in their company. I can't smother my nature, just like Rowan cannot smother the urge to shift into a wolf.

But perhaps in time, I can leave the silver behind.

All the same, I find myself tucking my knife beneath the pillows, and I fall asleep with the comforting hilt pressed into my waiting palm.

The night is a restful one, and I come awake to find a hazy dawn struggling its way through the thick curtains, casting a dull lilac glow over the room. The sheets are rumpled at my hips and my knife is still clutched in my fist. I didn't have to use it on any lurking werewolves. The lock held.

One day, I muse as I sit up and stretch, I'll have to accept that they really don't want to hurt me.

Hunger is quick to surface and coax me from the room. I dress and don my weapons by instinct, yawning and stretching and rubbing at my eyes as I wander out into the hallway. Mercifully, I find Rowan has kept his word. The house is quiet and empty. Outside, the trails are swathed in grey as eager winds send dark trees swaying. The sky is a haze of blues and corals and lilacs and speckled with clouds. It's peaceful.

The rest has done me good, and already my thoughts are alive and electric with potential plans for drawing Gale to me.

Once he's dead, and once we take care of their gamma, Elsie, the pack will crumble around the alpha pair. Victory will be assured.

And after that... Well, I'll think of something. Maybe Rowan will suggest another truce before I turn my knife on him. Maybe we can go our separate ways and coexist. I resolve to get some breakfast, find the office and start planning.

Muffled voices tug on my focus, and my pace falters as I emerge into the lounge and find it empty.

I can hear Beau's carefree tones and Lachlan's lilting voice and Rowan's soft musings drifting from the archway leading into the kitchen.

I can't help myself. It's in my nature to eavesdrop. I glance around but the house is empty of witnesses, so I tread carefully, urge my breaths to come slow and silent, and listen.

"...Just don't think it's a good idea." Rowan— uncertain and pensive. I can picture his crossed arms and furrowed brows.

"Let him prove himself." Lachlan. "Maybe when he sees we'll fight by him, he'll trust us a little more."

"You wanted this, remember." Beau— lightly taunting. Something about his voice is muffled, though I'm not sure why.

"That was before I found out what he is," Rowan hisses. "It changes everything."

Those delicate threads of peace attempting to tie my morals into something new waver and shudder and snap.

Oh fuck. Fucking shit. Does he know who my family are? Does he know what the symbols on my arms mean? Has he finally realised this alliance is a bad idea? He seemed so accepting yesterday, out in the woods and in the café. So eager to make this alliance work. Was it all an act? Is this his plan? Take in a vulnerable, lonely hunter and get him questioning everything he's ever known and strike when he's weak.

My acceptance of this place is brittle, and Rowan's words are a sledgehammer slamming it to jagged fragments. Years upon years of training take care of the rest.

Ever so slowly, I peek around the archway. None of them are looking this way— Rowan is pacing before the window with his hands in his pockets, Beau is sitting on the island counter stuffing his face with biscuits, and Lachlan is washing up the plates from last night.

"Does it?" he asks over his shoulder, flicking the suds from his hands.

"It's never going to work because he's never going to trust us. I don't think Duskland is our biggest problem anymore," Rowan admits softly. "The sooner we deal with this threat, the sooner we can get back on track."

The words come tumbling before I can stop them.

"What the fuck is that supposed to mean?"

He thinks I'm a threat. He doesn't trust me. It's a ploy. A trap. I'm not safe here.

Foolish boy, my mother hisses. I wish you were the one to get bitten. At least Esme showed promise.

The werewolves all startle and whip round to face me— eyes wide, features slack with shock. Beau rubs at his ears as though they've betrayed him.

Rowan starts forwards. "River—" he begins, faltering when I fall back a few steps. "How much of that did you hear?"

"You think I'm a threat?" I ask, feeling strangely numb. He worked his way between my defences to my very core, and last night I found myself wondering if perhaps he's being truthful. If his intentions are purely good. His words are a knife against my throat, slicing and ripping my hopes to shreds. It had taken a while for me to realise he wouldn't hurt me — a rocky, winding path of distrust — and here he is talking about ridding himself of a threat— of me.

