by Rebecca Main
“Did your alpha come up with this plan B or you?” I ask.
“I did,” he responds coolly.
I make a humming noise, popping another bit of bread into my mouth and chewing thoughtfully. “He trusts your negotiating skills that much?”
“He trusts me.”
My eyebrow knocks upward in speculation. “What are you, the third? You don’t seem like the beta type. Maybe the fourth? You have to be somewhat high ranking in order to make a deal with the enemy without your alpha’s supervision.”
“I’m the fifth.” Another noncommittal noise sounds from my throat as I avert my gaze to my plate. Out of my peripheral vision, I can see Keenan tense very subtly. Men and their egos. “And though we might be ‘enemies’ as you put it, we have a common interest in keeping the ring out of the hands of the vampires.”
“Vampyré,” I correct absentmindedly, “and how long exactly did you think your pack would keep me as their ‘ward,' hmm? My people will expect me to return. Along with everything I came here with, which includes my duster and my weapons. You can’t really expect me to stay here forever,” I finish a bit dramatically.
Keenan sighs a bit ruefully, a tender smile crossing his lips. “It was worth a shot, I suppose.” He lets the weight of his full regard rest upon me, the same heavy look to his eyes as before. The one filled with want. With need. I swallow, losing the strict words at the tip of my tongue. I can hear my shallow breathing as the seconds tick onward. The sound of my heartbeat an echo in my ears.
“You….” I shake my head, attempting to clear my thoughts. This couldn’t be. We couldn’t be. “I’m promised to someone,” I tell him hoarsely. “He’ll come for me.” Because he thinks I’m his property, I think bitterly.
Keenan doesn’t respond right away. A strange energy builds around him as he moves one hand to toy with his dinner knife. His fingers move it methodically between his fingers in a figure-eight while his regard narrows.
“Promised to whom exactly?” he asks softly. I open my mouth to speak, but a rather unnerving smirk paints itself on his face. “The one dying in the witches’ house?”
My heart contracts. “What did you just say?” I whisper aghast. “What are you talking about?”
The point of the knife drives into the table with a soft thud. “The one with his stomach ripped to shreds,” he informs me calmly, eyes tracing every movement I make.
Oh God. JJ. Not him. My eyes flutter closed. Why hadn’t he made it into the truck? How could they have left him behind? A wave of nausea rises from the pit of my stomach. And they are having the witches hold him prisoner? Fucking wolves. My eyes flash open and meet Keenan’s watch with a mighty glare.
“Take me to see him. Now,” I demand.
Keenan pulls the knife from the wood and slams it flat on to the table. The whole thing reverberates with the collision. “I think a new deal is in order,” he says, voice still achingly calm. “The man, ring, and blades can all be returned to your people once he’s healed, but you stay, Calliope. You stay and you complete the sealing.”
My jaw drops open at the ludicrous proposal. Complete the sealing and create an unbreakable bond between this wolf and myself? I can’t. My family would disown me. A future with Keenan is unthinkable. It’s completely unheard of, and yet my heart gives a wild beat at the thought.
“You can’t be serious,” I argue, but Keenan makes no move to correct himself. A flood of emotions run through me. Anxiety, fear, anger… curiosity.
I know they all must run across my features in harried succession, but I can’t seem to pull myself together. All the while, Keenan remains undisturbed. My hands clench into fists, fingernails digging into the soft flesh of my palms as I rake over his proposal. Stay here and complete the sealing to ensure that JJ and the artifacts are returned safely? I don’t know if I can do it, but I know what JJ would do.
He wouldn't hesitate. He never has when it came to me.
He would take the deal and someway find his way back to our family, but he would make sure I was out safely first. I wish I had his strength and fortitude. If it was any other in my position, a true Stellar Warrior, they would remain steadfast and reject the deal. The Wardens of Starlight don’t compromise with the enemy. Yet here I am, willing to do just that in order to save one life. JJ would do the same for me, I think grimly steeling my resolve.
“I'll accept with the following conditions. First, before you release the man, I want to see him so I can make sure he’s unharmed by your witches. That he’s fit to travel.”
Keenan nods stiffly. “The second?”
“The blades stay with me,” I tell him with a shaky breath. “They belong to me. I’m their protector.”
“Agreed,” Keenan says immediately after I’ve finished, a flash of triumph flaring behind his eyes with a sprinkling of gold. “We’ll complete the sealing tonight,” he tells me, standing abruptly, “after I relay the news to my alpha.”
“Wait! What?” I cry, standing as well, but he is already halfway out the door. It slams shut behind him. The telltale sound of a lock sliding forcefully into place after it.
Chapter 11
Sealed
I’m escorted to some study. An honest to God study. It's done up in rich cherrywood, accented by leather couches and chairs, and a large desk. I navigate the room in what can only be described as an agitated manner.
