by H. D. Gordon
He nodded toward me again. “I put some salve on the wounds. You’re welcome.”
Growling, I adjusted myself until I was lying mostly under the horse blankets, and shifted back into my human form. I laid on my side, as lying on my ruined back was not an option.
Despite my injuries, it still only took a few moments.
From his crouched position, Ryker grinned. “Magnificent. How did you learn to shift so fast?”
The pain was much worse in this form, and I spoke through clenched teeth. “What do you want?” I snapped.
His head tilted in a very Wolf-like manner. “To be your friend, little Wolf,” he said.
“Liar.”
He laughed. “Why are you so sure? Perhaps you intrigue me.”
“Whatever game you’re playing,” I said, “I don’t want any part of it. Either punish me for my crimes or leave me be, but make up your gods damned mind.”
He moved so swiftly that I blinked and he was before me, his face inches from my own and teeth bared in a terrifying expression that was not a smile.
“Males cower before me, little wolf,” he said, his tone so even that goosebumps rose along my forearms. “And, yet, there you lie, injured and entirely at my mercy… and still you speak so brazenly. Have you no care what happens with your life?”
Though my stomach had clenched with his proximity, my spine tingling at the threat behind his words, I bared my teeth right back at him and met his gaze square. “My life has never been my own to care for,” I spat.
And though it hurt to do so, I crossed my arms over my chest.
Ryker the Hound remained very close, his body practically hovering over mine, his clothes and the horse blanket the only fabric between us.
I decided not to notice when his azure eyes darted down to my lips… and back up to my eyes again.
When his hand came up and his callused fingers ran down the side of my face, tracing the silver scar there, I went as stiff as an oak board.
Before I could decide whether or not to bite his gods damned hand off, he moved, pulling away from me in a smooth retreat.
Ryker hovered by the doorway for a moment, staring down at me with an unreadable look on his handsome face.
“You cost a lot of people a lot of money tonight,” he said. “If I were you, I’d mind the target on my back.”
I snorted and rested back into my blankets. When I glanced at the doorway again a moment later, he was gone.
Sleep claimed me again soon after, and once again, the sensation of not being alone in my hut woke me. Judging from the sound of the cicadas outside my hut door, I knew that it was the very middle of the night, the sunrise hours from arrival and the shadows holding fast to their corners.
The scent of lilac and honeysuckle filled my nose, and I slung an arm over my head, groaning. A wet cloth touched my forehead, and I hissed at the sharp smell of alcohol and the burn that seared across a scrape on my head I hadn’t been aware of.
I made to bat the cloth away, but Goldie’s delicate hand caught mine in hers. “Keep still, knucklehead,” she said, albeit gently. “You want these cuts to get infected?”
Another groan slipped past my lips. I heard rather than saw Goldie retrieve a cup and fill it with water, the sloshing sound making my dry throat ache. A moment later, the metal cup was placed to my lips. I drank the cool liquid down so fast that I choked and water splashed down my chin.
In too much pain and exhaustion to care, I dropped my head again, and mumbled, “Maybe death by infection would be a kindness.”
Goldie’s tongue clicked in disagreement. “Don’t talk like that. I hate it when you say things like that.”
I inhaled deeply through my nose and let out a slow sigh. I resisted the urge to tell her she hated when I said things like that because they rang true.
Silence fell between us as my friend cleaned my wounds, washing the blood from my back and leg. Though I would heal faster than a mortal, the wounds from the Bear’s bites had gone deep. These next few days would be a torment of pain as I healed.
And the scars were sure to be hideous. Then again, they’d have to compete for attention among the other scars already marring my back.
While she worked, I told Goldie what had happened with Amara, speaking telepathically because it took less energy and could not be overheard.
She looked as relieved as an old hen, and I asked her if she wanted to tell me about how her side of the plan had gone down.
