Rowan's pulse was like a flurry of bats trapped beneath her skin. She jolted every time she thought she heard Thrax. When she'd woken up that morning, her nerves had been taut as bowstrings. That dreadful tightness was only exacerbated when she left the house. And the further she ventured into the village, the more her nerves stretched and frayed until she was sure they'd snap at any moment.
There were so many wargs around. Her eyes darted over every face, her belly flopping like a trapped fish. Every sound was Thrax. Every dark haired male she saw approaching was him. Every yellow gaze sliding over her flesh had her heart lashing with excitement and dread.
A clang at the forge startled a yelp from her lips. The ironsmith looked up, his hammer poised above his low drawn brows. She swallowed and scurried past. A booming laugh made her clutch her chest in fright. But it was just the potter laughing with his mate and warglings by the kiln. When she turned away, it was to see a massive warg on all fours loping towards her. A massive warg with tawny eyes. But they weren't anything like the freckled honey and cinnamon shade she already knew so well. Eyes with the power to singe her flesh and stoke her belly with hot flames. The warg barely glanced at her as he trotted past, his fur thick and shaggy and soot black. Her breath stuttered out as she watched him saunter away. He spared her only a cursory backwards glance, perhaps wondering at her stare.
Gods, she was a mess. Sola, an unmated, mischievous warga, waved at her. She was standing in a small, well-tended vegetable garden that was nestled in a parcel of sunlight below her parents' house. Rowan waved back and strove on, her chin ducked, her gaze distracted.
She was almost relieved to see Thesta descending the last few steep steps of her home. Still more relieved she wouldn't have to climb those steps to visit her...sister-in-law.
"You're up early?" said Thesta.
Rowan swallowed, her eyes flicking around, surreptitiously looking for him. "It's nearly midday," she grumbled.
Thesta chuckled. "Early for you."
Rowan shrugged and folded her arms. "I...I felt like visiting." Truth was, she didn't care to be alone. She had no idea where Meera was. Her friend seemed to be disappearing a lot lately. And, anyway, Thesta was sometimes easier to be around because she didn't know Rowan as well as Meera did.
"I'm just on my way out," said Thesta. "I need some eggs."
"Can I come?"
Thesta's brows shot up. "You want to forage with me?" At Rowan's stiff nod, she laughed. "You know that entails hiking and working, don't you?"
Another stiff nod.
"All right, who are you and what have you done with the real Rowan?"
Rowan pursed her lips, glaring at the warga. "I see you're in a vexing mood."
"I see you're in a mood to be vexed," Thesta retorted with a light cluck. "Come along, then, maybe the exercise will put some apples in your cheeks." The warga linked her arm with Rowan's and cheerfully pulled her along. "Maybe we'll have time for some fishing afterwards."
"Oh, I was so hoping you'd say that," she mumbled sourly.
"You'll love fishing once you get the hang of it."
She answered with a snort. She'd been fishing with Thesta once before and all she'd managed to catch was a snapping toad. With a sigh, she trudged along beside the warga.
"You'll see," said Thesta, "one day you'll bait your hook and catch the fish of your life."
"I can't wait."
Thesta rolled her eyes and pulled her along, quickening her pace.
Thankfully, Thesta didn't pry into why Rowan's mood was so sour this morning. They kept the conversation light, avoiding the topic of mating nights and ornery wargrexes. As the day wore on and they hunted tirelessly for eggs. Thesta explained that the late nesters like the large, flightless solitaire doves were still laying, feeding on the late summer fruit.
Though the warga never mentioned her brother at all, Rowan couldn't stop thinking about Thrax. Nor did her pulse calm all day. She was so on edge, so certain he'd appear at any moment, that she spooked easily and gasped at everything, even a cricket that landed in her hair.
"Don't worry," Thesta laughed, "it's not a tick." She kept her teasing gentle, perhaps sensing what was wrong with Rowan. The cricket was evicted and the hunting resumed.
Despite Rowan's constant jumpiness, Thrax never appeared. When the egg basket was full and they returned to the lake to fish, she still caught no glimpse of Thrax. She never saw him at all. Not that day. Nor the next. And all she caught at the lake was a gnat in her eye and hook full of reeds.
...
On day three of the nine day mating feast, Thrax still hadn't returned.
