Page 56 of Direbound (The Wolves of Ruin #1)

CHAPTER FIFTY-SIX

I stare down at Stark, struggling to understand. Struggling through the bizarre wave of heat that flooded me the moment his knee hit the stone.

He’s kneeling for me.

My hand presses to the cell bars for support as I stare at him. The only thing I can manage is a strangled, “Why didn’t you tell me?”

The crown is painfully heavy, squeezing my skull too tight. I don’t understand any of it. All I know is that centuries of hidden truths—of outright lies —are perched pretty atop my head.

I’m struggling to breathe, and Stark is still just kneeling there, slowly looking up at me.

“The Bonded have?—”

“ Stand up, ” I choke out. “Fuck.”

He rises smoothly to his full height, towering over me. A flare of heat lashes over me again, which I quickly douse with a bucket of ice-water.

That memory. The deaths.

Stark’s dark eyes dart briefly over the crown on my head, down to my hand on the bars, then meet mine. “The Bonded have been under a Siphon blood curse for five hundred years.” He gestures to the crown with a distractingly scarred hand. “That crown and the sword, together, control the human bonds to the direwolves.”

I think back to the arena, to that lurking urge in my pack’s minds to kill each other.

“We didn’t know what happened to the crown, but it makes sense that it was hidden in the arena—the more direwolf and Bonded blood spilled on it, the stronger the king’s control became,” he says.

“Blood magic,” I repeat numbly, my mind whirling through this new information. “A blood curse . What are you talking about?”

Stark’s brows pinch briefly, but he takes a deep breath and speaks in a calm, distractingly rumbling voice. “The Siphon who overthrew the rightful royal family used powerful blood magic to bind the public’s memories of the Sturmfrost royals. No one was permitted to speak of them again, and within a generation, they were forgotten,” he tells me. “By everyone except for my family. As you know, we are the sworn protectors of the royal line.”

I almost burst into delirious laughter at that. I’m not insane, but Stark is definitely doing his best to nudge me in that direction.

All of this time. My protector, not Killian’s, not the king’s.

“My ancestor smuggled your ancestor out of the castle when she was a baby and hid her with a commoner human family,” he continues. “She also hid the history book you found in my quarters. My family has been faithfully passing that book down across generations. We’ve kept the truth alive through reading, even with a curse sealing it away.”

Realization finally dawns on me. “You literally couldn’t speak about it. Is that why I had to give Anassa a ‘direct order’ to get the crown?”

“Yes,” he says stiffly, then presses his lips tightly together in obvious frustration. It isn’t directed towards me, though. “I was raised on the stories—always written , never spoken—about the Sturmfrost line. About the day the rightful royal would return. I?—”

He cuts himself off and shifts his weight. His stare burns into me.

“We’ve been waiting for the day a Sturmfrost royal might become Bonded again.”

I swallow, ignoring the slight tingling on my lips and how badly I want to know what he’d been about to say. I force myself to take a step back and really hear what he’s telling me. And through it all, one thing in particular doesn’t make any fucking sense.

Shaking my head, I clutch the bars tighter. “If you’re my…” Not my , he’s not mine. “If you’re my family’s protector, why have you been trying to kill me since the moment I got here?”

Instantly, his expression twists with rage. Menacing energy explodes from him. It’s that intense, overpowering presence he embodies when we spar, when he kills, when he goes to war .

“ Kill you?” he exclaims, then glances over his shoulder toward the entrance of the dungeon and lowers his voice. “I’ve been doing everything in my power to keep you safe!”

My cheeks are on fire. “Wh?—”

“Who moved you to your own quarters when someone tried to kill you in the night? Me!” He thuds a fist against his chest. “Who has been training you and strengthening you at every turn? Me!”

He moved me to my own quarters? I cannot believe Killian took credit for that… although, of course I can.

“What about that night, after the Voice Trial?” I ask. “You threatened me. Talked about accidents and?—”

He groans. “You were drunk . Not long after you’d been attacked. It was an attempt to warn you off getting even drunker.”

Oh. I… “You were constantly trying to kill me in training!” I exclaim.

“I did not order a single hit I knew you couldn’t take,” he says, stepping closer to the bars. I can feel his heat, his breath. He’s angry, but he’s looking at me like he wants to— “And constantly is a bit of an exaggeration, don’t you think?”

