THE ROGUE WOLF

by Klaire London

  My exhale breaks the silence and the bird song. "It's a shame we didn't kidnap Hunter's mate," I murmur. "Then you could've gotten your revenge."

  The smile Azra gives me is a strange, twisted one, almost as gruelling as the theoretical blood weighing down my hands.

  "Actually," she comments. "We did."

  16 | Feelings

  ❝It's hard to have a heart when you've stopped so many others.❞

  There are two things I hate more than anything else in this world. Number one: water. Almost drowning in a torrent of water the night my parents were killed has never helped my fear, and sometimes even a small trickling stream is too much for me to handle. The second is small spaces: I can't stand them. No matter how much you try to mentally prepare yourself for being squeezed into the tiniest space you can fit, you can never truly overcome the suffocating sensation.

  That's how I feel right now.

  As my hand traces the gritty and grimy wall, I feel like all the air has been squeezed from my lungs. The corridors down here, below the castle, are so narrow that they can only fit one person through: come across another werewolf, and one would have to press themselves tightly against the wall to avoid collision.

  It's almost a relief when I reach the end of the seemingly endless pathway, yet it isn't at the same time. The room that it opens up into is the exact same shade of dilapidated grey, and the darkness lurks like an uninvited guest.

  As I follow Alex into the stronghold, the first thing I notice is that it's not empty. Gathered within the four walls are five figures - or, as of now, seven. It's hard to make out who the five mysterious people are, but one I notice immediately. With his long attire and strong face, it's not hard to make out the man I kissed only days ago.

  The other shadows are much harder to decipher between. Two stand beside a small, vulnerable figure, who is held between the two. I can instantly tell that she's female due to her miniature posture and long garments. The other men I presume are guards, although I don't press any questions. I know who the girl is, and what her mate has done.

  Is she the same as him; a bloodthirsty rogue looking for vengeance, or a harmless she-wolf who was forced into mating with Hunter like Azra almost was? So many questions. Too many unanswered.

  Damien is the first to spot us as we enter the chamber. I expect to see a smile, or some form of comfort lining his features, but instead I receive a sneer. "I told you not to bring her here!" He exclaims, stepping into a more brilliant concentration of candlelight.

  Alex crosses her arms. "She had a right to know."

  "And you don't have the right to question my orders," Damien retorted, shrivelling up his nose in disgust. I've never seen him like this before: power hungry. If I told you that his sudden mood swing didn't scare me, then I would be lying. "Get her out of here!" He demanded. No one dared to move an inch.

  I fold my arms over my chest. "I'm right here, you know," I spit through gritted teeth. I clench them so tightly, I feel like they might shatter under the pressure. "And I'm not going anywhere. Either you explain to me why you didn't tell me about the prisoner, or I'll punch you and ruin that pretty face of yours."

  Damien scoffs at my remark. His foot edges forward, the toe of a worn leather boot peeking out beneath his long trousers, but it freezes in mid-air when I shoot him dagger-like gaze. "You really want to know?"

  "I wouldn't have asked if I didn't," I retort with a roll of my eyes. He had no right to withdraw such information from me.

  Damien bites is lower lip unconsciously, the scarlet skin becoming a dilapidated beige from the pressure. "Fine," he spits. His nose scrunches. "I knew that you wouldn't agree, and that you would interfere, so I didn't tell you."

  "You're right," I growl, resting my hands firmly by my sides. I scrunch them into fists, trying to keep my claws from bursting through my fingertips. "I don't agree."

  I step forwards hesitantly, submerged within the darkness of the cell. My eyes alter to the abrupt shift in light, the girl's face now becoming a full colour painting compared to the faint outline she was just moments ago.

  Her face is strangely soft for such a woman. Being Hunter's mate, I had expected her to have a scarred face and sharp, strong features that made her look like she could crack a rock with her own bare fists. Instead, her nose is dainty and small on her round face. High cheekbones create a unique, structured appearance to her appearance, shadows elongating across her features like fingers. Bright hazel eyes flash at me from below dark eyelashes, almost luminous in the availability of light. Her hair is dark - almost black - and the contrast to Hunter's snowflake pigmented strands is enough to make my skin crawl. They were literal opposites.

  I remember the time my parents taught me how to use a sword. I was seven, and I could barely fit my hand around the blade. Back then, my father had had a beard, and his face did not adorn the scar that ran from the corner of his mouth to his right eyebrow. He had looked young and unscathed by the building threat of rogues as they resurfaced.

  Back then, I had been incompetent and scared by the sheer power of the weapon. It took me years to finally get used to the movement and weight of the blade when I swung it, but even now it feels like I've met a stranger. The mysterious girl is clearly not me, but she appears as though she feels the same way I do: as if she don't belong in her own skin.

  Scarlet drips from the girl's nose like a fountain, a splatter of shadowed stain appearing on her dirty shirt like the ink of an exploded fountain pen. Her arms are similar, with blue bruises labelling her as victim to the torture ensued in this hell hole. Now I know why I've never been down here before: it's haunted by the screams of those left to die and rot here over the centuries.

