A Soulmark Series

by Rebecca Main

  I glance about the room, my eyes landing on the cell bars that keep me contained. Unfortunately, attempting to bend them using the bracers and the Borealis inside of me isn’t an option. I can’t afford to waste the Borealis Matter. Besides, they can’t leave me in here forever, can they? Surely someone is watching my agitated movements from the camera at the far end of the room? Will they send someone down to interrogate me? Will they try and torture information out of me? I release a heavy sigh, stopping my pacing to sit on the cot in the corner of the cell where I had woken. They’ll probably send him down to interrogate me and use the soulmark against me.

  A new worry blossoms in my chest. I must stay strong. Keep my muddled head in the game.

  A door opens and closes somewhere nearby. My heart beats a fraction faster. Footsteps yield a soft dull thudding as they make their way in my direction, and I look to the room’s only door expectantly. Seconds seem like minutes as I wait for it to open, and then, it does.

  I sit up straighter, tamping down my worry with ease. It’s him, just as I predicted. Our gazes lock immediately, dark brown to dark brown. He pulls two chairs into the room behind him, setting them across from each other with but a few feet between them. He leaves the room once more to retrieve a tray filled with a small meal and approaches the cell with it in hand.

  “Hungry?” A steaming cup of tea and a small plate with some kind of pastry sits upon it.

  “Not particularly,” I tell him, though we both know it's a lie. I give the food and drink a skeptical once-over to further my point. No doubt laced with some witchy mojo meant to make me more malleable. I haven't forgotten about the wolves’ alliance with the witches.

  He raises a thick eyebrow. “When was the last time you ate?”

  “Doesn’t matter,” I respond curtly after his eyes wander briefly down my body. I’m not built like some kind of Barbie doll. I have hips and long legs, muscular arms and taut abs that I’ve worked hard for in the gym. I’ve a fighter’s body… almost like his. Except where Keenan’s facial features are strong, even a bit harsh, mine have a softer touch to them.

  “Eat,” he counters, the muscles of his forearm straining slightly as his grip tightens on the tray. It’s my turn to raise an eyebrow at the roughened command.

  “No.”

  He turns and sets down the tray on a thin metal table behind him. “I hope you're not thinking of starving yourself,” he comments while crossing his arms over his broad chest.

  “I’m thinking more along the lines of fasting. Or one of those diets where you don’t eat or drink anything your captors bring you. You know, just in case they’re trying to poison you.”

  “Sounds a lot like starving yourself,” he tells me dryly.

  “I can see how the concept would go over your head,” I tell him sweetly. He grunts in response, taking something out of his pocket and going to the cell door. It opens a moment later, his large frame filling the space.

  “We need to talk.” He jerks his head toward the chairs and leaves me space enough to pass by him. “Hands behind your back,” he tells me once I’ve seated myself. I do as he asks, barely restraining my smirk as he secures a pair of handcuffs just above the bracers.

  “Did you want to continue our discussion on my eating habits?”

  Keenan is good at keeping his discontent hidden behind a blank facade. Without a sound, he sits across from me, legs spread wide as he rests his elbows on his thighs. He barely needs to lean forward to disrupt my personal space, but that’s the point. I stretch my legs out in the open space between his legs, crossing them at the ankles.

  “We have both your knives, but couldn’t get your bracelets off. Why is that?”

  “Is that right?” I let my amusement show, a soft smile brimming on my lips. “I hadn’t noticed.”

  His scowl informs me of his disapproval. “Why couldn’t we get the bracelets off?” he asks again. My smile grows wider. The bracers can only be taken off by the wearer. Though, it isn’t completely unheard of for the wearer’s hands to be removed as well to do the job. He doesn’t need to know that though.

  “I’m afraid I can’t say.” Keenan leans closer, close enough that I can see a few faint scars running along the top of his scalp through his closely cropped black hair. “Trade secret.”

  He gives a slight nod, eyes darting to my lips. I let my smile fall faster than a greyhound out its gate. “Last night those carvings lit up with some kind of green light. What was it?”

  “Hmmm….” I let silence reign between us, taking my fill of the sterile wall above his head. “If I correctly remember, that’s also a trade secret.”

  Keenan leans back in his chair, folding his arms back over his chest. “You seem to have a lot of those.”

  “What? Trade secrets?” He nods, and though his eyes go half-mast, they retain their piercing quality.

  “If you won’t answer questions about your bracelets, then we can talk about something else.”

  “Oh, you’re definitely not getting an answer about the ‘bracelets.' Tell me, if I had drunk or eaten any of that food you brought down, would it have made me tell you?”

  Keenan pauses. “Yes.” Knew it, I think vindictively.

  “By human alteration or witchcraft?”

