by J. K. Jones
Knowing Micah, he will take only the strongest wolves.
Which meant that Ryu would be stuck with a bunch of juiced-up Alphas. Most mated Alphas were easy to deal with, for they had no interest in anyone beyond their mate, the Māku kept them bound.
Ryu had no such mark.
At least not anywhere visible. He insisted that Micah mark him on his thigh, that way wolves would have to scent him properly to know whether or not he was mated.
His neck lay bare, his scent thick and intoxicating, freesia is an aphrodisiac to most Alphas. He needs to be on his guard at all costs.
Not that it’s ever been a problem.
Of course, the council knew they mated years before they were supposed to be married. Micah breaking his vow of chastity and fucking Ryu into the ground had been one of his greatest accomplishments.
Becoming Micha’s Second was only reserved for when they did get married. However, now it was just a ruse, something to throw people off his trail. Once this was over and Amaya was safe Ryu will be gone, he won’t stick around.
What’s the point? His heart died long ago. Along with his will to live and see the Silvercrest Clan become great.
Ryu breaks out of his mediation.
Finding that even now, as he sits in perfect stillness, he can find no rest. This evening they would leave, and once the journey was completed, go their separate ways. Ryu knew it was the right thing to do.
He gets up from his position on the bed and picks up the bracelet on the dresser. It’s a small, delicate, piece of red cloth Ryu made because he had nothing.
He came from nothing.
Micah with his endless riches and pearls, a palace with several servants and guards at his beck and calls. Ryu with his rags, covered in dirt and grime. Their friendship had not been easy, most of Micah’s friends had taken to throwing rocks at Ryu whenever he was near.
If he stood too close to Micah, they would tear his clothes off or beat him bloody.
Ryu’s face hardens thinking back on that time.
The red bracelet transforms, reminding him how naïve he was back then. To think Micah would choose him as his mate, above all else. How incredibly foolish. He sneers at it, tossing it to the table harshly.
Fuck Micah. Fuck the Silvercrest Howlers.
He would have gladly seen them all fall to ruin by Kenyon’s hand. For a time, he did not understand Kenyon’s mounting hatred for the richer clans, for their boisterous condescending behavior.
Although Kenyon was indeed a mad fuck—he understood the way of the world. How hierarchies cannot be broken, and the only way to get through it was to forge your path.
Ryu thought differently.
Long ago, he wanted to break the stereotype, to smash it into pieces. The idea that Omega males could not learn from Sensei Musashi and lead their lives according to the ethic code of bushido.
Ryu did all of those things and more.
With Micah anything was possible. Now, they linger in the space between friend and foe, not yet friends, but certainly not foes.
Ryu comes to an understanding of things. Micah wants to protect him, not out of love or duty, but because he feels responsible.
Micah holds duty and responsibility above all else. He probably feels he made promises to Ryu he could not follow through on. Perhaps, that is all that this is. Micah disciplining Deryn is just to clear his guilty conscience.
Thinking about things like that made it easier.
Ryu could detach himself from the situation and focus on the task at hand. By four pm he was ready, knives sharpened, blade crisp and clear, his clothes freshly washed and a small pack, filled to the brim with things he would need on his journey.
By the time he steps out of the palace, everyone is already in the gardens.
Several of the men are dressed in combat gear, making it easier to shift from a wolf back to a human when they needed to hunt. Ryu lived with them for so long he never worried about such things.
Micah stands at the front and Ryu joins him.
So far, there are six of them. More will be joining from other clans when they reach the border. Trmon, Deryn, Rocky, Cole, and Weiss all huddle together whispering to each other.
Ryu’s frown deepens when he notices Alhazred among them.
Fuck—he turns to Micah with incredulity.
“He asked to join,” Micah says impassively. “I cannot turn away good fighters for personal reasons.”
Personal? That’s rich. Alhazred tormented him most of his life. Of course, Micah would side with the greasy fucker. Ryu says nothing, lips forming into a hard line.
“Keep him away from me.”
