Chapter 7: The Touch Of Ash

Morning comes gray and cold.

Frost on the windows. Fog in the trees. The kind of day that makes wolves stay inside.

I do not stay inside.

I pull on leather pants. A wool shirt. My boots. My cloak hangs by the door. Black. Heavy. My father gave it to me three winters ago.

I touch the fabric. Then I leave.

The training yard is empty.

Good.

I pick up a wooden sword. Swing it at the post. Swing again. Again.

My arms burn. I want them to burn. Pain is honest. Pain does not lie.

Last night plays behind my eyes.

Darius. His study. His words.

He asked for me by name. He said watch my girl.

My father held his hand.

My father trusted him.

I swing harder. The post cracks.

"You'll break that."

His voice.

I do not turn.

Darius walks into the yard. He wears black. No cloak. His breath fogs the air.

"You're up early," I say.

"I don't sleep."

"Neither do I."

He picks up another wooden sword. Weighs it in his hand.

"Train with me."

"No."

"Afraid?"

"Yes."

He looks at me. Surprised.

"You admit it."

"I admit when I'm smart. You're bigger than me. Stronger. You could hurt me."

"I won't."

"You say that now."

He drops the sword. Walks to me. Slow.

"I will never hurt you, Kiera."

"You already did. You married her."

His jaw tightens.

"I know."

"Then don't ask me to pretend this is normal."

He stops three feet away.

"Nothing about this is normal. But your father asked me to keep you alive. That means teaching you to fight. Not swinging at a post alone."

I look at the post. The crack I made.

"I can fight."

"Not well enough."

I want to argue. He is right. I hate that.

He picks up the sword again. Holds it out to me.

"One hour. Then I leave you alone."

I take the sword.

He circles me. Eyes on my feet. My hands.

"Your stance is wrong. Feet wider."

I widen my stance.

"No. Too wide."

He comes behind me. His chest near my back.

"Like this."

He kicks my left foot. Moves it an inch.

Then my right.

His leg brushes mine.

I hold my breath.

"Better," he says. He steps away.

I breathe again.

We spar. Slow at first. Then faster.

He does not hit hard. He corrects. Adjusts. Touches my elbow. My shoulder. My wrist.

Each touch is brief. Each touch burns.

He pulls back after an hour.

"Enough."

I am sweating. My hair sticks to my face.

He is not sweating.

"I need water," I say.

"The well is frozen."

"Then where."

He tilts his head. "The kitchens. But my wife is there."

My mother.

"She sleeps late after wine."

"She's not sleeping. She's planning a party. For the pack."

"A party."

"To celebrate the union."

I laugh. No joy.

"Celebrate. Yes. Let's celebrate."

He watches me.

"Your anger is loud today."

"My anger is always loud. You just started listening."

He steps closer.

"I've always listened."

"Then you know I want answers."

"I gave you answers."

"Some. Not all."

He looks at the house. Then back at me.

"Come. I'll show you something."

He walks toward the trees. I follow.

The forest is quiet. Frost on every leaf. Our boots crunch.

He stops at a fallen log. Sits.

I stand.

"Sit," he says.

"I don't want to."

"Sit, Kiera."

I sit.

He looks at the sky. Gray. Heavy.

"The night your father died," he says. "I was on the ridge. North of the border."

"Spying."

"Watching. There's a difference."

"Not to me."

He nods. "Fair."

He pulls something from his pocket. A small cloth. Burned at the edges.

"I found this near his body."

I take it.

Ash. Charred fabric. But I see writing. Part of a word.

...trust...

"What does it say."

"The rest burned. But your father had this in his hand. He was holding it when I found him."

"He was holding cloth."

"He was holding a message. Someone sent him something. He read it. Then he burned it. But he kept a piece."

"Why."

"Because he wanted someone to find it."

I look at the cloth. The ash crumbles on my fingers.

"Who sent it."

"I don't know. But he left the patrol early that night. He wasn't supposed to be on the northern route. He changed his shift."

"Why."

"The message. Someone told him to be there."

"Or someone told him something was there."

Darius nods.

"The rogues were waiting. They knew exactly where he would stand."

I close my fist around the cloth.

"My mother knew his schedule."

"She did."

"She changed it sometimes. When she wanted him home for dinner."

"Or when she wanted him dead."

I stand up. Walk to a tree. Press my forehead to the bark.

The cold feels good.

"Why are you showing me this now."

"Because you need to know. And because I need you to be careful."

"I'm always careful."

"She will hurt you if she finds out you're looking."

"She's my mother."

"She killed her husband."

I turn.

"So did you. You married her."

Darius stands. Walks to me.

"I married her to get close. To watch. To gather proof."

"You married her because you couldn't get close to me any other way."

His eyes flash.

"That too."

I step back. My back hits the tree.

He steps forward.

"Your father asked me to protect you. He didn't say from rogues. He said from her."

"And you said yes."

"I said yes before he finished the sentence."

"Then why didn't you take me away that night."

"Because you wouldn't have come. You hated me. You still do."

I look at his chest. At the place where the scar hides under his shirt.

"I don't hate you."

"Then what."

I shake my head. "I don't know."

He lifts his hand. Touches my chin. Like last night.

I let him.

"You feel it," he says. "The pull."

"I feel something."

"That's the bond."

"I don't want it."

"It doesn't care what you want."

He drops his hand. Steps back.

The cold rushes in.

"We should go inside," he says. "Your mother will wonder where you are."

"Let her wonder."

"She'll come looking."

"Then let her find us."

He looks at me. Long.

"You're playing a dangerous game, kitten."

"I'm not playing anything."

"You're standing in the woods with your mother's husband. Alone. After he touched your face."

"You touched my chin. That's not a crime."

"It is in her head."

I cross my arms.

"Then don't touch me."

"I can't help it."

The words hang in the cold air.

I believe him.

He turns. Walks back toward the house.

I follow.

At the edge of the trees, he stops.

"The wind picked up. You'll be cold."

"I'm fine."

He looks at my cloak. The clasp is loose.

"Your cloak," he says. "It's open."

I look down. The clasp slipped. I didn't notice.

He steps behind me.

"I can do it myself."

"I know."

His hands come up. He takes the two ends of my cloak.

His fingers brush my throat.

I stop breathing.

He pulls the fabric together. Slow. Careful.

His knuckles graze my neck.

My skin rises. Every hair stands.

He fastens the clasp.

But his fingers do not leave.

They rest on my nape.

Right where my neck meets my shoulders.

Warm. Light.

Like ash falling.

I forget to breathe.

My wolf goes silent.

The world goes silent.

His thumb moves. Just once. A small stroke.

My knees weaken.

"Kiera," he whispers.

I cannot answer.

His fingers press. Just a little.

I lean back. Just a little.

My spine touches his chest.

He makes a sound. Low. In his throat.

Then his fingers are gone.

He steps back.

I turn.

His face is hard. But his eyes. His eyes are soft. And hungry.

"The clasp was loose," he says.

"The clasp," I repeat.

"I didn't want you to catch cold."

"No."

We stand there.

The wind blows. I do not feel it.

"Go inside," he says.

"You go first."

"No. You."

I walk toward the house.

My legs work. My lungs work.

But my neck. My neck still feels him.

The ghost of his fingers.

The warmth of his touch.

Like ash that never cools.

I reach the door. Look back.

He is still standing at the edge of the trees.

Watching.

I open the door. Step inside.

The hallway is dark.

I lean against the wall.

My hand goes to my nape.

Still warm.

Still him.

I close my eyes.

And forget to breathe.

Again.