“It went fine,” was all she said of the matter, and I knew my friend well enough not to press. Part of me knew it was because Goldie wanted to spare me from the horrors that were her reality, the things she’d been forced to do to survive. Many nights we’d come together just this way; her smelling of strange Wolves’ aroma, and me lying in a bloodied heap. Ours was a friendship forged in the fires of hell. None other ran as deep or as true.
We finished discussing the matter at the same time as Goldie finished cleaning my wounds. We decided we would not speak of it again, and that we would put our slave-smuggling days behind us.
We implored the gods to look after Amara. We thanked them for the fortune that had allowed us to get away with it all.
And we were far too hasty with our gratitude.
15
The summons came shortly after the sun had risen.
Goldie had left hours ago, needing rest after the last two nights she’d endured, telling me in much the same fashion as had Ryker that I needed to be on alert.
“A Wolf who loses money makes no friends,” she’d said, and yawned before disappearing into the night.
I’d sighed, draping my arm over my forehead and closing my eyes. I fell back into an uneasy sleep, keeping one eye open for obvious reasons.
But no revenge-seeker came to my door, and I listened to the night bugs call out their presence as the night slowly seeped into day.
With morning, so came the order. I had just pulled myself into a sitting position, every movement a lesson in agony, when the Hound appeared at my door.
He pushed aside the ratty blanket covering the arched opening of my hut, crouching just to step into my place, needing no invitation.
Slaves did not make choices, including who visited.
The Hound was one of my Master’s, Bo Benedict, as was evident by the sigil (a single stock of lavender wheat) sew into the front of his uniform. His face was as hard as the earth on which I slept as he said, “Get up. The Pack Master wants to see you. You’ve got thirty seconds. I’ll be outside.” He turned and disappeared beyond the blanket-flap.
“Good morning to you, too, shithead,” I mumbled, and knew I’d been heard when a low grunt sounded from outside the hut.
I was in too much agony to care. The wounds on my back and leg had clotted over, but it would not take much to reopen the new skin. My long brown hair hung in mats and blood-clotted chunks upon my head, and I panted through the process of pulling it up into a bun. Just this simple task gave the sensation of wildfire ravaging my back, but I managed.
Dressing was worse. Just the scratch of the fabric on my fresh skin was enough to set my teeth on edge. When I stepped through the flap of the hut at last, the Hound was glaring at me.
“That was forty seconds,” he hissed.
I folded my arms over my chest, my clenched fists the only indication of the pain this caused me. “You kill a bear and then let me know how long it takes you to rouse in the morning.”
The Hound’s eyes narrowed, but I could see the respect last night’s kill had earned me. If there was one thing Wolves understood and revered, it was the alpha-quality that made for a talented killer.
So when I told the Hound that I needed to relieve myself, and turned on my heel toward the creek where the Dogs did such business, I wasn’t surprised that he didn’t stop me.
I needed to evacuate and wash, yes, but I also needed the precious few moments to accept the probability of the serious shit I was in.
In my eighteen years of
living on Bo Benedict’s plantation, I had never been inside the main house, where the Master himself stayed and slept. In fact, I’d only ever seen the place from a distance, a sea of lavender wheat between me and the imposing structure that it was.
All white sides with red clay shingles on the roof. Pillars framed the front of it, large and imposing, flanking duel doors of thick red mahogany. The structure itself was u-shaped and rectangular, with more windows than one could count in a single sitting. The grounds surrounding it were pruned to perfection, the grass thick and emerald, the flowers vibrant and plentiful in varying shades of blue, violet, fuchsia, and marigold. A grand fountain graced the center as the focal point.
My Hound escort and I crested the hill on the eastern side of the estate, and it was an effort to keep the pace of my heartbeat in check. The Hound had not told me what the subject of this summons was, but I could think of a few actions I’d partaken in lately that might be the cause of it.
As the main house loomed before us, an invisible axe seemed to be looming over my head.