He and a small contingent of wargs were off on some wargish business, and apparently her new mate didn't esteem her enough to share any of the details. Why that should leave a pang in her chest, she didn't know. But it did. And she recognized the heat behind her eyes as anger. She hoped he was lying trapped in some bog somewhere, covered in leeches and bog lice.
Rowan was glaring into the fire, watching the sparks and smoke shoot up through the wide sky hatches high in the vaulted roof. The evening sun was sinking below the lake. The broad double doors of the drinking hall were thrown wide and the night air streamed in.
"Is it normal for a warg to leave his warga the day after their mating?" she asked, twisting her thumb ring.
She hadn't asked about his whereabouts or his business, she didn't want the others to know Thrax had left her in ignorance. It was demeaning and it reminded her of how her mother always made her feel. How Elgret always left her in the dark. Nothing important had ever been shared with her because she was never deemed important enough.
Thesta and Ugla, the wise one, were siting beside her. It was the old warga that spoke. "No, it is not." A fact that evidently didn't disturb her, however. "But," she added, "the wargrex is no ordinary warg." Then she repeated herself in wargish.
It was a habit that Thesta had now adopted, too. First Wrasian and then the words would be repeated in wargish. All wargs spoke some degree of Wrasian. Goblick, too. Whatever dialect was spoken in the outland, wargs could speak it. Thesta had once told her that no warg would tolerate the disadvantage of not being able to speak to their enemies. And friends, she'd quickly added.
The wargas were determined to have her speaking wargish like a native by Mothersnight when mighty Brek brought the harsh winter winds. It was practically autumn now, so there wasn't any time to lose. And though she'd be long gone by then, she was eager to learn what she could while she was here.
All around her, wargs were dancing, drinking, and laughing by the iron braziers, the firelight stirring the longhall with gold. There was a large spiny boar roasting on the spit over the hearth fire, dropping fat into the hissing flames. The spines had been removed and some of the young wargs were practicing their spear arms, throwing the spines at a painted troll hanging on the wall.
The drinking lodge and the forge were the only buildings with stone chimneys. She was told that in winter, the doors and hatches would be shut tight and the hearth fire would be kept ablaze. Most of the pack would sleep here through the winter nights.
Some of the older warglings were playing konung bord. No one seemed the least perturbed that their wargrex was absent. Everyone was in high spirits.
The wargas had arrived the evening after the Mating Moon with baskets of food and little gifts—quilts, furs, vegetables, cooking wares, and everything else a newly mated pair might require. Then they'd proceeded to decorate the wargrex's hall, garnishing every surface with flowers and herbs. Rowan had watched them flit about her mate's hall, her throat growing tight. Their warmth was so staggering and unexpected that she'd stood gaping a long while before she realized a chink of light was streaming in through her armor. Try though she might to keep them at a distance, she wasn't like Elgret. She wasn't made of cold iron. Despite herself, she'd begun to relax around them and had even shared a laugh with Sola who had an infectious giggle.
Had she been in love with Thrax, she'd have been heartbroken at his abrupt disappearance. His treatment of her was unforgivable. But since she didn't care one whit for his leech covered lousy carcass, what did it matter? Thrax's neglect made leaving him that much easier. Not so much the wargas, but him, yes. She only hoped this neglect would last through the full moon so that she could slip away unnoticed.
Just then, Sola collapsed beside her, disrupting her brooding with another of her contagious laughs. The warga's face was aflush with dancing. She handed Rowan a horn of beer while gulping from her own horn. "That Torgon better find himself a mate soon, he's grown incorrigible."
Thesta's lips quirked. "I pity his mate."
Sola nodded. "She'll have to put a sack over his head to keep his eyes roving off."
"Or strut about naked and keep his eyes at home."
Rowan listened, keeping a silent watch over the fire. From her periphery, she watched the festivities and antics. The games and the easy touches. Everyone appeared happy and relaxed.
Hers was the only knee bouncing in agitation. Her nerves were constantly alive with guarded anticipation. Any moment now Thrax would walk in. She'd been in that state for three days straight, tense as a spring hare.
It was because she was so hyperaware of everything and everyone in the large hall that Rowan caught Meera sneaking out. She'd have thought nothing of it except that her maid's manner was...unusual. The girl's eyes were darting about as she edged towards the exit. With a quick, furtive look around the hall, she darted outside. And she hadn't been the only one to leave betimes. Rowan searched the hall for one warg in particular. Thresh. But he was nowhere to be seen.