I'm such an idiot. I fell right into his trap. It's pitiful— how eagerly I accepted his help and his bullshit alliance. I became a rabbit ensnared in his bronze eyes and he's a wolf prowling and ready to tear me to pieces. My family are right. We can't trust werewolves. They're cunning and deceitful, just like my mother always said.

He knows my plan when Duskland is gone and he's steps ahead of me. He's going to take out the threat to his home before I can find my feet.

I did not hide my contempt for him— but he hid his own mistrust behind a mask of pleasant smiles and kind offers, and that is so much worse.

"I wasn't talking about you—!" he rushes out, a hand raised towards me as though he can latch onto the fraying threads of my soul and tug me close. "I know how it sounds, but trust me, I'm not—"

"I don't fucking trust you," I spit out, cursing myself for the gnawing hole of grief in my chest, for the way my voice shudders and my throat goes tight. Stupid, foolish, reckless. "You're a werewolf and I'm— how could I ever trust you?"

He blows out a breath and looks to the others, but they're both quiet as they watch this fury unfold. They shrug helplessly to whatever look he sends their way.

Not safe, not safe, not safe. I'm in the heart of the wolf's den and I'm on my own.

Without another word, and channelling every ounce of hatred within my soul into a scathing glare, I turn my back on Rowan and stalk for the front door.

He follows. His footsteps scuff on the floor as he shadows me through the maze of hallways. "River, wait! Where are you going?"

"To deal with Duskland on my own."

"That'll get you killed."

"Then it's both threats dealt with for you, isn't it?"

"For fuck's sake, let me explain—!"

I throw open the front door, but in the same moment, Rowan has my shoulder in his hold and tugs me back. He slams the door shut, turns me around, and presses me against it. The impact isn't painful or sharp, and his grip isn't hard — in fact, it seems he's going to great effort to make sure he's gentle with the way he touches me — but it startles me all the same. It's all I can do to stare at him as instinct tries to latch on. My muscles tense to shove him back but there's a wall keeping my reaction at bay. Over his shoulder, Beau and Lachlan watch on warily, wincing preemptively against my reaction, as though Rowan has lit a fuse.

"I'm sorry. Please," he says, his eyes flickering with golden flames, imploring and desperate. "Listen to me."

Pressed so close, his hand on my shoulder, I'm hit by a wave of his sweet cinnamon scent laced with nutmeg and musk— a cloud that dulls my fury and sets sparks off in my blood.

When he lets go of me and takes a hesitant half-step back, my mind is at war with itself. One part is furious and reeling and eager to shove my knife into his gut until it reaches the hilt for ever daring to lay a finger on me. Another treacherous part of me is longing for the close contact.

It leaves me feeling shattered and uneven— worryingly exposed and uncertain. I've never felt like this before — like I cannot trust my own mind — and I hate it.

I think of curling my fingers into a fist and slamming it against his jaw, but I cannot. What the fuck has he done to me?

"I'm not going to hurt you. I don't think it's physically possible for me to hurt you— or kill you, or whatever it is you're thinking I'm going to do." A shuddering sigh escapes his lips and he tells me, "The threat — the biggest problem we have — isn't you. It's your family."

Thoughts stutter to a stop. I draw a blank and my glare falters. "What?"

"You said yourself, in the café, that if they find you, they're going to kill you. I won't push, but if you of all people are scared of them, the rest of us should be fucking petrified. We were just discussing how to go about hiding a hunter from hunters."

"Why are you helping me? And don't say the alliance."

His posture sags a little, and he can't quite meet my eyes as he says, "Because you need help."

"Bullshit," I hiss, advancing a step. My nerves tingle with instinctive glee when he falls back beneath my offence. "I don't need help from you— I can hide myself. Why are you doing this?"

He hesitates, the first glimmers of fear lighting behind his eyes.

I forge on, determined to best him. To prove I'm capable of bringing an alpha to his knees beneath my rage. I'll show him exactly how much of a threat I can be. "Why do you care so fucking much, Rowan? Don't lie to me—"

Rowan cuts me off with an exclamation that sets my thoughts on fire. That tears clarity to shreds.

"Because you're my fated!"