Chapter 9: Brand

The piece of straw felt like a brand in my hand.

I stood frozen in the stable a long time after Garrick left, the air heavy with the tension he'd left behind.

‘You missed a spot.’The words kept running in my head, a deep rough vibration at the bottom of my belly. The heat of his gaze on my mouth had been a tactile touch. My body trembled with the recollection, a redness creeping up my neck, the humiliation of the public punishment had twisted into something else, something private and dangerous.

I finally opened my clenched fist and let the straw fall to the hay floor. The other pack members had wisely disappeared, leaving me alone with the shifting sound of the horses. I took a deep breath, trying to still my racing heart, but it was futile. He had gotten under my skin, and we both knew it.

I stumbled back into my own room on unsteady legs, half-expecting to see Rylan waiting to lock me in. The corridor was vacant as I walked through, when I got to my room cell, I slipped inside, leaning against the closed door, and I slid to the floor, pulling my knees to my chest.

The room felt different now, the walls did not feel like a prison anymore, but like a sanctuary from the storm that was Garrick. And still, even while I was alone in my room, I could not escape him. The scent of his skin, of the steam of the grotto, seemed to have clung to my clothes. I closed my eyes, and the only thing I could do was recall the intensity of his eyes as he watched me work, the darkness of his gaze when I had challenged him.

A tray of food appeared outside my door sometime later, carried by an unseen hand. I brought the food in and picked at it, my appetite completely gone. The silence was stifling, any slight noise in the corridor made me jump, my muscles braced for a dreaded anticipation I detested. Would he come back? Would he summon me again? The uncertainty was a kind of torture.

The Lodge was still at night, I walked back and forth in my room, too agitated to sleep. The experience in the stable recurred in my mind. The manner in which he looked at me when he told me, “the things I can do to you have nothing to do with punishment." sent a shiver of desire down my back. He was a contradiction, ice and cruelty one moment, then fire and ferocity another. And I lost somewhere in the middle.

A gentle tap on the door jolted me out of my reverie. It was not the heavy fist of the guard. It was soft, bordering on respectful.

"Who is it?" I asked, using a rougher tone than I had intended.

"Eira," a voice replied. "The healer. May I come in?

I hesitated, then crossed the room to open the door. The old woman stood there, cradling a basket of herbs in one arm and a gentle smile on her wrinkled face. Her sharp eyes, however, were sharp and missed nothing.

"I thought to make you a cup of tea," she said, extending to me a little cloth bundle. "To help you sleep, you seem like you had a long, hard day.”

I moved aside to let her come in, she moved with a quiet grace that was surprising, considering her age, and set down her basket on the small table, busying herself in setting up the tea using the simple hearth in the room. I looked at her, bewildered as to why she was doing it.

"Why are you being kind to me?" I finally asked.

She didn't even glance up from her work. "Because there isn't enough kindness here."

That stopped me short. "Really?"

"I have worked for the Ridge Pack for years," she answered gently. "I remember when the Alpha assumed his position." She fixed me with glinting eyes. "He would talk about a certain girl with a twinkle in his eye."

I turned away, a clump of feeling in my throat. "That was long ago, I’m sure he doesn’t do that now."

"Time never forgets things such as that," Eira breathed. "It just buries them. And buried things have a tendency to emerge when you least expect it."

She put down the tea and thrust a hot mug into my hands. Chamomile and lavender assaulted my nose. "Drink this, and then get some sleep. The road ahead of you is not an easy one."

She vanished as quietly as she appeared, leaving the tea and her cryptic remark behind. I drank it, the burning hot drink calming my exposed nerves. Later, exhaustion pulled me into an agitated slumber filled with flashes of dark eyes and whispered threats that felt like sugar-coated promises.

The next morning, I woke up to the creak of the lock. I opened my eyes to see Garrick in the doorway. A dark, practical travel gear covered him, a great cloak thrown over his shoulders. His face was serious, but the tension of the day before was buried, only stern determination remained in his eyes.

"Get up," he said. "You're coming with me."

"Where?" I asked, scuttling up onto the bed.

"The border," he said simply. "I have work to do there. And you," his eyes pinned me to the ground, "aren't going to be left behind where you can get into further trouble."

It was not a request, it was a command. Part of me wanted to rebel at the order, but a greater part of me hungered to go out of the Lodge, to look at the sky, to feel something other than the four small walls of my room. I hastily dressed in the simple, rural clothes that had been prepared for me, my fingers fumbling with the laces.

He spoke no words as we made our way down the Lodge and out into the inner courtyard. There was a breeze that was cool and fresh, a welcome to my lungs from the sweltering air of my room. There were a couple of warriors already in the saddle, including Calder, who regarded me with a blank stare before nodding towards Garrick. There was a large chestnut mare saddled and held for me.

Garrick settled on Thor with smooth ease. The horse was steady and peaceful in his hands, a far cry from the cranky animal I groomed the other day. He turned to me. "Can you ride?"