With a frown, she stood up. "I'm going outside for some air," was all she said to her companions as she beelined it for the doorway.
Thesta was laughing over something Sola said, and nodded distractedly.
Outside, Rowan sighed. Even though Moonrath and Torgon played the drums with skill, and Odoth his lyre like a master, she was relieved to have some distance. But there was little time to relish the cooler quieter space beyond the hall. In the distance, she saw a narrow figure sprinting into the copse on the hill.
It was the same little patch of wilderness where Thesta liked to take her to forage, not that she knew the bloody difference between milkcaps and toadstools.
She looked around. No sign of Thresh out here either.
Rowan didn't want to loose sight of Meera for long, so she didn't have time to run inside for a shawl. The air would nip at her flesh once night set in, but she would worry about that later.
Rowan looked over the lake as she hurried along the boardwalk. On the far side, it was fed by a brook, but here the water was undisturbed. Not a ripple. Or so it should've been. From the tail of her eye, though, she saw something move in the water. But Meera was already hidden beyond the tree line, so there was no time to investigate. Likely just a large trout, she decided.
In the shallow marsh on the far side of the lake, near the brook, she saw a beautiful spray of red lilies. She noted it in passing, her eyes catching the explosion of red. She would make time to pick them another day. Right now, she had Meera to find.
In the week she'd been at Carthyrk, the ache of nascent muscle kept her movements perpetually stiff, and her tummy was flatter than it'd ever been. She couldn't say she was enjoying the dearth of sweets and pastries, nor the daily hikes and hunts, but she couldn't deny it felt good to be stronger. Last week, she'd have balked at the idea of running up this hill after Meera. And at sunset no less. But the dark no longer had a hold over her. The night gift, as Thrax had called it, was wearing off, but she could still see as well as though it was full daylight. The shadows weren't half so ominous as they would've looked with human eyes. Dusk imposed no danger. Not anymore. But Meera didn't have the same advantage, so why was she scampering into the growing dark like a mad fool?
Once Rowan was through the tree line, she halted, panting hard. Where had her little maid gone? With a smile, she crouched in the shadows and pawed carefully at the dead leaves just like Thesta had shown her. Meera might not be a deer or a stoat, but she was still a creature with a footprint to follow. And Rowan, with her night gift, was feeling much like a wolf in the gathering dusk. It was a heady feeling. She decided she liked this hunting lark more and more. Back home in West Gate, she'd be sewing right now. Or eating honey tart and reading by the fire. A growing part of her would miss this little adventure, she admitted.
Ah-ha! There it was! Meera's trail headed left, further into the thicket. If it wasn't for Thrax's blood in her veins, she wouldn't have been able to see much at all, certainly not in the darker woods.
But she was half warg now. Or so a shadowy voice whispered in her blood. The thought struck her as odd and she stumbled to a momentary halt. Where had that notion come from? Half warg? She huffed and shook her head, heading off in the direction her quarry had gone. She was Rowan of West Gate, wife of Merritt, and daughter of the High Lady, Elgret. A human. Not a wolf. Certainly not a warg, she reminded herself firmly. She was larking about in Carthyrk for a time, that was all. Soon as the full moon rose, she would be gone. Her home lay behind the Iron Girdle. Not here. Not with Thrax.
She had her nixrath ring. It would've been better to have a horse, too, but the nixrath was what mattered most. Maeda willing, her night gift would last until after she was running across the Black Bridge into Merritt's arms. Silently, she thanked Thrax for his night gift. It would come in handy when she escaped.
As the distance between her and Meera closed, she became aware of a strange feeling. A shiver of premonition licking up her spine in hot strokes. Now she was the one throwing furtive glances into the creeping darkness behind her. Nothing there, though. Maybe Thresh had come around behind her? Had she missed seeing him? She was downwind of Meera, but what of Thresh?
Was he lurking about nearby? That thought gave her the collywobbles. Thresh was the exact opposite of his friend Torgon—quiet, surly, and ferocious-looking. He disturbed her almost as much as Thrax did.
The sounds coming from nearby, put a swift end to all thoughts of Thresh. They were odd sounds. Someone...sobbing? Whimpering? Bemused, Rowan crept closer. She moved with infinite care, lifting a branch of new foliage out of the way. Behind that curtain of leaves she found Meera. And Thresh.