  Suddenly, the room seems smaller. My lungs no longer have the ability to breathe in oxygen. What were they doing to her? This was wrong.

  And I know that I have killed rogues without even thinking twice. I left Hunter's sister to get devoured by flames. I allowed my parents to sacrifice themselves for a monster.

  I don't care what Damien says - if this girl is innocent, then she doesn't deserve this fate.

  I cannot move. I cannot speak. Even my mouth refuses to form the simplest of words.

  "What are you doing to her?" Alex notes my sudden impotence, and steps forwards to stand beside me. She doesn't make physical contact to comfort me like Josh would. Strangely, I miss his warm touch.

  Damien growls, shifting his body so that his back is partially facing the pair of us. Despite his attempt to block us out, he cannot ignore us forever. Even though he's supposed to be the king of Arla, he can't face us. He can't face me.

  "What are you doing to her?" I scream, Alex shuddering beside me from the volume of my voice.

  Damien's figure wavers like a flag caught in a storm. Even I can see the edges fraying as the wind catches the fabric like a vice. He still can't turn to face me properly, so he doesn't. He places his thumbs in the waistband of his trousers, biting his bottom lip once more. This time, the pressure of his sharp teeth is too much for the soft skin covering his lips, a gasconade of cardinal lining his bottom lip like a toothless grin.

  I blink rapidly to clear the water smearing my eyes. "Are you going to say something?" I stagger forwards and walk in front of the king so that he is facing me. I kissed him two days ago: that feels like a century now. "Damien, we can't torture her. What if she was forced to be Hunter's mate?"

  Damien reaches out a hand, clutching the side of my face. I knock it off with my shoulder. "She knows about Hunter's plans. If we're going to win, this is what we have to do," Damien replies, but his voice is soft. He doesn't sound like half the king he needs to be. "You know I'm right, Aura. We know nothing about this girl, and I'd rather risk one life than thousands."

  I gulp. My hands are back into clenched balls. "What do you know?" I question, knowing that he's right, but I still can't accept what he's done.

  "That Hunter plans to launch an attack on Arla in two days," Damien sighs with a shaky v
oice.

  "Impossible," Alex interrupts. "We have ten patrols: we'll see them coming long before they have a chance to attack."

  I uncurl my fingers. "That's the problem: it's not impossible. Just difficult."

  "Aurora's right," Damien agrees almost immediately, and too quickly for my liking. "That's why I must do what I have to do to keep our people safe." Damien notes my glower, but my hand slides back to my side. I hadn't even noticed that it had been previously resting on the cold hilt of my sword, the engraved and swirling pattern imprinted on my palm like permanent ink. Damien faces the guards holding the prisoner, her head sunk towards the floor in defeat. "Again."

  I almost cringe when one of the werewolves yanks the girl's hair, forcing her head to stare at the empty ceiling. The ribs of her oesophagus line her throat like scars.

  "What will Hunter do when he arrives?" Damien spits, trudging towards the prisoner with an eerie stillness. The girl pinches her lips into a tight white line, the corners of her eyes threatening to spill salt water into the dirt below her bare feet. "Fine, let's start at the beginning. What is your name?"

  Her hair is yanked even harder, although I know that this is not the worst that she has faced in the previous days. I have no doubt that she hasn't been fed since her arrival: even through her tattered dress - or what could pass as a rag - I can see the faint rings of her ribs. I know that Damien isn't torturing her for my sake. I may have a fire in my heart, but having been a prisoner previously, I cannot help but feel empathy for the girl.

  "Zara," Hunter's mate whispers. If I wasn't a werewolf, I would not have been able to hear her.

  I raise my eyebrows in surprise. Even Damien appears astonished that she answered.

  "And he will kill you," the girl continues without permission to speak. She speaks with a thick accent which I cannot quite place. "He will come after me, and he will kill every last one of you."

  It's my turn to bite my lip. "Aren't you a cheery person," I mutter. My legs move forward without command, until I stand before her. My fingers still trace the indent in my skin where I held the handle of my sword, the strange pattern an intruder on my flesh. "Look, what they've done to you is wrong," I begin, holding up my hand before Damien can intervene. "I know that, but this is war, and I hope for our sake you'll never see Hunter again. But these men aren't going to stop hurting you until you tell us what he's planning. They will let you live if you just tell them what he wants."

  Zara sneers, pointed teeth beginning to pierce the corners of her mouth as they elongate. Although female wolves cannot necessarily always shift like I can, many can partially shift. Claws grow from fingertips, and canines mould from teeth.

  I expect Zara to begin to cry, or kick out with her slim legs. Instead, the prisoner sneers. Her teeth are irregular, with one crossed in front of the other like crossbones; what pirates used to put out as warnings to intruders.

  Then she spits in my face. I stagger back in astonishment, wiping the sticky saliva off my cheek with my sleeve in disgust. She was just as feral and rogue as Hunter was.

  Zara laughs. It's a strange chuckle, not dissimilar to her mates' own disturbing cackle. "You really think after torturing me that I'd tell you the truth, pretty princess?"

