Page 36

Xander

IN ORDER TO keep my wolf in check and allow Billie to strengthen her ability to endure this... this soul-crippling pain, I had to move away and not look at her. He’s furious that she won’t let us help her, help Little Fox. He doesn’t understand why she thinks she needs to suffer, let alone why she would ever need to use this power when she has us. I’ve learned it’s best not to try to reason with him when he’s in this state being the worried, overprotective mate. I merely stay silent and focus on breathing in and out through my nose with my eyes on the horizon. If I remain calm, it will help keep him calm.

When Alessandro came to us after leaving her out on the field, I reconnected to my bond with her. What I had felt earlier, her drowning under a pool of oily anguish, had been hard enough. But then she used her anger like a lit match, torching all that greasy sorrow and transforming it into volcanic rage. The heat of it hit me so hard, I had to take a step back. My chest constricted with the new understanding of what that level of emotional rage would mean for her physically. Without a thought, I started running toward her, before she even brought her hands together, willing to deal with the potential impact of her power, only to reach her and have her refuse my help.

Practically, I understand her decision, the purpose. Especially after Assad explained her reasoning. I’m proud of how strong my mate is. But I can feel her pain, and I have the ability to heal her, to take it away. To not do so? It hurts. It physically hurts. Resisting the need—because it’s not a want, it’s a need—to heal her has me standing here, sweating with the effort of restraining myself and my wolf. My stomach is churning, my head is pounding, and my muscles are taut with tension. All I can do is keep my breath steady, and gaze at the horizon while waiting for some signal that I can do what I need to do.

When I hear Ethan ask if she’s sat with the pain long enough, my breathing falters in anticipation. I don’t look back, afraid if I do, I won’t be able to stop myself. Then a light breeze of her power drifts over to me, a soft request, and I turn around.

Her calm eyes meet mine as if she was staring into them all along. For one weighted moment, all we do is stare, and then she opens up—opens up to me and thereby to herself. She removes the stopper on the agony searing through her body. It spills into her awareness, and her calm face crumples. Her lower lip trembles, and she drily begs, “Please, please help me, Alexander.”

My heart seizes, and my wolf yowls out in both anguish and relief. I rush to her and Ethan. He releases his hold, and she steps toward me, her arms raised with her blistered palms up. Squatting down, I band my arms around the back of her legs, and she hooks her elbows over my shoulders. Swooping her up into my chest, her legs lock around my waist, and I murmur, “I’ve got you, Wilhelmina. I’ve got you.” And the assurance, in my words and of being in my arms, breaks her free from the front she was putting on. Her body convulses with her gasping, choking whimpers, and she smushes her mouth into the crook of my neck, her teeth biting down on my flesh, using me to muffle the sounds of her cries, sharing her pain with me.

My pace quickens. The crunching of grass and gravel under my swift feet is strengthened by the hurried steps of everyone else trying to keep up. Jax sprints ahead and opens the patio door. Taking a quick glance over my shoulder, I notice Asher and Naomi flicking worried gazes between us and then shooting wide eyes back at the debris, what’s left from her use of power.

Her body is so hot, so wet, that my hands readjust to hold my forearms, her insulated yoga pants slick and damp. My eyes sting with the sweat dripping from my wet bangs plastered to my forehead. Her chest is absolutely on fire, and her saliva is scalding my neck. Her mouth releases my flesh to swallow down another gulp of air, only to find a new area to bite down. I don’t know if it’s because her teeth are in my flesh or because she’s so overwhelmed by the pain of her injuries. Whatever the cause, I feel her injuries far more acutely: the throbbing pulses of searing flesh that is her hands and how the cool air feels like acid being poured into open wounds.

“Almost there, mate,” I groan, speed walking to the kitchen where Jax has cleared a space for us. I slide her onto the cool quartz countertop of the island, and she whimpers before reluctantly pulling her teeth from my flesh. Warm blood from several of her bites trickle down my back, and a small smile breaks over my face, liking how she gave me her pain, sharing it with me in such an honest way.

“Here,” Jax says, offering me a pair of scissors. Her legs have loosened their hold, her ankles sliding down to the back of my thighs, and her elbows have released my shoulders. Taking the scissors, I lean away from her, and she drops her chin to her chest, her shoulders round, and she rests her hands, palms up, on her legs.