“Ryu.”
Micah’s voice is a deep tenor making his skin erupt in goosebumps.
“We….” He trails off, brow furrowed. “I will need to scent you daily.”
Ryu recoils in horror. Scenting daily!
This is an intimate act. Mostly reserved for couples courting, not yet mated properly. Since they were not mated most of the single wolves from other clans would most likely try to make a pass at Ryu. To which, Micah would probably lose his temper and kill them.
Since they fucked long ago, Micah’s scent still lingers on him, however, it’s faint and obscure, only the strongest Alphas would pick it up. His Māku is faded, not as strong as it would be if they start scenting again.
Scenting often involved the Alpha rubbing their noses against their mate, making sure their scent was embedded into their skin to warn other Alphas away.
It’s a practical decision. To keep peace among the wolves.
Ryu realizes he doesn’t have a choice. Either he is scented by Micah daily or he’s at the mercy of those other wolves, who Micah would surely kill if they ever got their hands on him.
“Fine.”
If Micah gets too handsy he will cut him to pieces.
“Good.” He looks somewhat pleased with himself. “Let’s go.”
They set out.
The journey before them is arduous, but Ryu is hopeful they will find a cure. He looks back at the Silvercrest clan, watching them kiss their loved ones behind. They wear solid black combat gear, the Silvercrest coat of arms on their brassard. He says a silent prayer, thanking the Goddess for keeping them safe.
Then they are off, into the unknown.
Chapter 10
Filthy Claws Clan
Fujisawa ‘06
Fifteen years ago …
“You thieving shits!” the soldier yells, chasing them down the street. Ryu moves like lightning, his tiny feet slipping against the concrete as he tears down the narrow streets. The man is hot on their heels, his face twisted in brutal resentment.
Kenyon darts right, causing Ryu to nearly trip on the sharp pivot. In his arms are two loaves of bread, not much but enough to feed them for a few days.
Ryu is breathless, his scrawny legs nearly shaking with adrenaline as they run until their lungs burn. His clothes are tattered, nearly hanging off him is a ratty shirt and pants that haven’t been washed in weeks.
His hair is long and matted, falling in his eyes.
“Hurry!” Kenyon screams, he vaults like mad, the marketgoers jump out of the way, shouting obscenities at their small frames.
The soles on his shoes are worn thin, Ryu can feel the concrete with each step as it judders through him. They round the corner, both of them hyper with exhilaration. They’re close. Not far from their destination and soon the soldier won’t be able to get them.
Ryu feels lightheaded, dizzy with anticipation.
It all comes to a crashing halt when five more soldiers block their way, forcing Kenyon to deviate from their path and run down a different alleyway.
Ryu surges after him, careful not to lose his friend in the sea of marketgoers. Kenyon swings right, then left, and then right again, sprinting like mad to get away.
He’s fast. Too fast.
Ryu is losing him. Soon he can barely see Kenyon's head in the crowd. Ryu pumps harder, p
ushing himself to the brink before he finally catches up, and nearly plows into Kenyon.
He stares at his friend in wild disbelief.
Kenyon gapes in horror at the brick wall—a dead end. The soldiers thunder around the corner, all of them breathless and weary.
“You fucking shits!” the man from earlier says, his face red with anger. All the soldiers from the Silvercrest Howlers wear black combat gear, their weapons situated on their backs. Ever since the occupation, more and more soldiers have been arriving daily.
At first, it was to teach them the ways of agriculture, they primarily lived-in slums, surviving off the scraps and decaying agriculture. Michael sought to bring them back from the brink, teaching them how to survive and build farms. However, the soldiers began to get restless, they set themselves apart in large tents, building mansions and vast infrastructure high above the rest and dedicating it to their clan. They sat fat and well-fed, with their riches and gold while the Filthy Claws toiled in the fields, wasting away.
The best food was saved for the soldiers, the scraps were for the people, and by winter they were working three times as hard to feed themselves and the soldiers. Soon after, the people began to wonder if the Silvercrest Howlers were here to help or to take over.
