Chapter 6 A King Under Pressure
By midday, the compound feels different.
Tighter.
Like the pack has collectively drawn a breath and is waiting to see who exhales first.
I sense it in the way footsteps pass my door more often, in the way voices drop when I’m escorted through the corridor to the washroom. Wolves don’t stare outright—not usually—but I feel their attention sliding over me all the same, cataloging, judging.
Weighing my worth.
Or my threat.
Two guards accompany me, silent and solid as stone. I keep my head down, my posture calm, even as my nerves coil tighter with every step. The poison vial presses insistently against my ankle, a reminder of why I’m here—and why I can’t afford to falter.
The washroom is communal, steam curling from stone basins fed by hot springs beneath the compound. A few wolves glance my way as I enter, conversations stalling before resuming in low murmurs.
I take a basin near the wall and roll up my sleeves, scrubbing my hands more for the grounding than the cleanliness. My reflection wavers in the water—pale, drawn, eyes too bright.
You’re losing control, I tell myself.
No, another voice answers quietly. You’re running out of time.
When I return to my room, a message waits.
Not written. Spoken.
“Alpha summons you.”
The words are delivered by one of the guards without expression, but the tension beneath them is unmistakable.
My heart stutters. “Now?”
“Yes.”
I nod, schooling my features into calm. Fear will only sharpen their interest.
The walk to the council hall is longer this time, the path deliberate. Wolves line the edges of the space when we enter—pack leaders, lieutenants, elders. The air is thick with authority and expectation.
Alaric stands at the center.
Not seated. Standing.
His presence anchors the room, command radiating from him like gravity. When his eyes find me, the bond hums low and steady—not urgent, not sharp. Controlled.
It takes everything I have not to react.
“Bring her forward,” he says.
I step into the circle alone.
Every gaze locks onto me.
Alaric doesn’t waste time. “Borders are tightening,” he says to the room, but his eyes never leave me. “Scouts report movement near the eastern ridge. Witch territory.”
A ripple moves through the pack.
My stomach drops.
“Coincidence?” one elder growls.
“No,” another snaps. “They test us.”
Alaric raises a hand, and silence falls instantly.
“This meeting isn’t about war,” he says. “Not yet.”
His gaze sharpens. “It’s about trust.”
I feel it then—the shift. The way the room subtly turns toward me.
I keep my breathing even.
“You arrived during a blood moon,” Alaric continues. “You bled on my skin. You triggered an ancient bond.”
Murmurs break out.
My chest tightens.
“That alone would be enough to justify exile,” an elder says coldly. “Or execution.”
Alaric’s jaw tightens. “Enough.”
The authority in his voice silences them again, but the tension remains, coiled and dangerous.
He turns back to me. “Mira Holloway. You claim to be human. You claim to be alone.”
I meet his gaze. “I am.”
A lie. A fragile one.
Alaric studies me for a long moment. The bond stirs, warm and unsettling, like he’s brushing against the edges of my awareness.
“You will stay,” he says finally. “For now.”
A sharp intake of breath ripples through the room.
“And she’ll be watched?” someone demands.
“She already is,” Alaric replies.
His eyes never leave mine.
“You will be assigned to the infirmary,” he continues. “Healers are stretched thin. You said you were seeking protection. You’ll earn it.”
The words hit harder than I expect.
Opportunity.
My pulse spikes, fear and calculation colliding.
The infirmary would give me access. To supplies. To him.
The poison vial feels suddenly heavier.
I bow my head slightly. “I’ll do what’s asked of me.”
Alaric’s gaze flickers—approval, perhaps. Or another layer of suspicion.
“See that you do,” he says.
The meeting dissolves into murmurs as wolves disperse. I’m escorted out, my thoughts racing.
The infirmary smells of herbs and blood and sweat. Controlled chaos hums beneath the surface—wounded wolves, exhausted healers, the sharp edge of ongoing skirmishes.
I’m handed a stack of linens and directed to clean, fetch, assist where I can.
I work quietly, efficiently. Years of training make the motions automatic. I keep my magic tightly bound, my senses alert.
And then I feel it.
The bond tightens suddenly, sharp and insistent.
I look up.
Alaric stands at the far end of the infirmary, speaking with a healer. His posture is rigid, his expression hard. There’s a faint sheen of sweat at his temple.
Pain.
It rolls through the bond, dull and controlled but unmistakable.
He’s injured.
The realization hits me like a blow.
If he’s hurt, the poison would finish the work faster.
The thought is clinical. Trained. Necessary.
And it makes my stomach churn.
Alaric turns, his gaze finding me instantly across the crowded room. The bond flares—heat, awareness, a pull that snaps tight between us.
His jaw tightens.
He strides toward me, dismissing the healer with a curt nod. When he stops in front of me, he’s close enough that I can feel the strain in him, the effort it takes to remain composed.
“You shouldn’t be here,” he murmurs.
“You assigned me,” I reply softly.
His eyes search my face, sharp and penetrating. “You feel it.”
“Yes,” I admit. “You’re hurt.”
A flicker of surprise crosses his features before his control snaps back into place.
“It’s nothing.”
The bond disagrees, sending a pulse of ache through my chest.
“Let me help,” I say before I can stop myself.
His eyes darken. “You don’t know what you’re offering.”
“I know exactly what I’m offering,” I whisper. “Aid. Nothing more.”
For a moment, I think he’ll refuse.
Then his shoulders ease—just slightly.
“Fine,” he says. “But you follow my lead.”
He guides me toward a private alcove, the space shielded by heavy curtains. My heart pounds as I gather supplies, my hands steady despite the chaos in my head.
This is it.
Access.
Opportunity.
I kneel beside him, carefully cleaning a shallow gash along his ribs. The bond hums with every touch, heat spiraling low and slow, distracting and dangerous.
Alaric’s breath hitches when my fingers brush his skin.
“Careful,” he growls softly.
“I am,” I murmur.
The truth is—I don’t know what’s more dangerous.
The poison hidden at my ankle…
Or the fact that part of me doesn’t want to use it at all.