Seeing the state of her hands, her fingertips—her blackened, peeling-red-raw, no-skin-left fingertips—I snap my mouth shut and swallow down the scream erupting from my chest. And I swallow. I swallow. I swallow. And I’m pretty sure those are lyrics to a Faith No More song, a band I’d never have heard of if not for her. The tangential thought has a cackling snicker fighting its way up my throat and slipping through my pursed lips.

Jax’s surprised gaze flies up from Billie’s melted flesh to me. “Sorry.” I huff out another ridiculous cackle and shove the scissors at him. He fumbles for them and pulls his head back like he needs a better view of me, his alpha. “Just her, she’s rubbing off on me... lyrics.” I puff out another snicker and leave that cryptic statement cryptic, bringing my attention to her hands. As gently as possible, I slip my fingers under one of her mutilated hands, and my wolf immediately starts sending cooling healing energy into my palms. It oozes out of my fingers like a milkshake and covers the back of her hand, slithering down and around her wrist and up her forearm.

Billie hisses a moan, feeling the achy chill of the healing energy. “Breathe, mate,” I say gently, repeating the process on her other arm. Then, holding the back of her wrist in one hand, I place the fingertip of my index finger on her blistered palm. “Breathe through it. It will feel better soon,” I assure her before releasing a large drop of energy into the center of her palm. It sizzles on impact.

“Breathe,” she growls before taking an overdramatic inhale full of painful, pissy attitude. On the exhale, most of that attitude is expelled.

Needing to see the energy through my wolf’s eyes, I bend over, bringing my face closer to her palm. I slowly draw my finger up, pulling on it, and I see the twisted rope of glowing blue energy tethered from my finger to the pool in the center of her palm. My wolf begins to vigorously shake out his coat, spraying flecks of snow about as he does, sending shivers skittering across the back of my shoulders. Rolling my tongue I slowly exhale a long breath of cold air into the space between my finger and her palm. The twisted rope of energy flutters, and begins to untwine. One wispy thread at a time floats down over her palm like strips of cool satin. When they land, they melt and spread out until her entire palm is coated. I keep with the process until I see thick blue caps encasing each of her fingertips. With a flick of my wrist, I break the last few strands, and they spiral down to join the rest.

“Keep it resting palm up,” I instruct, moving onto her other hand and doing the same thing. Her hisses have turned to moans, and her breathing evens out.

I’m about to inspect her forearms to see how the first wraps of energy have been working, when my wolf yips. Yips for me to pay attention, to remember the process, and to assess with more than my eyes.

Unzipping her jacket, I place a hand over her chest and curse under my breath. “Scissors,” I demand with an open palm. Jax doesn’t say anything, too distraught for his standard snide remarks and witty repartee. He just hands them to me, eyes on our mate’s hands. I cut open the front of her green hoodie, and the two layers underneath.

She intakes a shocked breath, likely because her hoodie was just cut, but I ignore her and command, “Sit up straight, Wilhelmina.” She grumbles her disapproval at having to move from her slumped-over position but does as I’ve asked. Her skin is red like a sunburn, and large liquid-filled blisters have formed on the center of her chest, some of them having already popped, leaking the clear fluid over her raw flesh. I shake my head in agitation and disbelief, while Jax rakes his fingers through his hair, pulling at the ends, and muttering something about “stupid royal powers.”

“Is this expected?” Ethan asks, pointing at her chest and opening up the space next to me, his eyes on the person who was standing directly behind us. Keeping my focus on what I’m doing, I place one palm over the worst of the bubbled skin covering her chest, and then I slip my other hand under her loose clothing to position it on her back, feeling more, though smaller, unbroken blisters. My palms sweat from the heat continuing to ripple off her.

“ Si ,” Alessandro cautiously replies. “With royal offensive powers, there’s a...” He pauses, and I return my focus to my wolf, who has already entered Little Fox’s area and is sniffing around, seeking her out. We find her panting, lying on her side in a pool of water with a greenish hue to it, on the floor of the new Royal Grotto we’ve yet to inspect, a little bit away from the captain’s chair. Billie sucks in a breath through her teeth.

“A balancing of sorts,” Alessandro finishes.

“Shh, it’s okay, Little Fox,” I murmur while my wolf comes down behind her, curling himself around her tiny form, licking and rubbing her ears, scruff, and snout. Once again, cool energy pours down my arms and into my hands, and my wolf tugs on it, pulling it around them like a blanket. Wilhelmina releases a breathy moan, and her head flops forward to rest on my shoulder while the skin under my hands cools, and the bumps smooth away.