I step back because staying this close to him is messing with my head. “I know what I saw, Stark. From the start, you’ve hated me. You?—”

His hand slams against the bars. “Of course, I hated you, Meryn!” he hisses. My heart slams in my chest. A bolt of confusing electricity streaks up my spine, forcing my shoulders back. “Can you blame me? My family has waited hundreds of years for your arrival, keeping the secret alive. I’ve waited. And when the Sturmfrost royal finally makes her appearance, she’s weak and in love with the person whose family stole her birthright!”

What… the fuck ? Why can’t I get that out of my head? I’ve waited. I should be angrier. He called me weak. He spat out the word “love” like I was a dumb schoolgirl desperate for attention. But his eyes are a deep well of pain.

“Do you know how hard it was to see you with him?” he rasps. “To know who you were, even when you didn’t, sickening magic silencing me? To endure our wolves’ mate bond on top of it all?”

As if to emphasize his point, Anassa knocks down the thin filter I threw up between us.

Desire instantly pulses through me.

It’s punishing. It’s a need so strong that I’m almost angry at my emptiness. I look at Stark, and my entire body screams that I’m… missing him.

It’s not sentimental. It’s not even solely physical, though unbearable heat floods between my thighs.

No. It’s soul-deep, centered at the core of who I am.

It’s like we were once carved from the same bone, sharing blood and breath. And then someone ripped him from me, only I can’t remember it happening. All that’s left is the fury and the enduring desire to go to him and restore what was lost.

To be with him in every goddess-damned way I can.

I try to back away. To flee from it because it isn’t me .

It’s Anassa’s bond to Cratos. It’s about Cratos, not Stark.

I don’t know why I?—

Stark’s arm lashes through the bars as I try to retreat. His gaze is intense. His grip is strong, but it’s… careful, too. He pulls me close until I’m pressed up against the bars, the cold iron seeping through my shirt and chilling my heated skin.

“Do you have any idea what it felt like to watch you at the Forging Ball in the dress I picked for you—” What?! “—swirling in your lover’s arms and bowing to his traitor father?”

His voice . I think I can feel the vibrations of his growl dancing over the sensitive skin of my throat.

Stark’s never looked so… open before.

That dress. That dress that was so damn perfect for me. That made my heart sing.

Fuck, I thanked Killian for it.

Stark picked my dress. I can’t shake that. Stark picked my dress.

Then another thought crests. “Stark—before the Ascent, you came through the city. There was a man, a deserter…”

The man that Stark and Cratos tore apart before the public.

The man who had threatened me at my fight the night before.

Stark lifts his chin. “Yes,” he says simply.

Yes, he killed him because the man threatened me. Which means Stark had been there that night, watching me fight, somewhere in the crowd.

My knees weaken and I clutch the iron bars tighter. Then I meet his eyes, reeling. His breathing is slightly uneven. His jaw is ticking away. His hand on my arm is sending fucking bolts of lightning up my shoulder and melting me in heat.

I clench my jaw and push a gentle barrier back in place to dampen Anassa’s desire. But it’s still there. When she isn’t trying to hide it, it lingers deep in my mind.

Quiet but aching.

And Stark felt this the entire time.

Slowly, I lift my hand and place it softly over his wrist. His eyes widen. I watch the hair on his arm rise. Watch his lips part slightly. Then he looks away.

He releases me, jerking his face to the side like I’ve slapped him across the face. For a split second, I catch a glimpse of the vulnerable scar beneath his jaw.

I step back, his warmth lingering on my palm. “ Anassa ,” I beg. I don’t know why. I’m just confused. Overwhelmed.

She turns her head and nudges my arm. The scratchiness of her fur calms me. I can sense a swirl of understanding from her. It’s a gentler emotion than I think I’ve ever felt over the bond.

Maybe she eases up on the wide open connection between us because a breath later, my head is slightly clearer. The physical effects on my body linger, but the painful need is gone. Even still, I look at Stark and feel…

I just understand, I think. It’s hard, though.

Everything I thought I knew about him has been turned on its head.

I take a deep breath and stroke Anassa’s ear, trying to calm my racing heart. I’m still confused, but…

“Stark,” I say.

He lifts his head, clearly still affected.

“Alphas don’t have the luxury of weakness,” I recite.

Recognition flashes in his eyes. He slowly lifts his head further, and I see a hint of the relentlessly unyielding man I know and ha—well, I don’t hate him.

Right now, I need to think like the Alpha I am. No, scratch that.

Like the queen I am, as unbelievable as that sounds.