What am I doing? Have I gone insane?
Only a complete idiot accepts the deal I just did. And why is there something so dastardly akin to hope rising in my chest? I have plans. Plans that are going up in flames faster than I ever thought possible. No Nova, no relics, and now JJ and this ultimatum. This isn’t how it is supposed to go. I’m meant to return victorious and prove everyone wrong. Show them I’m capable and reliable. That my head is in the game.
Then everything will fall back to its rightful place. I would return to my station as a Stellar Warrior and follow every order faithfully till the day I die. Nova would be reunited with her sisters. JJ would rise high among the ranks and restore honor to our family name.
But what if none of those things occurred as a result of my victory?
Wyatt’s words come back to haunt me. Do I really think if I’m victorious the Council would hail my return? Chances are the Council would still punish me, whether through traditional means or by enforcing their own sense of justice. Like finally forcing me into a preordained life. Forcing me to marry Wyatt and live out the rest of my days as his little wife. Sitting behind some desk and doling out new protocols as a member of the Council, my greatest hope of achievement to pass some new law or settle a dispute.
I’m not made to be a judge. I’m an executioner through and through, and therein lie the problem. That dark ache inside of me has too much hold over me. How can I ever be trusted to wield such powerful weapons when I’m no better than some mindless harpy when it comes down to action?
Can I ever fit into the cookie-cutter role they want to place me in? Would I ever be happy?
Can I ever be happy with my soulmark?
I trip over my own feet as the thought stumbles through my mind. I cast a furtive look about the room, double-checking I am alone and no one sees my blunder. What am I thinking? I can’t possibly be thinking of Keenan as a viable option.
He’s not awful, well, too awful. For a wolf. Stoic, yes. A bit grim, most certainly. But also… collected. Put together. Like he’s in control of himself and the beast that I know resides inside of him. I’m aware these are dangerous thoughts. Especially as I was brought up learning lycans have no absolute control over the beast inside of them. The fateful curse upon them does more than restrain the wolf. It drives them mad.
But maybe that isn’t exactly true.
I shake myself at the thoughts. Notions like that got me kicked out of the Stellar Warriors. Doubting my teachings. Going with my gut and letting my emotions cloud my better judgment. Just like my father said.
I stop my pacing as I pass a wind
ow, gazing out into the darkened world. Will the Stellar Warriors come for me? Or just the relics? I’m not quite sure.
I issue a long sigh. None of it matters. JJ is what matters. Getting the relics back matters. Whatever might happen to me is just… collateral damage. It’s not personal. I nibble at my bottom lip. I will take responsibility for my actions. No more moping. No more being self-centered. I’ll make matters right. There is no—
The door slams open, the force of the action making me jump. I whip around, unprepared to face this particular emotion: anger. And he is most certainly angry by the glower on his face. It softens only marginally when he spots me near the window. Then he’s off toward the other end of the room where the decanters full of liquor and crystal glasses are stashed.
“And here I thought I’d be on the receiving end of a warmer reception,” I mutter to myself. Keenan shoots me a stern look over his shoulder, the amber liquid splashing hazardously into a tumbler. Enhanced hearing. How annoying.
“Sorry,” he grumbles after downing his glass and setting it back onto the rolling cart.
“You got what you wanted,” I comment. “I thought you’d be… smugger about it.”
He takes a few steps toward me, folding his arms over his chest and letting his feet stand shoulder width apart, as if he’s about to deliver important news. I straighten in response, eyeing him dubiously. “I didn’t imagine it happening this way,” he admits, softening considerably once his confession is aired. “I didn’t think it would ever happen, actually, but at the very least I thought I would have had the chance to know you before we…”
I raise a brow. “You know me,” I tell him. Keenan looks faintly awestruck at my confident words, and even I feel a small bout of astonishment. Forging onward, I battle down the minor flush that creeps onto my cheeks. “Fighting is intimate,” I say carefully. “You can learn a lot about a person you’ve fought if you pay enough attention. Are they an honorable fighter? Do they adhere to some subset of rules? Or are they the type to shake your hand just before stabbing you in the back?”
Keenan nods along slowly. His gaze turning into one of appraisal. One warrior to another. “Agreed,” he finally murmurs, taking another step forward, “but you have to admit, our circumstance does come across as a bit… dramatic.” He grimaces at the word, and a laugh bubbles up from my chest.
“Yes,” I agree wholeheartedly, surprised by how quickly my anxiety evaporates at his words. “I would definitely categorize fighting to the death as dramatic.”
Keenan's coming smile turns a bit wry. “For the record, I was fighting to subdue you. Not kill you.”
“You were choking me.”
