Chapter 148 – Cupid with Claws
Eli
When I wander into the lodge’s dining room, the air tastes like salt and meat and victory.
Hazel’s victory, specifically.
She’s at a table with her new iron insignia pinned crookedly to her collar, hair braided back, mouth full, trying very hard to look unimpressed by the wolves who keep detouring past just to clap her shoulder so hard her teeth rattle.
Every time she says “thank you” she tries to make the words sound bored, and every time they come out a little breathless instead.
Adorable.
I drift behind her and lean down till my chin rests on the crown of her head. “Congratulations, Warrior Sunshine.”
She swats without looking. I slip sideways and her hand whiffs the air. “If you call me Sunshine again,” she says, “I’m going to put an arrow through your foot. Left one, so you remember not to lead with it.”
“My Alpha would kill you and pamper me,” I say. “It hardly seems worth it for you.” I kiss the top of her head, because she hates it. “Look at you. Our very own terror of the obstacle course.”
“Look at me eat,” she says, shoveling in another forkful like she’s trying to annihilate the eggs. “If you keep hovering, I will chew your fingers off at the knuckles.”
“Romance isn’t dead,” I say cheerfully, sliding into the seat across from her. “Speaking of romance.”
“No.” She points the fork at my face. “Whatever comes next is bound to piss me off, so stop right there.”
“Incorrect,” I say. “It’s a celebration. Who doesn’t like one of those? The pack has its first Delta warrior of the new age. I feel obligated, as Blackthorn’s resident Cupid with claws, to provide… festivity.”
“I don’t want your festivity,” she mutters. “I want more bacon.”
“I can accommodate both,” I say. “But first, logistics. Which part of you is most sore and would benefit from the healing touch of a commander’s hands? Lower back? Thighs? Emotional devastation from repressing a crush for gods know how long?”
Her eyes throw daggers. “Eli.”
“Hazel,” I sing back.
Across the room, Mara pretends not to listen while pointedly listening.
Jace is at the far table with a map and a plain cup of tea, speaking in that quiet undertaker voice of his to two captains about patrol routes. He is absolutely not looking over here. Which is how I know he’s tracking Hazel’s every breath.
“Today,” I say, softening my voice into something faux-sincere, “You should march into the commander’s hut wearing nothing but your bow and demand to be debriefed thoroughly.”
Hazel chokes on air. “I will shoot you and carry the consequences.”
“Please,” I say. “You adore me.”
“Where’s Ronan?” she asks desperately, searching for rescue like a fool.
Ronan is by the door with two scouts, talking in low voices about the ridge cut, and his head ticks the tiniest degree at the sound of his name.
I lift a finger, indicating that there’s no need to worry, everything’s just dandy, and he shakes his head with that long-suffering fondness he saves for my crimes.
Hazel glares. “Go away Eli, you’re spoiling my appetite.”
“I’m celebrating you,” I say, wounded. “Do you know how many wolves failed those trials? Men twice your size. Bears in boots. You put them all in the dirt. You should have a parade. Or at least a private… ceremony.”
“If your next word is ‘lap dance,’ I will shoot you twice.”
“Me thinks the lady doth protest too much.”
She stares at me and I grin.
“Fine,” Hazel says finally. “Perform your little Cupid duty, you goblin. Do your worst.”
“Well,” I say, sitting straighter like a lecturer. “First your wardrobe. Your work leathers, obviously. Bow strung, quiver half full, so you look like you left in a hurry. Your hair should be messy, like you ran your hands through it saying ‘Oh no, I must rush to Commander Jace’s hut, my thighs, they ache-’”
She actually attempts to brain me with the empty plate. I catch it easily and set it down. “Second, your lines. You knock, he growls ‘come in’, you stride across the threshold, drop your quiver, dramatically of course, and say, ‘Commander, I’ve been inducted and require a private evaluation.’”
“If I ever say the words ‘private evaluation,’” she says, “you have permission to drown me in the trough.”
“‘Fine,’” I narrate, changing voices to a deep, stoic register similar to Jace’s. “‘Stand there, warrior. Stance check. Closer. No, closer.’ You step in. He smells your shampoo. He loses his place in the alphabet.”
“He knows the alphabet by heart,” Hazel says. “He probably dreamed in alphabet last night.”
“Third,” I say, ignoring her, “Props. You bring him a victory muffin from the kitchen. Hand-feeding is a proven seduction technique.”
She snorts. “On who? Toddlers?”
“Grumpy commanders,” I say. “Trust me. He’ll take the muffin like it offends him and then devour it in two bites without blinking. It will be erotic.”
Hazel presses both hands to her face and groans into them.
“Eli.” Mara’s voice drifts from her seat, dry as old paper. “If you corrupt the commander’s hut, you’re cleaning it.”