“What about Killian?” I ask. I can see Stark shoving it all down, slipping back behind his walls. I think he wants it. I think it’s easier for him, and he’s right. I can’t blame him. “His ancestor—the one who stole the throne from my family—was a Siphon. Is Killian a Siphon, too?”

Stark is silent for a long moment before he says, “I’m not certain.”

I curse inwardly. It wouldn’t surprise me, at this point, if Killian were a Siphon. If I’ve been traipsing around, secretly a queen—fuck, Stark’s nickname for me sits differently now—why not a secret Siphon in our midst, too?

“The original king who stole the throne died, as did all of his progeny throughout the years,” Stark says.

“But Siphons can live forever,” I say. “So how did he die? Why?”

Stark sighs and leans against the bars, crossing his arms. “Regrettably, there are things I don’t know. Everything I do know has been passed down in the book you’ve already seen.”

I tap my fingers on my thigh. “Fuck.”

He huffs. It sounds borderline amused. “The one thing I know for certain is that Killian does not have your best interests at heart.”

I laugh bitterly, gesturing to the bars between us. My stupid fucking engagement bracelet glints on my arm as I do. “Believe me. I’m well aware of that now. Why didn’t you say anything?” I shoot a look at Anassa. “ Either of you. I know you had limitations from the curse but surely at some point you could have said, Hey, by the by, your betrothed is a gaslighting piece of shit? ”

I try to ignore the painful squeeze of my heart as I utter those words.

“ And you would have believed us? ” Anassa growls and my face heats in shame.

Of course I wouldn’t have. Not even when I was furious at Killian for hiding his identity from me. I’ve been fighting them both since the moment I started the Trials. If Stark had tried to say something, I probably would’ve stabbed him. And Anassa? That wall would have come crashing down once again.

The awful truth of it all washes over me and for a moment I can’t breathe.

My betrothed, my beloved. A man I let into my heart and into my bed. Whatever his intention was with me, there was certainly nothing noble at play. He broke my heart and then, idiot I am, I forgave him and he did it again, ten thousand times worse.

I did all of this to myself. If I’d never gotten involved with him to begin with, would Saela have been safe? Would my mother still be alive?

My stomach roils and I stagger forward, worried that I’m going to be sick all over the dirty cell floor. Anassa sends a wave of calming energy toward me, which helps the nausea pass.

And once it’s gone, clarity comes.

If I’d never become Bonded, the Sturmfrost Queens would have remained a secret. Maybe for another five hundred years.

So I suppose I have one thing to thank him for.

Stark watches me intently, a violent storm playing across his features. Once, that image would have scared me. Now, it sends a shiver down my spine for wholly different reasons.

He reaches through the bars and grabs my wrist, the contact alighting my blood. “Give me the word and I’ll tear out his throat. All the lives I’ve ever taken were just training for this moment, my queen. Make me your instrument of vengeance. Let my hands act out your every savage, depraved thought. Use me. I’m yours.”

Mine. My psycho asshole. My bloodthirsty killer.

My face feels hot and strange, and I realize from somewhere outside of myself that I’m crying, the tears streaking rivers down my cheeks.

Out of everything, this is the thing that makes me cry?

Maybe I’m going insane after all. I laugh at the thought and brush the tears away in a fast sweep.

“Thank you,” I say through the tightness in my throat. “But this… this is my score to settle, and no one else’s. Besides, I have some questions for our supposed prince, and we need those answered before either one of us can find inventive ways to disembowel him.”

Stark gently lets go of my wrist and I feel the loss of contact keenly. “You need to go to him, then?”

I nod, and take the crown off my head. “I do. He’s done such an impeccable job of pretending to be what I wanted. It’s time to return the favor.”

The crown is heavy in my hands and when I give it back to Stark, it’s like my very blood protests. There’s an instinct in me to snatch it back. But I push past it. “Keep it safe. Find Saela and the other kids. Venna can help you there. I’m going to need you to come meet me with the crown, but I’ll send word through Anassa when it’s time.”

Stark nods, his dark hair falling forward into his eyes. When he finally looks back up at me, there’s an edge of something foreign in his gaze. Concern , I realize with a start. How unusual.

“I’d tell you not to put yourself in danger,” he says, “but I know you better than that.”

I bite my lip, suddenly self-conscious. “You’re worried?”

He scoffs. “Never. You are the danger. Any person who doesn’t see that deserves what’s coming to them.”

Fuck, those stupid tears are back.

For some reason, I believe him without a shadow of a doubt, even though those words are coming from the mouth of a man I once thought was my greatest enemy.