“To force you to lose consciousness,” he rebuts easily.
I lick my lips a tad nervously as an unsteady silence balances between us. My earlier ambivalence returning. “Maybe we can reconsider our deal. Instead, we can agree that you’ll let me go along with the others to avoid all the unnecessary drama,” I offer.
The frown resurfaces, prickling at his brow as a sigh falls heavily from his lips. “I’m sorry, Calliope. I can’t. There’s too much to lose at the moment. At least if we’re sealed, there’s more bargaining power for future attacks or coalitions,” he tells me.
I turn back toward the window, gazing at my solemn expression in the reflection of the glass. Of course, I think, I'm a pawn in another's game once more. Another piece of property, to another man. To a stranger. A wolf. I hear Keenan walk away, and the gentle rattling of the liquor cart sounds as Keenan prepares another drink. I attempt to compose myself in the interim. I shouldn't take it so personally, yet I am. Why?
The crystal tumbler crashes against the drink cart, seizing my attention. I catch Keenan's stricken look over my shoulder and frown.
“I’m sorry,” he tells me earnestly.
Reluctantly, I turn back toward him, wrapping my arms comfortingly around my waist as I put on a stoic mask. “Don't be.”
“Not….” He shakes his head in frustration and walks determinedly toward me. “What I just said, it upset you, and I’m sorry.” My eyes go wide. Enhanced sense of smell. Stupid lycan abilities.
“I wasn’t upset,” I argue.
“I’m not very good at talking to people,” he continues, as if I haven’t spoken at all. “I try to think more logically and strategically than most, and sometimes it makes me come off as rude or detached. So, I'm sorry.”
I shrug a shoulder. “It's fine.”
Keenan’s lips thin minutely. “It isn’t. I’m pleased I found you, Calliope, and that it’s you who I share this mark with. You’re a formidable woman. Especially if you’re fighting is anything to go by,” he tells me warmly. I swallow at the compliment, the familiar stirring in my blood occurring once more. It makes my skin feel hypersensitive and my heart give a somersault.
“Oh.”
“And beautiful,” he tells me.
“Oh.”
“How am I doing?” he asks, voice dropping slightly into something huskier. I find myself caught in his gaze; lips gently parted as my chest begins to rise and fall a bit more steadily. The stirring grows. It makes my palms warm, and my fingers flex as our eyes continue in their deadlock. And I can tell that same stirring is winding its way through Keenan. His eyes, which are already a deep caramel, seem to darken further. Split second fractures of gold piercing through the iris are the only hint that the beast inside him is at attention.
Keenan exhales, visibly shaking himself from whatever spell we’ve both fallen under, an embarrassed flush climbing his cheeks. “There’s one more thing,” he admits, the anger from earlier trespassing back into his voice. “The food tonight was tampered with.”
My eyes widen at the information, all feelings of warmth disappearing as I take a step back. “With what exactly?” I ask curtly.
“Zoelle is a witch,” Keenan tells me, softening his posture, “but she has a rather peculiar talent when it comes to cooking.”
“Which is?”
“She can impart emotions into her cooking,” he laments. The frown on my face deepens. “If she’s feeling anxious, then whoever eats her food will feel anxious. If she’s feeling happy, then whoever eats her food will feel happy. It’s why her little bakery does so well. She can also impart intentions into her food.”
“Intentions?” The word falls flat, my reserve of calm leaving me.
Keenan nods and lets out another sigh. “Zoelle could be feeling anything while she cooks, which is why having the intention of what she wants her patrons to feel at the forefront of her mind is so important. If she does, she can impart that into her cooking instead. I’m not sure of the exact mechanics of it all. I don’t like magic enough to learn about it,” he finishes with a grunt of disapproval.
“Keenan,” I ask tightly, “what did she do to our food?”
“She made us ‘open-minded’ and ‘receptive,'” he confesses.
I chew over the supposed "intentions" and hate to admit that I am not as outraged as I feel I ought to be. Stupid witches and their stupid magic, I think bitterly.
“I guess that isn’t completely and utterly terrible,” I admit begrudgingly.
Keenan scratches the back of his neck, head bowing slightly to look at me through half-lidded eyes. “About the ‘receptive’ part. Quinn, the blonde you met earlier? She’s the one who mentioned that particular intention, which means it might mean something more.”
I find myself swallowing. “More? As in… what exactly?” My words come out breathier than I intend them to, and so I bite my lip in retaliation, hoping to stem the come-hither quality of my voice. Keenan’s eyes lock onto the action, nostrils flaring as he steps not toward me but to the side. I’m acutely aware of the change in his body language. Though held loosely, it is wound in anticipation. Ready to pounce at a moment’s notice. And his eyes… his eyes slowly burn into me.