We crossed the grounds quickly. At the large double doors of the entrance stood two more Hounds sporting Benedict’s lavender wheat sigil, sewn into their uniforms just above where their hearts beat. The two guards hardly spared me a glance as they nodded to my escort and held the door open for us to enter.
Looking into the house from the outside felt oddly like staring into the gaping maw of some terrible beast. I must have been hesitating, because rough hands shoved me from behind, and my dirty, bare feet stumbled over the threshold.
The marble floor of the foyer was cold against my skin, but I could pay the sensation no mind with everything else there was to look at.
Two wide staircases framed the entryway, leading up to a landing where paintings that were likely worth more than my existence hung in ornate frames upon the walls. A large circular table sat in the middle of the foyer, a ceramic vase placed atop it and exploding with an array of colorful flowers. The real centerpiece was the crystal chandelier hanging from the ceiling, glittering like the diamonds in the Southern Mines. The ceiling itself was mostly glass (save for the part that supported that enormous chandelier) and the light from the morning sun cast twinkling bits of gold in every direction, like the night sky in reverse.
My teeth ground together hard enough to make my jaw ache and the fresh wounds on my back throb as if in answer. All of this. Paid for with the blood of Wolves like me. Every crystal hanging from the ceiling and thread making up the violet runner covering the marble floor.
If I hadn’t already hated them all, this would be reason enough. I quite literally slept in the mud while these people lived like royalty.
Before my gawking could get me into any more trouble, I was led to the rear of the foyer, beneath the left hand, curving staircase, and down a long hall where more art adorned the walls. The thought of one of these paintings hanging in my mud and straw hut caused a laugh to bubble up from my belly, but my nerves were such that it died before it reached my throat.
There was another set of double doors, not as imposing as the archway at the entrance to the house, but ominous with their dark cherry exterior nonetheless. Without having to be told, I had a feeling that fate awaited me on the other side of those doors.
And I was right about that.
My heart stopped dead in my chest.
The room beyond those double doors held thick carpets and furniture made of dark, aromatic wood and leather. Bookshelves lined three of the four walls, but not a single tome adorned them. Instead, sculptures and trophies and framed pictures held quarter upon them. The space was large enough to fit ten huts and a trough or two. Before three sets of imposing bay windows, plush chairs and daybeds had been arranged. Near the eastern side of the room, a huge shiny wooden desk clear of clutter dominated the space.
And behind that overcompensating desk sat the Midlands Pack Master, Bo Benedict.
But this was not what made my heart stop its humming. I’d expected to see Benedict here; this was his house, after all.
The person I had not expected to see was Goldie.
She met my gaze for the briefest of moments before looking away. It felt as though my tongue had swollen to three times its size in my throat.
The urge to grab my friend by the arm and hightail it out of there hit me hard in the gut, but a glance back at the Hounds still hovering by the doors reminded me that escape was futile. And even if we made it out of this room, there was the matter of the collar around my neck.
It was surely just my imagination, but standing there just then, that collar seemed to constrict around my throat like a noose.
We’d been caught. And we were totally screwed.
What other reason could there be for Goldie to also be here?
My friend was not the only unexpected guest in the room, however. Also present were Reagan Ramsey and his Head Hound, Ryker. Beside the Head Hound stood Mekhi, still sporting some of the injuries I’d given him in our scuffle.
And then there was the red-eyed male I’d glimpsed in the shadows before my fight, and then again in the crowd during the match. My gaze lingered on him a moment. Despite the tension that had filled the room like a noxious gas, it was difficult not to stare.
Whoever this red-eyed male was, he was utterly captivating. Skin as pale as snow with high cheekbones and a strong jaw. Tall and lean with a muscular build. Those ruby eyes were framed with the darkest of black lashes, and the thick ebony hair atop his head was coifed up handsomely. He noticed my attention and stared back at me with amused indifference.
My mouth got the better of me before I could subdue it. “What’s going on?” I asked.
