by Everly Frost
“This floor contains sleeping quarters,” Helen says. “Your room is this way.”
She waves me along the corridor past numerous closed doors. I attempt to inhale the scents of the women in the rooms we pass by, but my senses are frustratingly silent.
Helen pauses outside a door at the end of the corridor—my new room.
“Your senses will be dampened to maintain the privacy of the women who shelter here,” she says. “You won’t be able to sense their movements, catch their scents, or detect their supernatural status. The dampening effects will also ensure that your scent is controlled. This is important because many of the women here are extremely powerful and could be affected by you.”
Helen knocks softly on the door but doesn’t wait for an answer before she pushes it gently open.
I swallow a gasp as I step inside.
The room has no walls.
A forest extends in every direction, filled with the same lush green trees that grow on the mountain where I lived. Soft moonlight filters through the branches onto the floor, which is covered in moss. Even though I can’t feel a breeze, the air is fresh, crisp, and carries the scent of new leaves.
A wide clearing directly in front of me contains two beds on either side, about ten feet apart. A closet sits at the far end of each bed, the back of each closet resting against the trunk of an enormous tree. Farther back are two more enormous trees with regular-sized doors carved into their trunks.
A woman in her early twenties sits in a plush armchair at the base of the bed on the right-hand side. Her knees are curled to her chest and her head is tipped back. White-blonde hair the shade of daisy petals falls down her back and cascades over the arm of the chair. Her lips are pursed as if she’s sighing into the air, and her brown eyes focus upward while she hugs her knees, remaining perfectly still.
She doesn’t react to our arrival, continuing to watch the branches as they sway above her, even though there’s no breeze.
Leaving me at the door, Helen kneels in front of the woman, placing her hand lightly on the woman’s knee. “Ella, sweetie?”
The blonde woman lowers her head, a slow, unfocused movement, her gaze far away despite the fact that she’s looking directly at Helen. She doesn’t speak, but the movement of her head seems to be enough for Helen.
“You have a new roommate,” Helen says.
Ella’s soft brown eyes glide slowly to me. Her gaze, though distant, is unwavering and unsettling.
Her pursed lips part as she inhales. “Wolf,” she whispers on her exhale, a mere breath of sound.
“That’s right.” Helen nods gently. “Tessa is a shifter like you. She needs a forest, so she’ll stay here with you for a while. Okay?”
Ella’s gaze swivels away from me, returning to the branches. She becomes still again, and Helen rises to her feet, her hand leaving Ella’s knee.
Despite Helen’s claim that I won’t be able to use my senses to scent Ella’s supernatural status, I find myself trying to scent the air. For a second, I convince myself that I can sense Ella’s wolf shifter status, but it quickly eludes me. Her true scent is as distant and far away as her attention.
“What happened to her?” I ask, keeping my voice low when Helen returns to me.
Helen’s lips press into a firm line. “Privacy is paramount here, Tessa. Every woman who shelters in Hidden House is at liberty to tell you as much or as little about herself as she wishes. However, please be cautious with your questions. Even a little knowledge could jeopardize the life of a woman sheltering here—or endanger your own life.”
I give Helen a quick nod to let her know I understand. As much as questions burn brightly inside me about Ella—like what pack she’s from—Tristan’s, surely?—and what broke her so badly—I understand how painful questions can be.
Helen’s expression softens as she sweeps her arm toward the bed on the left-hand side of the room, then points to the door in the tree also on the left at the back of the space.
“That’s your bed and your bathroom,” she says. “The water from the tap in the bathroom is safe to drink. A plate of food will be brought to you shortly. If you’re not out of the shower, don’t worry. Aida will leave your food on the table at the end of your bed.”
“Aida is…?”
“One of my oldest friends and an excellent cook.” Helen smiles. “In the meantime, make yourself at home. Come out whenever you want. You’re free to explore. The house won’t let you go anywhere you shouldn’t.”
