There were seven bite marks on her skin.
Seven claims.
Elysian's was first, a silvery crescent moon carved into the hollow where her clavicle kissed her shoulder. She knew his bite, had memorised the dip of his teeth, the press of his fangs. The way he had trembled when his lips had brushed against her skin.
If she closed her eyes, she could still remember the ghost of his breath, the dance of his emotions, the apology bleeding through every motion. The scent of yogurt and palm-warmed honey. He had bitten her as gently as he could, and his claim had flooded her with only warmth.
Then there were three on her limbs: one on each wrist, another on her left ankle.
Those were messy, desperate wounds, jagged and uneven as if bitten in panic. Teeth sunk in too deep, the flesh knitting back all wrong, ridged and raised. Scarred. When she pressed a finger to them—to the tiny pink pearls of flesh that circled her hands—they still throbbed.
The next two were clean, quick, and efficient, barely leaving a raised scar. One on her right ankle, the other on her left hip, a thumb's width higher than the bone. They seemed surgical, completed out of duty. The marks were nearly invisible, the prettiest of scars.
They must have claimed her in a medical setting, with fairies to smooth down the wound and ointment to speed up healing. She imagined them cleaning up the bite with antiseptic, trying to finish what the others had started, trying to complete the bond before the virus spread too far.
And then there was his.
Klaus's claim.
It sat at the back of her neck, red, raw, and absolutely furious. The colour of spilled wine and old blood. It hadn't healed like the others. The scar bubbled under her skin; the wound was too deep. It was all jagged hot flesh, as if her body fought the claim like infection, rejecting his hold.
And the bite was still tender, still swollen, still warm. It must be months since he'd claimed her. Two to be exact. And yet it seemed fresh. Dark inky veins branching over her flesh like the cracks on porcelain. It appeared almost infected.
Marred.
Seven bonds. Seven chains. Her skin was a ledger of ownership. They had claimed her before the courtship. They were married before she was even given a choice. And now standing before the basin, looking at herself, she could only laugh as she tasted the tug of their bonds. Her Beta was pushing her towards them, begging for the generous swallow of an enveloping warmth.
Life, she decided, was cruel but beautiful.
But better this than the drift of her corporeal form, bodiless and unseen. She'd felt useless as a ghost, tumbling with her inner demons, buried in her regrets and thoughts. No joy, only suffering and empty satisfaction, as she watched the downfall of her enemies.
In her death, Quinn didn't care about those bastards. She didn't give a fuck whether or not those assholes were roasting on the fire of their own making. She didn't care that they got what they deserved. That she had received her sweet retribution.
They were merely passing thoughts, a small laugh of karma. Truly, in death, her enemies did not matter to her. They did not occupy her mind as they did before. Instead, all she cared about were the people she loved. The men she cherished. Her seven. She licked her drying lips, tasting her nerves.
Her regrets had been simple.
She missed the wind, the smell of rain, and the feeling of droplets on her skin. The trees turning red in autumn. The fields heavy with flowers. She missed the snow. The heat of the sun. The taste of sugar. Good drink. The golden ring in her throat when she drank hot soup, and then the icy clink of it on a dry tongue. Salt. Spice. Flavour. Satiation. Homey food, lavish meals. She missed waking up from a night of good sleep. Laughing. Warm hugs, hands to hold, people to say goodnight to.
She missed loving life.
Simple.
Her grin stretched.
A third chance in life.
At the very least, she could do whatever the fuck she wanted. She could be angry, happy, and sad. She could eat and live. But this time, she didn't want to turn over onto her belly like a fucking doormat. This time, she was going to fuck it all. Fuck Euodia, fuck those memories, fuck self-depreciation, fuck her lack of self-love.
She wasn't going to waste this chance.
This time, she was going to live.
She lowered her hair, allowing it to sit over the mark, brushing over the old wounds, settling at her shoulders. How had Klaus completed it? She thought of him then, of how he must have forced her mouth open to take what he wanted. She couldn't blame him for that, and Quinn found that there was not one ounce of anger boiling within her.