This earned me glares from the Hounds in the room and utter dismissal from the others.
It was Reagan Ramsey who spoke next. His lip curled in distaste as he looked at me. “This is the one? This is the Dog that beat my Bear?”
I hadn’t noticed his presence before, with all of the other distractions in the room, but Benedict’s Overseer stepped forward now. His name was Wesley. I knew it well. He’d once tried to spell it on the skin of my back with his whip.
“This is Rukiya,” Wesley drawled, his accent reflecting his Midlands origins. “She don’t look like much, but she gives ‘em hell in The Ring.”
“How many wins does she have?” Ramsey asked, as though I were not standing right there in the room.
“The Bear made her eighteenth,” answered Wesley. “We suppose that’s about how old she is, but we can’t be sure, since she didn’t come with papers.”
Ramsey looked at Benedict, who was lounging in his large leather chair behind his big desk, boots propped up on the edge as though he hadn’t a care in the world. For once, his wide-brimmed hat had been removed to reveal his bald head, and it rested atop the desk beside his boots.
In his fine slacks and button-up shirt, Ramsey could not have looked more the opposite. “Were you planning on sending her to The Games this year, Ben?” Ramsey asked.
Bo Benedict sucked at his teeth, looking me over disinterestedly. “I wasn’t gonna… but seeing as how she just took down the West Coast champ…” He shrugged.
It was an effort to keep my brow from furrowing. Why were they talking about these things? What did they matter if Goldie and I were going to be put down for helping Amara?
I dared a glance at my friend, but her gaze was steady on the carpet.
I looked again at the red-eyed male, but jerked my gaze away when I saw he was still watching me.
A moment of silence fell before Ramsey said, “How much do you want for her?”
Now there was nothing I could do to keep my brows from reaching the ceiling. Whatever I’d been expecting, this was not it.
Benedict shifted so that his boots returned to the floor. “If she’s strong enough to take down your champ, I’m not so sure I’m looking to sell her at all, my friend.”
From the look that flashed over Ramsey’s handsome face, I would wager the
two were anything but ‘friends’.
Ramsey gained control over himself within the next breath. “As I’m sure you’re aware, Marisol is hosting The Games this year,” he said slowly. “I need a strong female to stand in for the Bear.” He pointed a finger at me. “My Head Hound says I should buy that one.”
Benedict gave another lazy shrug and spread his hands. “Make me an offer.”
“Three,” Ramsey said.
Benedict scoffed.
“Five,” Ramsey tried again.
Benedict only looked at him this time.
“Seven,” said Ramsey through clenched teeth. “And I think we can agree that seven is more than enough for a single female Dog, especially since I lost a pup to your land only yesterday and she still has not been recovered.”
Through this exchange, I didn’t dare breathe.
Benedict said, “My Hounds searched for your missing pup.” A shrug. “If they haven’t found her by now, she’s likely become dinner for some untamed beast. Your Hounds should’ve kept a better watch on her. I don’t see what that has to do with this deal.”
The rage that flashed behind Ramsey’s eyes was the only indication of his discontent. His fit body remained relaxed and unconcerned. “Seven,” he repeated. “Do we have a deal?”
Benedict considered. “Eight, and she’s yours.”
The look on Ramsey’s face spoke for him. That was more than he was willing to pay for me… but just before he could voice his refusal, Ryker leaned over and whispered something low enough for only his Master to hear. As he did so, Ramsey’s gaze went to me, assessing.
When Ryker finished, Ramsey nodded once, letting out a slow breath. His eyes were cool again when they met Benedict’s, and he held out a smooth hand. “Eight,” he agreed.
The two Masters shook hands, and like that, I was sold.
Like a bag of grain. Or a spice for seasoning.
“It’s settled then,” Benedict said. “And why is she here?” he added, nodding toward Goldie.
It was Mekhi the Hound who spoke; the first time I’d heard his voice since our encounter in the alley a day prior.