I consider the space around me—the sense of freedom within the trees—not knowing how to feel about my new surroundings. On one hand, I’m trapped here. On the other, this house already feels like the safest place I’ve experienced since I was born, and I’ve only been here for a few hours.
Helen pauses at the door. “I don’t want you to feel like this home is a prison, Tessa. This building is heavily protected, but it needs to be. Many of these women are thought to be dead. Many of them know things they shouldn’t know. Some of them have twists on their power that make them targets—just like you. My only goal is to make sure they’re safe. That is my only intention toward you, too.”
I fold my hands in front of myself, not sure what to say. The way Tristan brought me here hasn’t helped me lower my defenses. I can’t suddenly trust this witch, no matter what she says. Time will prove her intentions one way or another.
Helen doesn’t seem to require a response. “Goodnight, Tessa.”
She leaves me in tranquil silence.
Ella barely stirs in her chair. The rise and fall of her chest is the only movement around me. Everything else is still.
Slipping off my ankle-high boots and placing them beside the bed, I freeze to see the drops of blood dried on the top of them. My own blood.
I need to shower.
Maybe throw up.
Scream. Cry.
Hurrying across to the door in the tree, I wrench it open, half-expecting that I’ll find nothing behind it.
I step into a large bathroom, just as tranquil as the forest I left behind. On the opposite wall is a long, mahogany bench with a white porcelain sink. To the right is an alcove with a bath sitting on a bed of pebbles, wood paneling surrounding the pebbles on the floor as well as decorating the wall behind the bath.
On the left, a shower space with an enormous square showerhead is surrounded by earthy-colored tiles. The room is lit with soft lights positioned at intervals along the walls, but moonlight pours through an opening in the ceiling directly above the showerhead.
It’s like something out of a magazine.
The moment I step into the room, the bath begins to fill with water. As I veer in the other direction toward the shower, the showerhead turns on. The warm water pouring on either side of me quickly steams up the whole space as I wrench off my borrowed shirt and broken bra and peel off my bloody jeans.
I avoid looking in the mirror as I step under the shower.
The water is gentle, but it drives me to the tiled floor where I curl up, naked except for the waterproof patches covering my wounds.
I finally allow my tears to fall, succumbing to the wrenching sobs. I want to deny that my father is dead. I want to believe that he’s coming for me, that tonight never happened.
Flashes return to me as I press against the warm tiling at the bottom of the shower. Baxter Griffin’s claws. My father’s final shout. Cody Griffin’s eyes boring into me. The tilt of his head when he tried to mark me, the power pouring off him when he came after me. Even the crack of his father’s backhand across his face. All of it is like oxygen to my grief, pulling tears from me for such a long time that my skin is already wrinkled by the time I drag myself out of the shower and over to the bath to immerse myself in the water.
I’m emotionally spent. Empty.
Or I think I am.
As I sink below the surface of the full bath, the memory of the brightest flame suddenly returns to me, fed by the sensation of Tristan’s power washing across me,
a dizzying wave that burns out every other emotion inside me.
I return to the surface of the water, gasping for air, feeling like flames suddenly rippled from my head to my toes.
The woman I mark will be mine forever, Tristan said.
I hate that that statement twists my insides more than his prediction that I won’t live longer than another year.
Even if Cody had succeeded in marking me, it wouldn’t have made any difference to me. Tristan Masters himself could bite me and it wouldn’t mean a damn thing.
I will never bond.
All a mark will do is make it clear to every other shifter that I am claimed.
I will never feel the loyalty that other shifters feel for each other.
When I finally climb out of the bath, I find myself facing the full-length mirror.
My body is an unwanted beat-up sight. Bruises extend across my cheeks, jaw, shoulders, breasts, ribs, hips, and thighs.
Every part of my body should belong to me and not to a man’s fists.
My future should belong to me.
Right now, I see my path extending before me with a giant fork in it.
