— The gates! Lock down everything, down to the last rat hole!
Hooves crunch against the courtyard gravel, striking sparks. I leap from the saddle before the horse has even come to a full stop. Road dust clogs my throat; the taste of iron and sweat has settled on my tongue.
— Get the dog to the kennel, line up the stable hands! — Mark spits blood from a split lip and shoves the nearest servant in the back. — Move it, you filth!
— Where is Gilmore? — I grab a passing guardsman by the collar of his gambeson. — Answer me before I rip out your Adam's apple.
— Haven't seen him, my lord... He hasn't been around since morning...
— Search the barracks. Every chest, every crack beneath the floorboards.
I feel the beast within clawing at my ribs. This itch under the skin is a harbinger of slaughter. Are we too late?
— In the stables! — a shout rings out from the stalls. — He's here!
I break into a run. Mud flies from beneath my boots. In the far corner, buried in rotting straw, the warriors drag something whimpering into the light. Brant. The teenage stable boy who just yesterday was bowing to me, his oily eyes gleaming.
— Master, have mercy... I didn't... — he chokes on his own tears.
— Where is he? Where is Gilmore?! — I shake him so hard the boy's head jerks like a rag doll's.
— Gone... — Brant hiccups, staring at my hilt. — Said he was going to town... for oats...
— He's lying.
Mark steps out from the shadows of a stall, holding a leather tube. The mud on the leather is still fresh.
— Buried it under the manure. Likely waiting for a messenger, — Mark hands me the find.
I rip the cap open. Inside is a thick parchment. Heavy, expensive. The scent of wax and a stranger's house.
— Untie him, — I nod toward Brant. — To the torture chamber. Alive. Make him tell us how many times Gilmore went over the walls at night.
— I... I didn't... — Brant flinches, but a guard's heavy fist descends on the back of his head.
I unfurl the letter. My eyes catch words that hit my nerves harder than a whip. "Silverclaw." And a name. Right in the center, written in a calligraphic hand I'd recognize among a thousand.
Damian.
"Our ally inside is ready. Await the signal."
I crumple the edge of the paper. My gloved fingers tremble with rage. The whole world narrows down to this single ink line. My best friend. My right hand.
— Was Gilmore found? — I turn to the returning sergeant.
— Vanished. His things are still there, he didn't even take a knife. Fled in what he was wearing.
— Search the woods. Send the hounds.
I head toward the castle. Every step echoes in my temples like a muffled hammer. The Great Hall greets me with silence and the smell of cold stone. Damian stands by the window, watching the sunset. Perfect posture. A clean doublet. Not a speck of dust, not a spot of blood.
— You're late, Cale. I was beginning to worry, — he turns, his face the surface of a frozen lake. — Was the hunt unsuccessful?
I walk silently to the table. I hurl the tube so hard it rolls across the oak tabletop, knocking over a silver goblet. The letter lands on top.
— Read.
Damian doesn't even flinch. Slowly, gracefully, he picks up the sheet. He scans the lines. His eyebrows rise almost imperceptibly.
— Such a crude imitation, — he places the letter back down as if it were a dirty rag. — The Silverclaws were always known for their elegance, and this... Cale, you can't be serious?
— Your name is there, Damian. In black and white.
— And is that supposed to frighten me? If I wanted to betray you, I wouldn't leave notes in the stable. You don't value me at all.
— Brant found it in his things. Gilmore fled.
— It's obvious, then, — Damian takes a step toward me, spreading his arms. — Gilmore planted it. He knew you would return in a rage. Knew you would be looking for someone to blame. What could be simpler than pointing at the person closest to you?
— Your arguments are too smooth. Did you prepare them?
— I am using logic, unlike your wolf, which is currently trying to tear out my throat through your gaze.
I grab him by the lapels, jerking him toward me. The fabric of the expensive doublet tears. His face is inches away—calm, confident. Not a drop of sweat, not a shadow of fear in his eyes.
— You've fed me that logic for years, — I rasp. — And now I see the seal of our enemies and your name in the same sentence.
— If you kill me now, the Silverclaws win without firing a shot. You'll be left alone. No advisor, no friend. Just your paranoia. That is exactly what they want.
— You are far too certain of your indispensability.
— I am certain of your intellect. You won't commit such a stupidity over a scrap of paper that smells like a stable.
I shove him away. My hands itch to draw my sword, but something inside groans. Old loyalty, shared battles, years of sleeping back-to-back. It's not enough. Not nearly enough.
— Not a step outside the castle, — I spit out, turning away. — My personal guard will stand at your chamber doors. If I see you at the stables or the back entrance—I'll kill you on the spot.
— Cale, cool off. You're acting like—
— Get out!
He leaves—quietly, without looking back. His composure infuriates me more than if he had begged for mercy. I am left in the empty hall, and the silence begins to press against my ears.
The mark on my neck suddenly flares with a dull ache. The bond. It pulses, calling, pulling me toward the living quarters. Alina.
— Jake! — I shout into the void of the corridor.
A guardsman emerges from the shadows.
— Bring the girl to my chambers. Now.
I don't walk—I nearly run up the stairs. I need to strip away this itch. I need something real, something that cannot lie as exquisitely as Damian. Something I control completely.
The chambers smell of smoke and old wine. I strip off my armor; the iron hits the rug with a crash. When the door opens, I am already standing by the fireplace, gripping the edge of the mantel.
Alina freezes on the threshold. She is paler than usual. Her shoulders are hunched, her fingers fumbling with the hem of her gray dress.
— Come here, — my voice sounds like the growl of a beast escaped from its cage.
— Lord Cale... I didn't know you had returned...
— Silence.
I take a step, closing the distance. She tries to back away but hits the closed door. I can feel her fear—it is sharp, sweet, hitting my nostrils and drowning out the scent of betrayal.
I grab her by the shoulders. Roughly, without gauging my strength. She cries out, and that sound is the only thing bringing relief right now.
— You're trembling, — I lean into her ear, inhaling the scent of her hair. — What are you afraid of? My wrath, or me discovering your secrets?
— I have... no secrets... — her voice breaks.
— A lie. Everyone around me lies.
I pull her against me, stealing her breath. My palms burn against her cold skin. This isn't passion—it's an attempt to ground myself, to vent my fury into this fragile body that cannot fight back.
— Look at me, — I command, shaking her.
She raises her eyes. In them is pure, unadulterated terror. And in that terror, I see the truth. She isn't playing a game. She isn't weaving intrigues. She is simply a victim in my hands.
— You stay here, — I dig my fingers into her forearms. — You aren't going anywhere. Not until I say so.
— You... you're hurting me...
— Get used to it. The world is falling apart, Alina. And you are the only thing in it that still obeys my orders.
I crush my lips against hers in a hard, devastating kiss. It's not a caress—it's a brand. My inner wolf goes quiet, tasting her submission. Right now, I don't give a damn about Damian, the Silverclaws, or the escaped Gilmore.
There is only this room, this smell of fear, and my power, which no one will dare contest. As long as she is beneath me, I am still the Alpha.
— Cale... — she whispers my name, and there is so much despair in the sound that I squeeze her even tighter, until I feel her ribs strain.
— Your body is mine, — I growl against her lips. — Your breath is mine. If you betray me like they did...
— I won't... I won't betray you...
I don't believe her. I don't believe anyone. But right now, it is enough that she is here, under my hands, and her heart is beating so fast it feels as if it wants to leap from her chest. It is the only truth I can afford myself tonight.
I throw her onto the bed, never taking my eyes off the mark on her neck. It pulses crimson. My mark. My property. In a world where everything is a fake, this pain is the most honest thing there is.