Sweet Mother Maeda!
She snatched her hand back so fast, a sapling swatted her in the mouth. Sacred gods! She'd not been prepared! Luckily she was too shocked to even gasp, so Thresh hadn't noticed her. Not that he was paying attention to his surroundings...
This time, when she looked again, she was mentally prepared.
It was Meera who was sobbing. And sighing, and making all sorts of strange animal keening sounds that had Rowan staring, utterly fascinated. Horrified even. Too compelled to look away.
Thresh had Meera caged against a thick tree trunk and he was pumping into her from behind. Her cheek was sawing against the bark with each brutal thrust. For a moment, Rowan was too aghast to move. Her next impulse was to rush in and save Meera from the hideous rape taking place. But the sounds coming out of the girl were not screams for help, nor did the sobbing savor of fear or pain. She was in obvious raptures!
Meera was actually...enjoying...whatever this was. A rutting every bit as savage as Meera had foretold back on the eve of Rowan's wedding to Merritt. Only this time, her imagination was being replaced by a ghastly visual. And this was nothing like the tame notions she'd cooked up in her head.
Rowan shrank back a little further. She was silent as a mouse, but even so, Thresh would've heard or sensed her had he not been so...buried deep inside Meera. By the gods, it was a shocking feat of grunts and moans and skin slapping against skin.
Meera's skirts were bunched up high above her slim waist and she was bent forward at an odd angle, her back almost parallel to the ground. It should've hurt or been prodigiously uncomfortable, yet Meera was clearly in the throes of ecstasy.
Just as Meera's cries were peaking, Thresh yanked himself out. His rod was purple and riddled with veins. Gleaming wet. With rough, jerky movements, he planted Meera supine on the ground. This time he thrust into her from the front, hiking her leg up so far, Rowan winced. Still, Meera seemed to revel in his dominance. She was like a puppet, and he the furious master, manipulating her body into unnatural positions, slamming into her again and again. The heavy sack at the root of his cock was like a battering ram, the sound of wet slaps echoed in the night.
Rowan knew she ought to leave, but the gods themselves couldn't have dragged her away. Not now. She was transfixed by the ritual of wild, forbidden sex. And, if she was honest, a little turned on. But as soon as she became aware of the damp heat between her legs, she became instantly disgusted.
With a roar, Thresh suddenly lunged at Meera's neck. He looked on the verge of ripping her throat out. Terror froze her limbs. He latched onto the girl's flesh with his teeth, but without breaking skin. Leastwise, there was no spurting blood. Yet it seemed to thrill Meera.
He was stiff and seized by obvious ecstasy. Meera was still bucking wildly beneath him, gasping and whimpering eagerly, crying out his name. And then she, too, turned still and taut, a cry of pleasure rushing out of her heaving chest.
Rowan had seen enough. On silent feet, she backed away, dropping the curtain of leaves over the forbidden lovers. An enactment now forever seared in her mind.
The sound of Meera's giggle, muffled in the underbrush, was enough to satisfy Rowan—the girl was in no real danger. Not from Thresh, anyway. But later, she would have a violent tongue lashing from Rowan.
It wasn't like there weren't any tamer wargs in Carthyrk for her to...scratch her itches with. By the gods, they were a different species altogether! Even Thesta had warned Meera off Thresh.
Rowan was seething with anger as she crept down the hill. Despite her stiff marching, her body ached with need, her senses reeling. She was so caught up in opposing feelings of lust and disgust that she didn't see the mountain of muscle standing where, moments before, when she'd first come this way, there'd been no one.
She rounded a tree and, with a gasp, slammed into a large male chest.
Thrax's hands came up to steady her. The moment his flesh touched hers, she knew it was him.
It was a night of surprises, and once again she found herself staring in shock. "What...! What are you doing here?"
"I should ask you the same question," he murmured softly. In an instant, his eyes were molten yellow, his nose flaring. A wolfish smirk curled up his lips.
The air grew thick between them. His hands on her upper arms gripped a little tighter. It dawned on her then—she knew what he sensed. Her cheeks flamed at the realization. She reeked of sex. Her flesh throbbed with it.
Even now, as his scent wrapped itself possessively around her, she was fighting a powerful arousal. His very scent was like hot oil on the flames in her belly. Despite everything, she wanted him.
And, by the riotous fire in his eyes, he knew it, too.