Tristan brought me here for his own purposes. He brought me here to mold me into a woman who will destroy his enemies. I can walk the path he wants me to walk—as his pawn, doing whatever he wants me to do, allowing him to dictate my actions until the day he sends me to an early death.
Or…
I can take whatever I learn here, take whatever he gives me, gain control over my thoughts and my scent, become strong, work within his rules, and then… when the time is right… I’ll break away.
I will use everything Tristan gives me to kill Baxter Griffin. On my terms. As a free woman.
If Tristan stands in my way, I’ll end him too.
Chapter Seven
The next morning, I wake to the sound of birds. The soft tweeting breaks through the pain that shoots through every part of my body.
Damn. Whatever magic Helen used on me last night to numb my wounds, it’s disappeared, leaving me aching and sore.
Slowly opening my eyes to the early morning sunlight filtering through the tree branches overhead, I assess each part of my body: arms, legs, chest, and face. The worst pain is in my head and my ribs.
Slipping quietly from beneath the blankets, I allow the sunlight to shine across my bare legs and thighs. They are the least bruised, although my multiple falls to the ground yesterday left me with yellowing patches of skin across my thighs.
Focusing beyond myself, I find Ella sitting on the edge of her bed opposite mine. She’s dressed in a long, white shirt that reaches her knees while her blonde hair drapes across her right shoulder.
Her left arm is bent at the elbow, her hand raised with fingers splayed. Three brilliantly-colored canaries circle her head and hand, dipping toward her fingertips in turns. She follows their movements with her eyes but doesn’t otherwise move.
Each time one dips toward her fingertips, she whispers its color. “Pink… blue… yellow… blue… pink…”
She doesn’t seem to notice that I’m awake, but her focus appears sharper, her gaze following the birds’ paths as they rise, soar, and dip again.
I could find her repetitive speech irritating, but her voice is soft and melodic. It carries a hum, as if she were once a trained singer and her vocal chords are trying to remember how to sing again.
I also recognize the therapy of making lists, the way simple things can keep fears at bay. I have no doubt the birds are a deliberate part of the environment that Helen has created for Ella. Casting a glance around, I wonder whether there will be special additions for me, but I can’t see anything different since last night.
After wrapping myself in a towel last night, I grabbed an oversized T-shirt from the closet and crawled into bed, nursing my new resolutions close to my heart. I have no idea what my path to revenge will involve, but I know where I’m determined it will take me: to Baxter Griffin, ruthless alpha and the man who killed my father.
My heart squeezes inside my chest, but I push my sadness away as hard as I can, locking it up again. I don’t need grief. I need anger, the quiet kind that simmers and grows, that will make me single-minded and fearless.
A gentle breeze picks up around me, bringing with it the scent of a new day. Despite my inability to sense anyone around me, it seems that I can still use my human senses to smell and see what’s around me. Resolving to move through the pain in my body, I rise to my feet and carefully stretch out my arms.
The sight of a fresh plate of food resting on the small table at the foot of my bed forces me to acknowledge how hungry I am. Aida must have brought it for me. I’m sure there was a different plate of food there last night, but I fell asleep as soon as I crawled into bed.
After filling up on toast, fruit, yogurt, and a glass of orange juice, I test my legs and make my way to the closet to consider my clothing options, hoping for loose jeans and flannel shirts like I’m used to wearing. Not to mention, I won’t be able to handle anything tight around my body for at least the next few days.
Opening the closet, I narrow my eyes at the full array of every kind of jeans and every color flannel shirt I could possibly wish for. I suddenly wonder to what extent the contents of this closet are predetermined by Helen or whether the clothing is influenced by my wishes. Last night, I hoped to find a soft, loose shirt and it came immediately to hand.
Deciding to test my theory, I close the closet again, concentrate on the doors, and think hard about little black dresses. Holding my breath, I open the cupboard, but it’s still filled with jeans and flannel shirts.