He did what he had to do to save them, and in the process, he saved her too. She was grateful for that. And to extend their lives, she had to choose love, choose to forgive, choose him. But could she do that? Did she have to force herself to love? And how could she? It was all his fault after all. His choices had made them this way. So why the fuck did she have to do all the fucking work again?
She smiled.
All Quinn wanted to do was live.
The basin rippled when she dropped the towel in. She'd scrubbed herself all over until the water had turned dull, soap suds popping. And it felt good to be clean, skin pink and almost raw, cold rag taking the heat away from her skin. She stared at the water, forced herself to breathe.
She would still try. She would be open to the concepts, she would be strong, but she could be selfish. She squeezed her eyes shut then, felt the fear nestled against her neck, pressed hard into her windpipe like an invisible stranglehold, drip away into nothing. Klaus would have to be the one to try harder. This time, Quinn was going to prioritise herself.
She was going to be happy.
And there was work to be done.
An outpost that had once sustained itself on the imports from the kingdom. Her eyes shifted to the toilet. A hole in the ground, a plank over the pit to prevent the buzzing of flies. For now, she'd busy herself with the betterment of her new home.
She was going to need a tour.
*
The tent smelled of smoke, metal, and canned salt.
The canteen was a modular military building extended outwards with hastily stitched canvas over poles. The wind tugged weakly at the seams, blowing in gusts of sand.
It was too hot to eat completely indoors, inside the heavy walls of the makeshift container buildings. And so, the canteen was stretched bigger via a tent with folding tables sprawled all over the dirt floor, packed hard from the heavy thump of boots. A makeshift mess, much like an army caught mid-battle.
Tin plates clattered, and a pot of stew was boiling at the head of the tent. The air was thick with the smell of bubbling salt and kerosene, and the winds that blew in were hot and dusty.
But it felt safe.
Military.
Structured.
Not comfortable, but at the very least it was enough.
It was quiet in the afternoon. Just one or two Omegas and Alphas in the kitchen preparing dinner. A handful of men feasting on the stew, their voices melding with the wind. They were here after night shift, Klaus had explained; they patrolled the borders of their new home.
"We all have our duties," Klaus explained in a measured, collected tone, as if he thought of his words three times before he said them out loud. He sat opposite her, nursing a cup of tea while she cradled a tin bowl in her hands, steam ghosted upwards, fogging her vision. Her first meal in a while was canned beef and corn porridge. They had made it just for her—rich stew watered down into a gruel for easier digestion. "The main teams are for water, food, and protection."
She didn't quite enjoy the taste of stale canned beef and corn, and had turned her nose to it in the past when she had access to Float's fresh markets. But now she ate slowly and deliberately, tasting it carefully. The salt on her tongue, the sticky goo of melting rice grains, the warmth in her belly. It was pretty good considering the situation, and she found herself grateful. But it did have the flavour of rust.
Was it from the water or the cans?
"You're using wasteland stock," she said, swallowing. "Scavenged supplies. Are you already running low?"
The wolf looked up, light cutting across his features, tracing the angles, lashes fluttering. He glowed. "We do have fresher stuff that we mix in to keep the taste appealing," Klaus explained, lashes kissing his cheeks. "Zen and Rowan are on the scouting team, and when they're out there, they take what they can find. We do what we can to make it last."
"How bad are the hordes?"
Klaus's jaw tightened, eyes flickering toward the flap of the tent where a gust of wind made the canvas tremble. Unease twitched through him. She touched a sensitive spot. "Big enough to keep everyone scared."
"We're close to an old city?"
"I do not want to worry you," Klaus said, long fingers folding around his cup, muscles growing tense. She rolled her eyes, made a face.
"Talk," she said flatly, maybe a bit too sharply. Their previous conversation had resulted in a thin thread of awkwardness twisting in the air. "Or I'll find out myself." She paused then, thinking. "Let me guess. Tall buildings, big enough hordes, and yet they aren't coming for us here. Are they trapped?" Quinn pondered, mind sweeping to old memories. Thank fuck for her experiences. "The outpost has to be close to the Lonely for the research. So something is blocking their path, but it might not last."