“Not corrupting,” I say, haloing a hand over my head. “Sanctifying. With love.”
“Love,” Hazel repeats weakly.
I lean across the table until we’re nose to nose. “You want him. He wants you. He will die before he says the words first. So you will have to say something that is not a joke.”
Her throat works. I watch a flush creep under the dirt at her cheekbones. “He’s my superior. It’s not that simple.”
“Nothing is simple,” I say, gentler. “That’s why we bring muffins.”
She laughs helplessly. “You’re insufferable.”
“Correct. And yet.” I flick my gaze past her like I’m bored. “Jace is pretending to read the same line on that map for the third time. If you stood up right now and sashayed out the back door, he would need to relearn how to breathe.”
“Shut up,” she hisses, but she doesn’t turn to look. “He’s… he’s very good at not wanting things.”
“You’ll just have to be louder than his habit.”
She exhales slowly, eyes on mine. “You think I can be?”
“I think you already are,” I say, and swipe her last scrap of bacon while she’s emotional.
She slaps my wrist. “Thief.”
“Cupid tax,” I say around the mouthful.
After breakfast we make our way to the training yard, where Jace is already barking orders and fixing stances.
Hazel takes several steadying breaths before making her way over to him. I know she won’t be taking my brilliant advice, but that wasn’t the point of it. Planting seeds and watering them was.
Ronan materializes against the post beside me. “What did you do,” he says, which is very different from asking if I did something.
“Nothing,” I say serenely. “Cupid with claws, that’s all.”
“You’re not allowed to give yourself titles,” he says.
“Then you should stop me faster,” I say, and bump his hip with mine. His hand slides over the nape of my neck instinctively, thumb tracing the skin like he’s drawing a circle around his territory. I melt for half a second, then snap back into mischief before he notices.
“Great Alpha,” I say, projecting just enough for Hazel to hear, “I have an important request concerning the commander’s continued emotional constipation.”
Ronan sighs from somewhere near his soul. “Denied.”
Hazel laughs, bright as bowstring twang. Jace does not. But the corner of his mouth… might. I’m taking the win.
Drills begin. I join throwing practice because I like getting praised by Jace in a voice so flat it could be a road. Hazel partners with a taller wolf and proceeds to dismantle him with ruthless efficiency.
Every time she lands a hit, I whoop. Every time she gets clipped, I boo. Every time she glances at Jace, I make a kissy face until she aims her bow at me.
At break, I wander over and hand Hazel a canteen. “Hydrate, deadly daisy.”
She drinks, wipes her mouth with the back of her hand, and leans her shoulder into mine harder than necessary. “Stop calling me flowers.”
“All right, murder fern,” I say. “Better?”
“Marginally.” She eyes the practice field. “Do you think he noticed?”
“Hazel,” I say, low and wicked. “If you inhaled, he noticed.”
She makes a noise that is not a word, then looks down at her insignia and touches it like it might decide to leave.
“I want you to be happy,” I say, honest enough to make us both blink. “And I want him to stop pretending he’s made of granite. It’s exhausting to watch.”
She looks at me for a long beat and then nudges my ankle with her boot. “Thanks,” she says. “In your awful way.”
“It’s the only way I know,” I say lightly, because if I stay sincere too long I might combust.
When Jace dismisses us, I’m all set to continue my good work, but Ronan hooks two fingers in my waistband and tugs me toward our cabin. “You’ve meddled enough for one day.”
“There’s no such thing,” I inform him, skipping to keep up.
His look makes my mouth shut so fast I almost bite my tongue. He leans down, brushes his mouth against my temple in a private little brand, and murmurs, “You’re insufferable.”
“And yet,” I purr.
“And yet,” he agrees.
The pack’s habit of staring at me like I’m a shrine is fading. They grin at my antics and roll their eyes when I’m being annoying. It’s… nice. I’m trying not to purr about it.
Back at the cabin door, I pause and glance over my shoulder.
Across the yard, Hazel steps out of the kitchen with a cloth-wrapped bundle and heads toward Jace’s hut. She stops halfway, squares her shoulders, and keeps going, chin up.
“Go on,” I whisper, to her or fate or both. “Make the granite crack.”
Ronan follows my gaze and grunts. “You will be a torment if this works.”
“I will be a torment if it doesn’t,” I say.
He laughs under his breath, a rare sound that always feels like a secret, and opens the door. He palms the back of my neck and pushes me inside with the same casual possessiveness he uses to move his own shadow.
I go, smiling like a thief who’s found a treasure and is planning the next heist.
Somewhere to the left of us, a new warrior squares her shoulders and refuses to be small.
Cupid with claws, I think, smug and sincere. What a naughty, lovely job.
Time to sharpen the arrows.