There were many talks amongst the people, the Filthy Claws were impoverished, but they took pride in the fact that their clan was their own. For centuries they ruled this land, although it had begun to decay that did not mean they wanted to give it up.
The tides turned, and the people began to see what this was. It was not an altruistic venture, to help the people of the Filthy Claws, but a twisted and devilish take over.
For months brawls broke out in the city, the Filthy Claws fighting back to regain their clan. The Silvercrest Howlers ordered more men, and then a curfew was put in place to keep the rioters at bay.
Ryu backs away, shaking in terror.
The other soldiers laugh rancorously. “Give back what you stole and there won’t be any trouble.”
Kenyon clutches the loaves of bread tighter. “You—you have a lot! I saw it on the table! Hundreds of them and I—we can’t have one?”
“It’s the principle of the matter little Alpha.” The soldier sneers. “You Filthy Claws think you can take what doesn’t belong to you! Well, you can’t! You’ll learn one way or another.” The man marches forward, grabbing a fist full of Kenyon’s hair and dragging him over.
Ryu screams, running forward frantically kicking the man's shins as hard as he can.
“Omega bitch!”
He punches Ryu hard.
Ryu stumbles back, face stinging from the man's knuckles against his cheek. Kenyon fights maliciously, biting and clawing at the man’s arm like he’s possessed. “Don’t touch my mate!”
The men freeze.
Then they all nearly keel over with laughter.
Ryu flushes, wondering why Kenyon always needed to declare that wherever they went. It was embarrassing enough to even talk about such things.
“Is that so?” The man laughs heartily. “Your mate is very pretty. Give us back our bread and we won’t harm you anymore.”
Kenyon’s bottom lip trembles, his stomach nearly clinging to his ribcage. “Here!” He tosses the loaves on the ground into a dirty puddle, the water easily soaks it through.
“You shit!” the man raves, punching Kenyon so hard his lip burst and splits. The rest of the men join him in punching and kicking Kenyon into the ground.
Ryu lurches forward, heart in his chest when someone grabs onto him tightly. “Don’t.” he says harshly. Another soldier, this one doesn’t join in but hangs back from the group.
“If I ever see your face again, you’re dead,” the man spits, kicking Kenyon one last time before storming away with his ground.
As soon as they leave Ryu rushes over to him, gently touching his friend, checking for any broken bones. By now, they should be used to this. Kenyon has this absurd idea that if they keep stealing from the same platoon then maybe they’ll catch something big.
Kenyon’s face is a bloody mess, the cuts are deep, and his hand is twisted at a strange angle. Ryu’s eyes sting with tears as he gathers his friend in his arms, half dragging him to their shelter which is not that far away.
They came upon a lone structure, a wretched and ominous building, left disregarded by all. Over time the bricks weaken, paint peels in lofty strips, layers of dust and grime coat every surface. But for Ryu and Kenyon this has always been home.
Pigeons flutter around the rooms, nestling in the windows, along with the spider webs and small rats.
It’s a small building on the east side, abandoned, but they managed to get some blankets, a few scraps of cardboard to keep the winter chill at bay. It starts raining, Ryu rushes back to the alleyway and grabs the loaf of bread, although it had been soaking in the mud, he cleans it as much as possible, starting a small fire to warm the soggy loaf up.
He takes out some first aid, a box Kenyon stole from the camp and light dabs his wounds. Tomorrow they would have to see if Marissa can fix his arm. Kenyon groans, face contorting in pain.
“Shhh,” Ryu says softly. “You’re okay. You’ll be okay.”
Of course, he doesn’t know for sure. It’s just something that they say to each other when they feel sad. Kenyon stirs, moving to sit up, while Ryu dabs some antibodies on his cheek and lips. His eye is blackening, nearly purplish.
Yet, for a small boy at the age of ten Kenyon is very handsome. His eyes are dark brown, along with his curly matted hair. “I hate those guys.”