  Keenan straightens his posture, rolling his neck from side to side. A distinct crack sounds from the motion, and then he is staring at me once more, eyes more alert than before. “Witchcraft.” Of course, it would be witchcraft. Thank God I didn’t take any of it. “My turn,” he continues, unperturbed that he has relayed this information to me. “Where's your soulmark?”

  The question catches me off guard, and I pull myself upward to mimic his posturing. My crossed legs tuck themselves under the chair as I eye him more thoughtfully. He doesn’t flinch beneath my studious regard, and I make sure to take my time this go around. Even sitting he is a large man, taking up more space than seems humanly possible. It would be intimidating to a lesser person, but it suits him. The muscles and tattoos and ever-present glower. It fits him.

  I take a deep breath, letting it release in a steady stream of air. “I don’t see how that’s any of your business.”

  Keenan snorts, and I dare think a hint of a smirk plays around the corner of his mouth. His own soulmark is on display, hidden somewhere amongst the myriad of tattoos covering his forearm.

  “Well,” he drawls, “you know where mine is. I thought it only fair to know where yours is.”

  “Life isn’t fair,” I tell him flatly. Keenan leans forward once more, taking his time to draw his gaze up my body. Though I keep an unaffected air, my heartbeat is not inclined to do the same. It races along as his eyes linger over my waist, as if somehow drawn to the mark hidden there. When his eyes return, they have softened. It’s not what I expect.

  “You don’t have to be afraid of me—”

  “I’m not afraid of you,” I interrupt quickly. He quirks a wry grin.

  “Your scent says otherwise, that and the sound of your heart.” I force myself to calm, thinking of silent nights huddled beneath layers of fur-lined blankets and attempting to count a million dazzling stars. My calm returns. Mostly. “Impressive,” he murmurs, shifting back only slightly.

  “I’m not afraid of you.”

  “And you don’t have to be,” he continues smoothly. “You’re my soulmark. I’ll always protect you.”

  I swallow at that, feeling my heart give a traitorous leap at his words. Starry nights, Calliope, I scold myself, think of starry nights.

  “Well,” I begin, finally resolving my composure, “it's in your best interest to be afraid of me. You stole from my people, and we won’t stop until we take back what’s ours. What does a pack of wolves want with the Amethyst of the Aztecs anyway? What good will it do you?” I uncross my legs and set my feet shoulder width apart.

  “We’re keeping it safe,” he assures me calmly.

  I scoff. “That’s our job.”

  “Didn’t do a very good job o
f it, did you?” I purse my lips at the slight, though there is hardly a thing to say against it. “There’s another pack who wanted the ring—”

  “The something-wolfs?” I ask tartly.

  Keenan grunts his affirmation. “The Wselfwulf’s. They’ve made some deal with a vampire—”

  “Vampyré,” I correct.

  “Are you going to let me finish?” he asks, tone deceptively light.

  “Are you going to tell me something I don’t know?”

  Keenan scowls, but I shrug in return.

  “They’re working together, aren’t they?”

  “Yes,” he answers, “they were trying to get the ring for the vamp. He goes by the name Vrana.” Again, I shrug. He is only confirming Naomi and my disjointed theory. Keenan's eyes narrow upon me at the flippant action.

  “I already told you, my people will retrieve the ring. It doesn’t matter who has it. They won’t stop until they do, and neither will I.”

  Keenan looks wary, letting his shoulders roll back. “You know, I didn’t think I’d ever find my soulmark. Not all lycans do,” he tells me with a sigh. “But here you are. Handcuffed in my alpha’s cellar while I question you. I don’t even know your name.” He gives a short bark-like laugh. “Hell, I’m pretty sure you hate me.”

  The last comment stings more than it should. As offhanded as it may be, it hits a mark I thought well hidden. Hating the supernatural is the common thread among all Wardens of Starlight. Our purpose, to eliminate the supernatural and protect the people of Earth, binding us together. Except my track record of summoning the feeling wasn’t so stellar. My lack of it had landed innocents dead. I let my eyes fall shut for a short moment. Hate, I wish it was that easy.

  “It’s Calliope,” I say, surprising myself as I offer the information freely. His eyes widen, lips parting slightly to mime the words. I bite my lip to keep from saying anything else. Stupid girl, I scold myself internally.

  “That’s a beautiful name, Calliope. I’m Keenan,” he finally says, leaving us both to color at the compliment.

  “Don’t,” I tell him, feeling a wave of distrust and dismay flood my body.

  Both of his eyebrows raise. “Don’t what?”

  “Don’t talk like that,” I force out, feeling my cheeks heat even further. “It’s unnecessary and highly unprofessional.”

  His eyebrows hike higher. “Unnecessary? Unprofessional?”

