Bring Him to His Knees

Chapter One

The Gathering Hall smells like cedar smoke and too many wolves in one room.

I stand at the back of it while Del pins the last of my hair into place. Her hands shake. Mine don’t, and that feels wrong somehow, like the fear has gotten confused about which one of us it belongs to.

“Stop fidgeting,” Del says, though I haven’t moved.

“I’m not.”

“You’re breathing like you’re about to run a race.”

“I’m fine.”

She meets my eyes in the mirror and doesn’t believe me. I don’t blame her. I don’t believe me either.

She sets the last pin and steps back to look at me properly. Whatever she sees makes her face do something complicated.

“You look like you’re going to your own funeral.”

“Thanks.”

“I mean it as a compliment. Very dramatic. Very moody bride.”

I almost laugh. Then someone knocks on the door and says it’s time, and I stop almost laughing and start walking instead, even when a primal part of me whispers to me that something is wrong.

The hall is full when I reach the doors. Every pack elder. Every ranking wolf. Faces I’ve known my whole life, all turned toward the aisle, all watching me walk it in white.

I find Roan’s face before I find anything else. My eyes always go to him first, they have since the night the bond settled between us, like water finding the lowest point in a room.

He isn’t looking at me the way he’s supposed to be looking at me.

I notice it and bury it in the same breath. Nerves, I tell myself. His, not mine.

The elders sit in their half-circle at the front, seven of them, robed in grey. Grey means judgment. Nobody told me judgment was on the table tonight. Roan told me it was a formality.

“Just paperwork,” he said three nights ago, mouth against my hair. “The pack likes ceremony.”

I believed him. I always believe him.

Elder Vasser sits at the center, spine straight, hands folded in her lap like she’s waiting for something ordinary.

“Alpha.” Her voice carries without effort, the way old power always does. “You stand before your pack and your mate to confirm the bond given to you by the Moon. Do you accept her.”

It isn’t really a question. I’ve stood in this hall twice before for other people’s bondings, and the words are always a formality on the way to yes.

Roan doesn’t say yes.

He stands in front of me and says nothing at all, and I feel two hundred people notice the silence a full breath before I let myself notice it. I feel the room shift.

“Roan?” My voice comes out smaller than I want it to. “You’re supposed to say something.”

He looks at me like I’m a stranger asking him for directions.

“I know.”

That’s all. I know. Then he steps back, one full step, and something behind his eyes goes flat and cold in a way I’ve never seen from him. Not once in three years.

“I reject the bond.”

His voice doesn’t shake.

“Sloane Bishop is not my mate. I release her, and I release myself.”

He isn’t finished.

“This pack needs an Alpha’s mate who can stand beside him in front of enemies, not one who flinches at raised voices in her own hall.” His eyes stay fixed somewhere past my shoulder, like he’s practiced not looking directly at me while he says it. “I won’t apologize for choosing strength over sentiment.”

He turns, slightly, addressing the elders and the rows behind them now, not me at all, as if I’ve already stopped being the point of his own sentence.

“You’ve all seen it,” he says. “In training, in council, in every room she’s ever stood in beside me. She hesitates. She second-guesses herself in front of wolves who would use that hesitation to gut this pack the first chance they got. I won’t lead a pack that’s one weak link away from ruin because I let sentiment choose for me instead of sense.”

“Roan—” My voice barely makes it out.

He doesn’t look at me.

“A Luna carries this pack’s spine,” he continues, to the room, “and I will not stand here and pretend a woman who cannot even hold a blade without her hands shaking is capable of carrying it. That is not cruelty. That is honesty, and I owe this pack honesty more than I owe any one person comfort.”

The word flinches moves through the crowd like something spilled.

“Did he just—” a voice near the front, cut off before it finishes with a snort.

“Gods,” someone else murmurs, not quiet enough. “He didn’t have to say it like that.”

A ripple of low voices spreads outward from the front rows, whispers passed hand to hand, and I catch fragments of it without meaning to, weak, always knew, poor girl, cruel, necessary, words that will not stop being said about me for a long time after tonight, in kitchens and hallways I will never enter again.

Someone gasps behind me. I don’t turn to see who. I can’t move my head, because in the same instant the words leave his mouth, something tears loose behind my sternum and the sound of the room drops away underneath a roaring that lives entirely inside my skull.

A rejection has a shape, when it’s spoken in the old tongue. A shape you feel before you understand it. Like a hand closing around something behind your ribs and pulling until it comes free.

My knees go weak beneath me

Roan catches me.

Pain rips through my chest hard enough that I cry out before I can stop myself, a sound that carries all the way to the back of the hall, and I feel something warm slide from my nose and over my lip before I understand what it is.

Someone near the front makes a strangled sound. A child somewhere starts crying,one that happens because the adults around them have gone tense and afraid. My vision narrows at the edges, the whole room tunneling down to a single point of light, and for one long second I’m certain I’m going to black out in front of every person who has ever known my name.