I can tell her fox is feeling better when she begins to nuzzle and lick my wolf, scooting her hips back into him and rocking side to side. Wilhelmina giggles against my arm, and I’m grinning as I bend over to kiss the side of her head. Our shifters sigh, and I remove my hands from her flesh.

“So this will always happen?” Ethan probes, cocking a brow at Alessandro.

“It’s relative to the amount of shifter energy and the emotions she uses to transform it,” Alessandro explains, crossing one arm over his chest, the other hand cupping his chin. “They didn’t use too much shifter energy; the width and length of the ropes were minimal. Especially”—he half turns and throws an arm in the direction of the darkening backyard— “given the results, I wouldn’t have expected that level of ruin.” His lips pull down. “It was, I think, the emotion.”

Wilhelmina, her head still resting on my shoulder, mumbles something, and I cup my hands below her ears and just under her jaw, slowly raising her head up. Her skin is, thankfully, no longer hot, and the sweat is drying to a tacky consistency. “What was that, Wilhelmina?” I query, rubbing the spot in front of her ears with my thumbs, which are tingling with healing energy as they glide over her cheeks, filling in what looks like small cracks.

“Too much emotion,” she rasps, then coughs.

A tap on my shoulder has me turning around to find Asher standing next to me with a bottle of water in hand. Concern pulls at the corners of his hazel eyes, and he unscrews the cap. “Here, she’s probably thirsty,” he says lifting his smooth, chiseled chin to our mate while handing the bottle of water to Jax, who was already reaching for it.

“Thanks,” Jax says. I guide Billie’s head back, and he slowly pours some into her mouth. Glancing down, I notice her palms are still glowing blue, still healing, and my jaw tightens. Little Fox has recovered, her other injuries have healed, even the ones I didn’t directly touch—but what is taking her hands so long?

Small little coughs sputter from her mouth, and I look up in time to see Jax pulling the water bottle away, while she continues to cough, spraying water on my chin and the front of my jacket. I arch a brow at Jax. He just shrugs, while Wilhelmina wetly mutters, “Oops.” With a curve to her lips and a gleam in her eyes, she saucily adds, “Got you all wet, didn’t I?”

My lips curl up on one side. “I’ll be sure to return the favor, mate.”

“Got me too,” Jax says, hastily splashing a little water on his face, and then he adds, “Got Ethan as well.” Ethan’s brows furrow in confusion until Jax flicks some water at him. Ethan’s face remains blank, water drips off his nose, and his only reaction is a flash of light in his dark eyes. Jax exhales a mockingly reluctant sigh. “Seems you’ll be due for some payback, playmate.”

If she wasn’t so exhausted and still healing (why hasn’t it finished, yet?), I’m sure her face would’ve flushed, but all she does is snap her mouth shut and squeak, “Right.” Then she returns her focus to Alessandro. “Based on these two trials, I think both the amount of shifter energy, the particular emotion and the intensity of said emotion used will factor into how it’s balanced. The emotions seem to have more of a physical pain or corresponding injury, while using the shifter power just zaps me out. With the whip, it was fear and anxiety, so it felt like frostbite. With the tail slam, it was anger. So hot blisters, I just...” She blows out a breath. “I just lost control of the anger. Got caught up in it like a pyromaniac at a bonfire, wanting to see it grow and keep burning.”

“Could she use a different emotion?” Ethan ponders while subtly wiping the water from his nose. “Does it have to be negative, or is it the intensity of the emotion that matters?”

Alessandro bobs his head several times, considering Ethan’s question, and scratches behind his ear. “As far as I know, for offensive powers, you want those intense emotions, the ones that would hurt.” He waves his hand through the air and raises his brows. “I’m uncertain of what using emotions like happiness or lust would do to the energy, how it would be expressed, or what the corresponding balance would be.” He shrugs a shoulder. “We could try different ones, see what happens.”

They’re not trying lust anytime soon, I can tell you that much. I kept myself in check earlier, but if he thinks I failed to notice how he’s not stopped touching her or kissing her fingers and head, he’s delusional.