He exhaled, and his dimples winked out. A moment of hesitation and then he began to speak, surrendering to her demands. "There's a city a couple of kilometres away. A gorge of Lonely trapped in the bodies of the dead, a valley of rot and bone. During the war, they must have shot the monsters that climbed up the buildings; the bodies fell, stacked, fed the heap, creating hills of corpses that we continued feeding for research. Now those bodies have created a mutilated barricade three stories high, and they weigh hard against the walls of the city."
He took a sip from his mug, but she noticed the tremble of his hands. He was frightened. And paranoia bounced in his mind; she could see him thinking of a possibly horrible future. Fear settled upon him, and for a moment Quinn felt an odd wave of pity. It sucked being the leader. She could understand that.
"When the rotting walls collapse," he said quietly. "Or the buildings collapse. The Lonely will spill out and come running. And those that can run will come for us in waves. We try to cull them when we can. And we must. But we don't have the supplies for extermination."
"Lonely could flow out of the destruction," Quinn said, chewing through the meat. "We might have to run."
"If the city falls, and the walls collapse," Klaus nodded. "We will have to give up the outpost."
"It's alright," she shrugged. "There's always danger in the wastelands. It's a part of living with the pains of 'nature'. And those fuckers are ridiculously resilient for rotting carcasses."
That had a flicker of a smile ghosting over his face. A break of relief, the tension ebbed. His laugh was husky like smoke, a touch of gratitude. She hated that she liked the sound. "They are, aren't they?"
"Besides, it's a finite number and they slow down with the climate," she promised, tone softening. "Let's just talk about sustainability. How are you operating this place?" She folded her hands together then, eyes hard. Klaus seemed startled, a strange look ghosting over his features. "I've got things you want, remember? I need to know what I can do for you."
"Right," Klaus said, nodding. "For now, there's a massive lake when rain comes, and the heatwave stays away. In it there's an old dam that gives us some power. The water drowns out the sounds, keeping us hidden from the Lonely, creates a longer path away from us."
"They don't swim." She could imagine it, the roar of water drowning out the sounds of civilisation. Convenient. She whistled. That explained the bulbs of light. "Good spot."
"I chose this place for the electricity," he explained. His mouth curved upwards, but there was no real pride, only a rush of relief that flooded him. She found that he was lowering his walls, showing her a fleck of vulnerability. "And the noise protects us."
"It's very close?" she raised a brow.
"Quite. It stands between us and the valley of Lonely. And that helps as a barrier as well."
"And the water?"
"Polluted but treatable," he admitted. "Solar and Helios are working on better filtration. Icarus's started with food. We're trying to make a greenhouse, working on aquaponics. Anything to move away from the cans. Poultry's off the table. But sometimes we get fish from the lakes. But they don't live long or well due to the water, so we don't try to fish too much." He let out a short, humourless laugh. "Didn't think to bring more chickens and cows."
She raised a brow. "But you have them?"
"A few," he said. "Just for some eggs and milk in the soup for calcium and protein. Won't be enough for months. Might take longer to breed, repopulate. We're running short. We lose a lot if we run from this place."
Quinn's fingers twitched. Float hummed within her. The pulse of power that clung deep within her head, burned into her bones. It stirred faintly. Not if she helped him. "It's better than nothing."
Klaus went on then, tone serious, filled with the weariness of leadership. "Once we stabilize the electrical grid. We'll move to work on sewage, plumbing, heating, and lights for all homes. Right now, only the hospital has everything. But we're running on the possibility that we might have to become nomads for safety."
"You're spending most of your resources on the cure."
"Of course," he said. His eyes dimmed then, gaze falling.
"What's Elysian up to?"
For a moment, Klaus seemed to freeze, just barely. A whisper of trepidation before his expression softened, a shadow over his features. "He's researching the disease. Medical systems."