"Yes," I said, with wounded pride. I'd been riding since I was a kid. He knew that.

I put my foot in the stirrup and crossed over it. The mare quivered under me, but she was finely trained and to the pressure of my knees. Garrick glanced at me for an instant, a flash of something inexplicable in his eyes, and then mounted Thor off at the head of the courtyard at a smart walk.

We rode in silence for what felt like a couple of hours. The forest was dark and old, the road curving and narrow. I was aware of Garrick's broad back ahead of me, the way he moved in perfect sync with his horse. The air around us seemed to thrum, humming with every glance back he threw to make sure I was behind him.

We reached a rocky outcropping that looked out over a valley with steep inclines. A river wound along the bottom, and on the other side of it, trees were changed, darker. That was unfamiliar territory. Garrick held out his hand, and the patrol came to a halt.

"Calder, take the men and clear the perimeter from the ridge down," Garrick ordered. "I'll check the river crossing, we’ll meet back in two hours."

Calder nodded and gestured to the remaining warriors to follow him. Garrick and I were alone in few minutes. The silence now seemed more oppressive, burdened with our last private moment.

He tied Thor to a low branch and slid off his horse. "Come on," he growled.

I got off the mare and followed him down a steep, curving path that dropped away into the sound of rushing water. The path was slick with damp leaves and moss. I watched where I was placing my foot, but my boot snagged on a root, and I lunged forward gasping.

His hand shot out and caught my arm, steadying me. His grip was firm, his fingers warm even through the fabric of my sleeve. “Watch your step.”

I jerked my arm away. “I’m fine.”

He did not reply, merely continued along the path, but I saw the muscle along his jaw get tight. We arrived at the riverbank. The river was fast and deep, churning over rocks. Debris from an old wooden bridge extended in pieces across the shores.

He went on his knees to examine the broken boards. I was standing back at a good several feet, my arms folded across my chest. The sun had climbed higher, burning away the leaf cover and scorching down on the forest floor. Light streamed directly down on him, hardening the harsh lines of his profile, and the dark silk of his hair.

As he sifted through the debris, his hand brushed against a splintered piece of wood. He winced and stepped back. A small pool of blood oozed out of the wound at the bottom of his right hand.

The world froze.

My eyes fell on that small cut, but it was not the fresh cut which I saw. It was the old scar beside it. A white, silvery line, jagged and familiar. A memory, bitter and unavoidable, came into my mind:

We were both fifteen, walking a blistering sunfield at the border of his father's property. He was chasing me, his laughter ringing through the air. I turned to taunt him, and didn't see the rabbit hole. My foot caught, and I shrieked as I stumbled forward. He was there in a flash, arms around me before I could land, but we both collapsed in a tangle of limbs.

He landed hard, his hand sliding over a concealed rock in the grass. He cursed, clutching his hand. Blood seeped between his fingers. I crawled to him, my own fall temporarily forgotten. "Let me see," I demanded, my voice shaking.

He winced as he uncurled his fingers. The cut was deep and ugly. My stomach churned, but I hid my fear. I tore a strip of cloth from the hem of my tunic. "It's all right, Kai," I gasped, using the nickname I'd given him, one that we shared. I laid the cloth over the cut, my fingers gentle. "You're so strong. My big strong Kai. It's just a scratch."

He stopped swearing then, he simply stared at me, eyes wide open, his pain forgotten. "Don't call me that where people can hear," he'd growled, but his lips curled into a smile, a true, unguarded smile that made my heart soar.

The memory was so intense, bitter and sweet, that it stole the air from my lungs. The name, that sweet, secret name, escaped before I could trap it. A gentle, whispery breath, laden with the ghost of the girl I had been.

"Kai."

The impact was instant.

Garrick paused. Every muscle in his body went taut. The wood in his hand hit the ground. The air about us went silent, the very woods holding their breath. He straightened to his full height, slowly, with his back to me.

He turned around and his face was one of raw, unadulterated shock. The Alpha mask had shattered, replaced by the raw, hurt boy of the meadow. His wide, exposed eyes swept over mine. The cold, the anger, the wanting had all gone, to be replaced with only pain so enormous it felt like looking into an open wound.

For what seemed like an eternity in mid-air, we simply stared at each other. There was nothing but the sound of the rushing water and the sound of my own heartbeat. I observed his throat constrict and expand as he swallowed involuntarily.

And then, as suddenly as it had come, the weakness was gone. It was slammed behind a wall of fury so intense that it sent me stumbling back. His face went black, his eyes turning to ice. The cut across his hand still bled, a small red bead against the older silver scar.

He took a step towards me, his movement rigid with pent-up anger. His voice, when he finally spoke, was ragged and deadly, and every sentence felt like a shard of glass.

"What did you call me?”

I attempted to reply, but nothing came out of my mouth.