Chapter 8 Scent of a Lie
By the time night falls, the infirmary has thinned.
The wounded who could walk have been sent back to their quarters. The rest lie sleeping, breath heavy and even, watched over by exhausted healers who move with quiet efficiency. I help where I’m needed—changing linens, fetching water, grinding herbs—keeping my head down, my senses sharp.
And all the while, I feel him.
Not close. Not distant.
Aware.
The bond hums low beneath my skin, like a current running just under the surface. Alaric is somewhere in the compound, and my body knows it even when my mind refuses to dwell on it.
That’s the problem.
My mind does dwell on it.
On the way his breath hitched when I touched his skin. On the restraint in his eyes. On the way he said don’t make me regret trusting you like trust was already something he’d given without realizing it.
I scrub my hands harder than necessary.
Focus.
When I finally return to my room, my muscles ache with fatigue and tension. I close the door behind me and lean against it, exhaling slowly.
I’m running out of time.
The coven won’t wait forever. They never do. Every day I delay makes me more suspicious. More expendable.
I remove my boot and retrieve the vial, rolling it between my fingers in the low light. The liquid inside shifts sluggishly, dark and patient.
Nightbane doesn’t rush.
It waits.
I tuck it back away just as a knock sounds at the door.
My heart leaps.
Once. Firm. Familiar.
I don’t open it right away.
The knock comes again, closer to a demand than a request.
“Mira.”
Alaric’s voice.
The bond snaps tight, heat rushing through me so fast it steals my breath.
I open the door.
He stands there alone, shadows clinging to his broad frame, eyes bright in the torchlight. He looks better than he did earlier—less strained—but there’s an edge to him now, a coiled tension that makes the air feel sharp.
“You should be resting,” I say.
“So should you,” he replies, gaze flicking briefly to my bare feet. “Yet here we are.”
He steps inside without waiting for invitation, closing the door behind him.
The room feels suddenly very small.
“I came to warn you,” he says again.
“You already did.”
“This is different.” His eyes narrow slightly. “The council is divided. Some think you’re a liability. Others think you’re leverage.”
My stomach tightens. “Leverage for what?”
“For the witches.”
The word lands heavy.
I keep my face carefully blank. “I told you—I’m not—”
“I know what you told me,” he interrupts. “I also know what I scent.”
My pulse spikes.
He takes a slow step closer. “Fear. Resolve. Guilt.” His gaze locks onto mine. “And something sharp beneath it all.”
I force myself not to back away. “You smell too much into things.”
“Wolves survive by it.”
The bond stirs, uneasy now, like it senses the knife-edge we’re balancing on.
“You’ve been useful,” Alaric continues. “The infirmary speaks well of you.”
“That was the point.”
“No.” His voice drops. “The point is that you’re embedding yourself.”
My throat tightens. “You assigned me there.”
“And you accepted too easily.”
Silence stretches.
I lift my chin. “If you’re accusing me of something, do it plainly.”
Alaric studies me, gaze intense and searching. “I don’t know what you are,” he says slowly. “But I know this—if you were simply running from something, you wouldn’t smell like you’re counting down.”
The truth nearly breaks free.
Instead, I say, “Maybe I am.”
The bond pulses—harder this time. A warning. A plea.
Alaric’s jaw tightens. “The blood moon returns in three nights.”
My heart stutters.
“That’s when bonds strengthen,” he continues. “When instincts sharpen. When mistakes become fatal.”
I swallow. “What are you saying?”
“I’m saying,” he replies quietly, “that whatever game you’re playing needs to end before then.”
He steps closer, stopping just short of touching me. The heat between us is immediate, dangerous.
“Because if you threaten my pack,” he says, voice rough with barely leashed instinct, “I won’t hesitate.”
“And if I don’t?” I ask softly.
His gaze flickers—not with doubt, but something far more unsettling.
“Then I’ll have to decide,” he says, “what to do with the woman my wolf refuses to see as an enemy.”
The words sink into me, heavy and terrifying.
Alaric turns to leave, hand pausing on the door.
“Mira,” he says without looking back. “The pack doesn’t forgive easily.”
Then he’s gone.
I slide down the door once it closes, heart racing, breath shallow.
Three nights.
Three nights until the blood moon rises again.
Three nights until the bond tightens beyond restraint.
And somewhere deep in my boot, the poison waits—silent, deadly, and suddenly very, very close to being used.
Because if Alaric is right…
Whatever choice I make next will not only decide his fate.
It will decide mine.