Ryu nods along. “Me too…. maybe…we should stop stealing from them….”
“No way!” Kenyon huffs, a spiteful glint to his eyes. “Never. I’ll never stop. Things were fine without them here. Now, they patrol the streets like roaches!”
Ryu bites his lips.
He knows Kenyon likes to listen to the radical adults that call for the end of the Silvercrest clan. He often finds Kenyon, hiding in the bleachers when they have their rallies.
“When I am big and strong, they’ll all be dead. I’ll kill them all,” Kenyon declares loudly. “And you’ll be my mate.”
At eight years old he doesn’t understand why Kenyon keeps saying that.
It makes him feel—awkward. Like it isn’t something they should be saying to each other. Ryu noticed that people who usually say that kiss and touch like they are familiar with each other.
The thought of doing that with Kenyon is enough to make his stomach roll.
“Why do you keep saying that?”
“Because it’s true,” Kenyon says, eyes slightly manic. “Don’t you want to be together forever?”
“Of course, I do.”
“That is the only way. I will protect you forever Ryu. Don’t worry.”
Kenyon always had a way of making things simple and easy to understand. If that was the only way, then so be it. Ryu agrees eagerly, nodding seriously to his friend.
“Okay,” Ryu says strongly. “Together forever.”
They smile at each other and Ryu brings the loaf of bread over, breaking it off into small pieces. Kenyon gives the bigger pieces to Ryu, both of them munch heartily. They continue speaking low and deep into the night, Kenyon talks about becoming the greatest wolf warrior the Filthy Claws has ever seen. Ryu grew up hearing stories about them when the Filthy Claws clan was the greatest the world has ever seen. These stories were often passed down orally, they were never written down because they were meant to embody the history of the clan.
Kenyon regals Ryu with his favorites, most of them of the Bloodhound Prince.
Ryu listens, his heart swelling with adoration and exhilaration.
Together they would rule the world.
Chapter 11
Kenyon saves the last of their food. He packs it away carefully in a small crawl space, away from the rat and roaches. They don’t have much food in there, it’ll be a few days before they run out again.
Kenyon
is confident that his plan will work this time.
Ryu isn’t so sure. Truthfully, he doesn’t want to antagonize those soldiers. Every time they do Kenyon ends up hurt worse than ever before. This time, when they see Marissa, she gives Kenyon an angry grumble before setting his hand back into place.
Being wolves, they have accelerating healing, but even broken bones need to be set properly.
Marissa is an older girl, abandoned by her parents at fifteen, she took it upon herself to watch the orphans that occupy this street.
Liver’s lane isn’t at all pretty. It’s saturated with the stench of decay and death, most of the people move inward, wanting to be as far away from the slums as possible. That means food is scarce and the people are on high alert against thieves.
The minute Kenyon’s hand is set, he jumps up, rolling his wrist experimentally before grabbing Ryu’s hand. “Let’s go. I have an idea.”
They go closer to the soldier’s camp, crouching low behind a few bushes. It is lunchtime, which means lots of food was prepared. Ryu’s mouth waters and his stomach clenches painfully.
A twig snaps, causing them both to jump in fright.
From the bushes emerges two other boys, Caleb and Allister, two Betas that Kenyon often enlisted to do the stealing with them.
Four is better than two, he always said.
“Be quiet ass-lickers.” Kenyon sneers at them, his scent of Moldavite flares violently. “Keep low.”
They do as they’re told, both of them not wanting to raise Kenyon’s fierce and unreasonable mania. Caleb is tall for his age, a lanky Beta with a snub nose and thin face. Allister stands a head shorter than him, with blonde hair and freckles, he smiles shyly at Ryu, before turning away.
“Okay fuckers,” Kenyon bolstered. “Listen up, we are going to fucking take their food and grind them into the fucking mud. Do you fucking understand?”
Ryu never understood why Kenyon always swore so much around other wolves. When they are alone, he is hardly this vulgar, however, he says he does it because they would see who is in charge.