Chapter 8

Audrey

"Holy mother of—” I clamp a hand over my mouth, my heart trying to exit my chest through my ribs, as I stare at the man in my doorway who is currently pressing one large hand over his left eye.

"Oh—" I start forward. "I didn't — you can't just—"

"I'm fine," he says.

"You're not fine, you just took a—"

"I'm fine."

He straightens, and takes his hand away from his eye. The eye in question is already angry — reddening at the outer edge, the specific bloom of a bruise that has made a decision and intends to follow through on it.

“Yeesh!” My surgeon brain takes over completely and I cross the room and reach for his face.

He steps back.

"I heard you talking," he says. His voice is even. The evenness costs him something. "I came to inform you of the bonding ceremony. This evening."

I stare at him.

"The ceremony," I say. "Is this evening?"

"Yes."

"And you came to tell me… at midnight?"

"Yes."

"By opening my door without knocking?"

A pause that contains a great deal of information follows.

"You'll want time to prepare." His eyes drill holes into a point approximately six inches above my head. "It's by sundown."

He turns and walks away.

I stand in the doorway of my room and I watch him go — the set of his shoulders, the unhurried stride of a man pretending that none of what just happened happened — and I listen to his footsteps until they reach the east corridor and disappear.

Then I look down at my mother's urn on the shelf.

"He burst into my room at midnight," I tell her. "Took a hairbrush to the face. Invented an excuse. Left."

She has no comment… although, I feel like she's telling me to go to bed.

"Alright, alright," I say, hopping into bed, “I'm going.”

♦♦♦

He is at the breakfast table when I come down, and the bruise has committed overnight — deep red, slightly swollen. It has claimed the full outer corner of his left eye and is working on the cheekbone below it.

He is eating toast and reading something on his phone and pretending, with extraordinary composure, that his face is completely normal.

The man sitting across from him has red hair, sharp eyes, and the expression of someone who is being paid not to react and is earning every penny. He looks up when I enter — assessing, quick, professional — and then looks back down at his own phone.

Mrs. Pelham sets a coffee cup at the empty seat across from Zamir with the expression of a woman who has questions she has decided, professionally, are none of her business.

I sit.

I look at my plate, trying hard not to giggle. I swear, the bruise is enormous. It is the most visible thing in the room. It is practically its own person.

While I eat my toast, Zamir turns a page on his phone.

"Mrs. Pelham," I call.

She appears in the doorway. "Yes?"

"Is there any arnica in the house, please?"

A pause. "I believe so."

"Would you mind leaving some on the kitchen counter?" I take another bite of toast. "For bruising."

Mrs. Pelham looks at me. Then at Zamir's left eye. Then back at me. "Of course," she says, fighting back her own smile.

She disappears, and I return my attention to my coffee, pretending not to feel Zamir's eyes on me.

The red-haired man makes a sound that is a cough.

When I look up, Zamir is looking at me across the table. Silver eyes, the bruise, the composed expression that is doing its best work under significant conditions.

"Jason," Zamir says.

The red-haired man — Jason, apparently — says: "Yeah?"

"Go find something to do."

"I have something to do. I'm doing it."

"Jason."

Jason stands, takes his coffee, and leaves. Zamir then turns to me.

"Audrey."

"Zamir." 

A pause.

"The arnica," he stretches out, "is unnecessary."

"You have a bruise the size of a small country on your face."

"I'm an alpha. It will be gone by this evening."

"It's going to be a long afternoon."

Something adjacent to almost-amusement moves in his expression.

"The ceremony is at sundown," he says. "Mrs. Pelham will have everything you need."

"I have everything I need," I say. "I packed thoroughly."

He looks at me. "Then you're prepared."

"I'm always prepared," I say. "I just prefer to know what I'm preparing for before it's the day of."

Another pause. This one has a different quality — less defensive, more considering.

"In future," he says, carefully, "I'll give more notice."

"In future," I smile, "knock."

He looks at his coffee. "Yes, I will." 

I finish my toast, feeling like this marriage thing just might work.

♦♦♦

After breakfast, Mrs. Pelham gives me two things: the elder register, the pack history archive, and the arnica — three things — without commentary on any of them.

I spend six hours at the desk.

Napoleon watches from his corner of the desk, listing approximately four degrees to the left, which I correct twice before accepting as his natural resting state. Julius is on the window seat. Cleopatra is beside the urn, where she has been since I unpacked.

The archive is comprehensive. Ironhold is three hundred and twelve years old, apparently. Its regional status was established in the second generation. The current alpha line has held for ninety years. The elder register has twenty-two names, seventeen of which have been in service for over a decade.

I make notes. I cross-reference the political alignments. I map the inner circle from the outside in and then from the inside out to check for gaps.

By hour four I know the name of every elder's mate and most of their children.

By hour six I know Ironhold better than some people who have lived here for years.

I close the archive, then turn to my prized green dress on the door.

"Mum," I say to the urn. "I think I'm going to need you to tell me that this is fine."

The urn sits quietly.

"Right," I say. "That's what I thought.

♦♦♦

The dress fits exactly the way it did in the shop.

I stand at the mirror and I look at myself — Audrey Calloway, twenty-six, wolfless, two hundred miles from Ashveil, about to become Luna of Ironhold in the garden of a cliff-top packhouse she has lived in for exactly one day — and I take a breath.

Then I take another one. “Let's go make history.”

When I reach the ground floor, the entrance hall has six women assembled in it, which I expected — Mrs. Pelham explained the escort tradition this afternoon with as much enthusiasm as she felt.

Six warrior wives, per tradition. An escort from the house to the ceremony.

The group turns to face me as I approach. And standing at the front of them, with the expression of someone who cannot believe her eyes is the woman from the boutique.

I knew that short hair had its charm but this is perfect.