  I can't help myself as my hand flies to my dagger, immediately pressing the metal against the base of her throat. "What did you call me?"

  "Get that knife away from my throat, princess," Zara dangerously utters.

  The joints in my hand click as I fasten my grip on my weapon. "I'm not a princess."

  "Oh really?" Zara continues as rage begins to boil furiously in my veins. "We all know you're sleeping with the king."

  "I'm not sleeping with anyone, let alone him," I shout, the skin at my fingertips beginning to throb with agony as my claws break through the delicate beige layers.

  Zara sniggers, not even afraid about the knife at the base of her throat. One movement of my hand, and she could be dead. Sadly, she was more use being a hostage than rotting in a shallow grave. "You think I hate Hunter, but he's my mate," Zara continues, her nose wrinkled up as if she detests the sight before her. "He didn't force anything on me. We're in love. Maybe you should try it some time, princess."

  Scarlet flashes in my sight as I press the blade into the skin of her neck, earning a gasp of pain. "I don't want to hurt you, Za-" My mouth spits, but before I can finish the girls name, the castle tremors. Dirt and tiny shards of rock rain down on us in a landslide, minimising my vision to a grey fog. My hands slip off the girl's neck to cover my own head. My heart jumps to my throat.

  What is happening?

  A voice through the cloak of nothingness: "I told you he would come."

  "Tell us what's going on right, or we'll kill you," Damien yells through the ricochet of rubble.

  My chest expands and contracts with every laboured breath, my body shutting down with a form of fear I've never experienced before. I fall to my knees, trembling. I can't remove my hands from the top of my head, petrified that the roof will collapse on all of us, entombing us in this forsaken place.

  Someone's hand finds mine, a rough thumb running over the surface of my limb with ease, like it's done it a thousand times before. Damien.

  I hear Zara laugh over the muffled silence, another tremor shaking the room once again. Through the haze, I spot four silhouettes, one running out of the cave, and Zara's petite figure flanked by the guards.

  "You're all going to die!" Zara yelled as they hauled her away. "Just you wait, King Damien."

  I shake my head as Damien half pulls, half drags me through the corridor beyond. The pebbles and dirt have somewhat stopped raining from above like hellfire, but my body is still wavering like a leaf caught in a hurricane.

  "She's crazy," I mutter, the words coming out as an exasperated, rugged breath. I doubt Damien hears me, but I don't care.

  This was it. This was the war Damien had always wanted. And during war, there's no time for fear.

  17 | Panic

  ❝The good suffer, the evil flourish, and all that is mortal passes away.❞

  The light above us is blotched: one second, the glare of a crystal white ray strikes my eyes in a sudden, unique agony, and the next it is blocked by a shard of debris as the walls around us cave in. The ground shudders with every stone, every pebble, and every boulder that hits the floor with a boom that mimics thunder.

  Damien's hand is still firmly plastered to my own. His hold is tight, refusing to let go, and I won't let him. I can't find it in myself to pull away from his safety and his touch. My hand feels as though it has been encased in lightning, in a storm where there is no calm to halt the ceaseless bolts. My body feels alive, emanating from his touch and through my bone marrow like liquid silver.

  My breaths are too rapid to regulate, and my heart races so quickly that I can no longer tell apart the beats. I hate small spaces, and the fact that these passageways are narrowing even further doesn't help my fear.

  "This way," Damien shouts above the ear-splitting rumble as the ground shakes once more. His voice merges into the vibrations, but my ears know his voice like they know my own.

  He jerks me around the corner, up a flight of stairs, and into light. The sun's rays are a shock as I enter into the castle from the guarded underground, although there are no guards standing to attention outside the entrance. The sight sends a jolt through me: the city must be at serious jeopardy if the guards have left their posts.

  "What the hell is happening?" I pant, leaning down onto my knees in an attempt to catch my breath. The relief of not being crushed by a concaving tunnel gives me a spark of hope, but Damien is quick to put it out.

  Damien gazes into my eyes with a sturdy stare m, as though his irises are made of marble. "The rogues. That's what's happening," Damien growls, tearing his sword from its sheath with such ferocity that he rips the leather pouch from his abdomen as if it was nothing but parchment paper. "Stay behind me."

  Damien is angry: I can see torment w
rithe within every cell of his body, as if he's on a different frequency compared to everyone else. His figure blurs, distorting for a second, but I know it's just must sight.

  Bile rises dangerously in my throat, threatening to choke me. Closing my eyes in disgust, I swallow it down with angst. My body feels like it's made of helium, everything lightless and vulnerable. Maybe my fear of confined spaces was even worse than I had originally thought.

  "No," I say slowly, but my words come out as a choke. I grab his hand, sliding my fingers between his like a puzzle being fitted together. Except this isn't any puzzle: there are one million pieces, and the 3D shape is consumed by emotions and memories that force other pieces out of place. We weren't the perfect match, and that's why we fit together so well. Nothing's perfect. Nothing ever will be. We have our rough edges, and so does the world, and no matter how much they are sanded down to shape, they will always remain rugged at heart.