It’s definitely for the best. I have absolutely no use for little black dresses.
Ella is still murmuring colors to herself when I emerge from the bathroom fully dressed.
The bruises on my face are worse in the morning light. They’re on full display and despite all the wishing in the world, none of the shelves in the bathroom contains makeup I can use to mask them.
I consider whether or not the smart thing to do would be to crawl back into bed and stay there for the next week, but if I accept that Hidden House is a place of comfort, I might never want to leave it.
As I finish tying my hair in a loose ponytail, I mentally prepare myself for exiting the room into the unknown. Helen said I could explore the house as much as I want, but that I won’t be able to go anywhere I’m not supposed to go. I intend to test that rule if I possibly can. Even if I’m not ready to leave, I’d like to know whether or not I can.
Passing Ella on my way, I notice that the canaries have changed color.
“Purple… green… orange… wolf…” Ella whispers as I stride past her.
The last addition to her list registers in my hearing, making me pause midstride.
“Orange… purple… wolf…” Ella falls silent, even though the birds continue to dip toward her fingertips. A crease forms in her forehead. She tilts her head to the side. Still focused on the canaries, as if she’s speaking to them and not to me, she asks, “Human?”
The inflection at the end of her speech turns her statement into a question.
Am I a wolf? Or am I human?
Honesty seems called for. Ella has done nothing to me. I have no reason to distrust her. “I don’t really know,” I murmur. “Both? Neither? Nobody could ever explain to me why I was born this way. Not even my dad.”
It’s a strange sort of relief to speak aloud the difficulty that has plagued me my whole life. When I was younger, I demanded that my father explain to me why I have a human soul—why my wolf has an animal’s energy without its soul. He looked me in the eye and told me he didn’t know. To this day, I don’t know if he was lying to me.
Ella blinks at the birds while I speak.
She’s quiet for another moment and it’s hard for me to tell whether or not she even understood me.
She resumes her list. “Purple… green…”
I leave her to it and venture into the ha
llway outside.
A second after I close the door behind me, the door to the room across the corridor opens and a woman steps from inside it. Her long, black hair is piled up on her head and her large, blue-gray eyes are framed with the longest, thickest black lashes I’ve ever seen. She’s wearing knee-high leather boots over tight black pants and a low-cut black T-shirt, the ebony of her clothing making the brightness of her eyes pop. The most surprising thing about her is the weapons belt slung around her hips. I count three daggers and two handguns and that’s only at the front. The handle of another dagger protrudes at the side of her hip.
The open door reveals a glimpse of night sky beyond her. I blink at her room full of silver spots, glittering like stars, bright, a floor but no walls, before she firmly closes the door behind her.
Unlike Ella, who is quiet and distant, this woman is a picture of confidence and assertiveness.
I’m immediately curious about why she’s here since she doesn’t look like she needs help of any kind.
“New person,” she says, leaning against her closed door with a curious gleam in her eyes, her rose-bud lips pursed as she considers me carefully. “What do I call you?”
I find her directness reassuring. “You can call me ‘Tessa Dean.’ I’m a wolf shifter.”
“Hello, Tessa Dean. I’m Iyana Ballinger.” She pronounces her first name ‘eye-yah-nah,’ running the sounds together so smoothly that it sounds like a melody. At the same time, she casts her gaze across my face and down to the bruises visible on my forearms since I rolled up the sleeves of my shirt. “Someone really fucked you up, Tessa Dean.”
Remembering what Helen said about privacy, I decide that the same rules apply to me. I can say as little or as much as I want about my past. Resisting the urge to touch my bruised cheek, I gesture at her weapons. “You look like you can handle anything.”
She gives me a wry smile. “I have a habit of biting off more than I can chew. It doesn’t always end well for me.” She waves her hand over her own face. “This face,” she says, “is the result of six months of Helen’s magic. When I came here, I was in worse shape than you.”