  “Yes,” I sputter, feeling more flustered than necessary. My gaze dodges to the left as I give the handcuffs a frustrated tug. He’s probably trying to soften me up with compliments, but I’m not a fool to that game anymore after Wyatt.

  The heat of Keenan's gaze is unexpectedly suffocating. “A beautiful name for a beautiful woman,” he whispers in a husky timbre. Another well-placed hit. I smother my blush and turn a furious glare his way. He has a sort of smile on his perfectly chiseled face. The kind that softens the appearance of a man his size. It comes close to breaking my resolve, a fact only I am privy too.

  With my resolve weakening, I do the only logical thing I can think of. I activate the bracers with a harsh twist. Snarling, I rip my arms outward, the handcuffs snapping easily. Feet planted firmly on the ground, I give a mighty push and send myself and the chair back several feet.

  Keenan stands slowly, body alert and very much attuned to my own. Though my previous movement reeks of hostility, I rise from my chair with a cool disposition. The air seems to seize around us, constricting with constrained energy.

  “Calliope—”

  I give him a devastating smile. The one I like to save for special occasions such as these. “Call me, Callie.”

  Keenan’s eyes narrow. The muscles bound to his body, holding tight before he charges. I move just as fast. The Borealis spurring me on.

  I spin around as he nears, snatching the wooden chair as I go to swing it around and smash it against him. He lets out a coarse burst of air, saddling sideways upon impact. The chair doesn’t break, but the crack and crunch it makes inform me one more hit will do the job. So be it. I propel myself in a wider circle—chair still in hand—and arch it upward to hit his back. But Keenan is prepared.

  He ducks my second attempt and catches me around my middle. The chair clatters to the floor, my hands finding new purpose in groping his face, thumbs aiming for his umber eyes.

  “Damnit!” he curses, releasing me. Keenan dodges backward and levels me with a glare. “I don’t want to hurt you, Callie.”

  “Can’t say I feel the same,” I pant, launching myself at him again. Adrenalin flares inside of me, and not a beat behind it is my darkness egging me on. If I can subdue him for just a moment, I can make a move for the door. He blocks my right hook and scores with his fist, driving it into my side and effectively pushing me back. I move with the hit, fists in front of my face as I skip backward.

  A scowl threatens at my brow while I weave from side to side, fists launching themselves at Keenan’s torso and face in rapid succession. He’s pulling his hits, and now he’s refusing to do little more than hold a defensive position while I assail him.

  “Fight back,” I growl. Fight back so I can end this. But he doesn't.

  A spell of nerves begins to gnaw at my focus—at my drive and energy. His defense is too tight. There is no managing a solid enough hit to break his stance. I let out another growl, this one full of pent-up frustration. I have failed so far, but not in this. The thought drives away the nerves and the darkness, as I forcefully draw on the Borealis Matter. The bracers shine more brightly as I throw out jabs and crosses.

  A side kick pulls a grimace from his face. Good. I slip close to deliver a left hook, but it’s the move he's been waiting for. Keenan redirects my fist, and with his other, then punches me in the chest. The hit is pulled, but I'm still left reeling and gasping as I teeter backward.

  “I don’t want to hurt you,” he tells me, a pained expression on his face, one that isn’t caused by my attacks.

  “I want to hurt you,” I snap back viciously, all too ready to launch myself back at him, the drive to put him down trumping all others.

  “Why?” he asks breathlessly.

  The question pulls me to an abrupt stop. With horrible realization, my mindless campaign falls out from under me. When did it turn from momentarily stunning him to putting him down into the ground in order to gain my release? I’d become senseless. Driven by the force inside me to inflict pain and death, and nothing else. The darkness. I take two steps back with a shaky gasp, eyes widening in revulsion at myself. Keenan approaches with cautious steps.

  “Don’t,” I say in a ragged whisper. Dangerous thoughts fill my head. Some of them seemingly not my own. How did I not notice it coming to a head? If I can’t differentiate between strategy and senseless fighting—senseless killing—then I’m no better than the monsters my people faced daily.

  “It’s okay, Calliope,” he tells me gently in that gruff voice of his. “I’m not going to hurt you. No one is going to hurt you.” My eyes shift to him and take in his proximity. When had he gotten so close? I shift back more, bumping into the cold bars of my cell.

  “Don’t.” My teeth grind painfully together at the gripping panic flaying me. Not again. I can’t lose myself again. He reaches out a hand tentatively, and I can’t help but note how large and calloused it is. It nears my cheek with clear intent, but I break before I can feel his touch. “I said don’t.”

  I lash out. My fist slams into the center of his face with superhuman strength.

  “Fuck!” He stumbles back, both hands going to cradle his nose as his eyes water. “Shit, Callie.”