I don’t. I wish, some nights even now, that I had.

That’s the cruelest part, even tearing the bond out by the root, his hands still know exactly how to hold me. Careful under my arms. One hand spread flat against my back like he’s afraid I’ll shatter. Like I matter enough to catch, but not enough to keep.

“Alpha.” One of the elders further down the row, Corwin, I think. “Do you understand what you are doing? The Bishop line has stood beside this pack for four generations—”

“I understand exactly what I’m doing.”

“This will not go unnoticed by the Hallorans.”

“I’m counting on it.”

A woman somewhere in the crowd makes a sound, low and disbelieving, half a word that never finishes forming. I want it to be someone who loves me. I don’t find out who it is.

Vasser leans forward, folding her hands tighter. “Say it plainly, Roan. For the record.”

He sets me down. Not drops, sets, carefully, the way you put down something breakable that you still intend to keep whole even while you’re breaking everything around it. He doesn’t look at me while he does it.

“The alliance with the Hallorans requires it,” he says, to the elders, not to me. “One mate bond is not worth the pack’s survival. I choose the pack.”

“And her?” Vasser asks.

He doesn’t answer that one.

“Roan.” My voice comes from somewhere very far away. “Look at me.”

Nothing.

“Say it to my face, at least. You owe me that much.”

He looks at me then. Just once. Long enough for me to see there’s nothing behind his eyes I can bargain with. Whatever lived there for three years is already gone, or was never as real as I needed it to be.

“I’m sorry,” he says.

Someone takes my arm. I don’t know who. I don’t fight it. I let them walk me back down the aisle I just walked up as a different person, past two hundred wolves who are already looking anywhere but at me.

Del is waiting outside the doors. She must have run around through the side hall to beat me there. She doesn’t ask what happened. She’s heard it, same as everyone. She just puts both arms around me and holds on while I stand there in the cold, not crying yet, like my body hasn’t caught up to what my chest already knows.

“I’ve got you,” she keeps saying. “I’ve got you, I’ve got you.”

A woman I don’t recognize pulls up in an old sedan a few minutes later, someone’s aunt, maybe, someone on the edges of the pack. She rolls down her window and looks at me standing there in a dress that was supposed to make me look like a bride.

“Get in,” she says. “I’ll drive you home.”

I get in. Del squeezes my hand through the open window and says she’ll call. The car pulls away from the hall, from the pack, from the life I had ten minutes ago.

We’re three miles down the road before I cry. It comes all at once, ugly and loud, hard to breathe around. The woman driving doesn’t say anything. She just reaches over and squeezes my knee like that might help.

It doesn’t.

Something else starts underneath my skin. Not grief, I know grief. This is different. Heat, low in my chest, exactly where the bond used to sit. Where the bond isn’t anymore.

I press my hand flat against my sternum like I can hold it still.

“You okay, honey?” the driver asks.

“Fine,” I say, which is a lie so obvious neither of us bothers pretending otherwise.

The road curves along the tree line, headlights cutting a narrow strip of gravel and dark. I watch it without seeing it. My mind keeps snagging on Roan’s face in the last second before he said it, that flicker I told myself was nerves.

It wasn’t nerves.

I’m still turning that over when a shape lurches out of the trees directly into our headlights.

The driver screams and slams the brakes. The car fishtails, tires shrieking against gravel, and I throw my arm up against the dash a half second before we stop hard enough to snap my seatbelt tight across my chest.

For a moment neither of us moves.

“Oh my god.” The driver’s hands are still locked on the wheel, knuckles white. “Oh my god, did I hit him? Is he—”

He’s standing. An old man, silver-haired, coat torn at one shoulder, chest heaving like he’s been running for miles instead of seconds. He doesn’t look hurt. He looks terrified, and not of the car.

I get out before I decide to.

“Sir?” My voice shakes more than I want it to. “Are you hurt?”

He stares at me the way you stare at something you weren’t sure existed until it was standing in front of you.

“Bishop,” he says. Not a question. “You’re the Bishop girl.”

“I—yes. Sloane. Do you need—”

“They rejected you.” His eyes drop to my dress, to the white fabric, and something in his face crumples. “Tonight. They actually did it tonight.”

“How do you know that?”

He grabs my wrist, hard enough to hurt, and leans in close enough that I can smell the fear on him, sharp and clear.

“You need to know why,” he says. “Before it’s too late for you to matter. It was never about the Hallorans. It was never about the alliance. He rejected you because—”

Headlights sweep the road behind us. Far off, but closing fast. The old man’s head snaps toward them and every ounce of color drains out of his face.

“No,” he breathes. “Not yet. Not yet, I haven’t—”

“Because of what?” I grip his coat with my free hand. “Because of what?”

His mouth opens.

The headlights crash on us.