He cleared his throat then, hand rubbing at his neck. And her eyes were drawn to the bite, the raised red. Her claim on him. His emotions were bleeding through now, a strange mix of guilt and self-doubt.
He changed the topic. "For now, we've got a school for the kids, a worship hall for the religious, and a laundry building that we all share. The canteen's a good place at night. People talk here, laugh when they can."
"Alcohol?"
"Spiced tea, we can only afford that," Klaus snorted at that. "Then meetings on Sunday with all pack Omegas…And Alphas. The leaders of the packs, at least. We do a vote for big decisions. It's not much, but it's… Order." She hummed at that, nodding in approval. Women in power, women capable of voting.
"How many people?"
"Two hundred and fifty, give or take. Numbers drop weekly."
"So, fifty women?"
"And twenty children," Klaus answered grimly. "That's it." The number hung between them, a reminder of all that the Kingdom had lost. Quinn was sure that there was a time when the population neared a million. She closed her eyes. The world was now empty; survivors would be few and difficult to find. They were literally starting from scratch. She did not want to think about the people from her old home. The servants, the friends she had made, they must be all dead—"How do you conjure items?" Klaus asked at last.
Quinn set her spoon down now, polishing off the last of her plate. "It needs an exchange."
"What kind?"
"The best is gold," she answered. "That was why I cared so much about my pay. My power, its name is Float." She conjured it up for him, a small panel of blue that illuminated his face, light spilling across his skin. She closed her palm, and it vanished. "It needs gold to buy the items."
Klaus's eyes widened, curiosity brimming. "How does it work?"
"It's connected to the markets of the past, dead economies," she said. "I purchase items based on the rates of Float's time. I used to have a decent sum of money saved, but the whole ordeal in the wastelands wiped me out. The truck. The fuel. I could help out if we're in a pinch, but we'll have to make it really count if this is all I have left."
Klaus's face drew tight. "Didn't think to stock up on gold."
"Thought so," she sighed softly. "I could drop something of equal value into the system. But it's steep because the things here aren't worth much. But there's always a surplus there."
His gaze met hers, steady and grim. "Everything here's exchanged, we get what we need from each other. Those who risk their lives get a ticket for extra items." He inhaled then exhaled, fingers pinching the bridge of his nose. "We'll make it work." There was a heartbeat then, when his gaze locked with hers. And she found that for a moment the world seemed to disappear, a steadiness thrumming from within him.
"Yeah," she said finally, distracted momentarily by the strength in his eyes. It pulled at her, almost seemed to drown her. A charisma that burned from within. "You did a good job."
His gaze was sharp, intense, as if he were prying her apart bit by bit, dipping straight into her heart. But his smile after that was warm, earnest and human. "Thank you."
And she was suddenly aware of herself, the sweat that ran down her throat, the wind stirring against her skin. She grew oddly flushed, forgetting to breathe, felt the rush of her pulse racing. What the fuck was wrong with her? She cleared her throat, looking away.
He got up, taking her empty plate with him, and she watched as he moved to the kitchen. He disappeared briefly before he returned. And then he sat back down before her, pushing a cup over.
"Drink it slowly."
Surprise fluttered through her, and she muttered a word of thanks. She lifted it to her lips and then paused. Ice clinked against the rim, kissing her tongue, and a shiver ran down her spine. Her eyes widened. "You've got ice?"
"Just one," he said, almost shyly. He looked down at his own mug, blowing at the hot steam. The heat was turning his cheeks a soft carnation pink. He didn't need to explain when she looked down into her cup, watching the cube float, drifting in the sea of heat, melting slowly into the hazel brew.
Special treatment.
"The others will be done with work soon; they're dying to see you." His expression grew softer then, warmth flooding his eyes. "And you should take a look at our new house. It's our pack home."
Her lips parted, surprise darting through her. "They know I'm awake?"
"They can feel it," he answered. Emotions darted over his features before steadying. The steel was back now, frothing in his voice. Hard, bitter and cold. Strange. "When you're awake, the bond feels…sweeter."
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