“Perhaps for now it’s best to work with the ones that we know will result in the outcome we’re expecting,” Heydar suggests in a deep rumble of a voice from behind us. I turn to him but only get so far, Billie’s ankles still keeping me in place. I arch a brow at her. She arches one right back and adds a chin lift. I dip my chin and place my hand high up on her thigh above where her palms are resting—and still fucking healing.

Heydar, leaning against the back of the love seat with legs out long and ankles crossed, scrubs his knuckles through his thick beard while his eyes slide over us. “Just for now, with everything that is going on, how much is already on la duchessa ’s calendar, and the reality she may have to use these powers in the near future, better to go with what works and learn to fine-tune and control them than spending time experimenting. That can be evaluated later.”

Naomi raises her hand, and Billie chuckles. “Not in class, dude. Just speak freely.”

Rose tints Naomi’s freckled cheeks, and a crease forms between her sculpted dark brows. “Right, sorry. Just, um,”—her index finger spins one of her nose rings— “thought that whatever you learn in controlling the emotions you’ve already used should be applicable when you do experiment, possibly making the implementation of new emotions go smoother and faster.”

“That’s a fair assessment,” Ethan agrees with a stiff nod.

“Thank you, Beta Emerson,” Naomi curtly replies, and that rose color deepens, making her freckles blush magenta. Yeah, any recognition of your mere existence by Ethan in the pack would startle just about any member, let alone him speaking to and affirming your judgment.

Asher slings a long arm around Naomi’s narrow shoulders and smiles a blinding smile. “Ah, she’s always been so smart, my Omi, she has.” She rolls her eyes, but the corners of her mouth curve up all the same. “Do you want us to help clean up outside?” Asher asks, throwing a thumb in the direction of the backyard.

“Yeah, why don’t we save what we can?” Jax suggests. “I’ll get the buckets for the rock salt and gravel. I’m sure they’ll be used this winter.”

“And we have a conference call with Councilman Swanson in about ninety minutes,” Ethan states, looking at the shared pack-mate calendar on his phone. He lifts his gaze to me and raises a brow in question.

I send the questioning gaze to Billie, and she sends it to me and Alessandro. He raises a palm “They’re your gentry, bonded to you. They need to know the threats, both for your safety and theirs.”

“Plus I have a feeling some of this will be pack related,” I hedge, thinking of what Councilman Swanson alluded to in his last email regarding Clyde and Randall. “It might be good to have some pack members here to give their opinions—pack members who have been more involved than us over the last couple of years.”

I look at the two young wolves, the two wolves who, when they showed up on our doorstep today, I had to do a triple take, just so thrown off by her choices, purely based on their initial appearances and age, proving that snap judgments are rarely accurate. It wasn’t that I couldn’t see Wilhelmina becoming friendly with them, especially Naomi with her punk-inspired, safety-pinned, and patched-up black motorcycle jacket, scuffed-up combat boots, and ripped black skinny jeans. Her thick black eyeliner, dark-purple lipstick, facial piercings, and coiled-up mohawk make her tall, willowy frame seem intimidating, while Asher reminds me of a more flamboyant, younger Ken Kubrick: designer clothes, gelled quaff that must be dyed (his hair’s goes from dark brown to light blond from roots to tips), and a blinding smile. But with Asher, it’s the ever-present smile, his ability to seem at ease in any situation, that would draw her to him. Still, based on how Alessandro explained the role of gentry, I expected them to appear more like fighters—seasoned ones at that.

As we all talked, I began to understand what Little Fox saw in them. Naomi is a genius, and her tough childhood hasn’t broken her. She’s got a fighter’s spirit. Asher may not be a book genius, but he’s a social virtuoso, naturally able to adapt and connect with others in any social situation while still valuing loyalty, which he has for Naomi.

After introductions, Alessandro and Wilhelmina left so my wolf and I could connect with each of them individually. According to the records, Asher’s family has applied to the Southeast Pack and are awaiting acceptance. When I connected to their wolves two weeks ago as part of the metaphorical bum sniff, I sensed no malice from his parents or younger sister, and they were not part of the uprising over the weekend. Asher had been on my list of those I had yet tested—a weak case of being unavailable, scheduling conflicts in his social calendar. Naomi and her father were also on the list, her records showing that her mother died in childbirth. Her father was one of the more vocal wolves in his negative opinions on my mate and allowing non-wolf-shifters into our pack. He was also known for his affinity for the liquor and having a mean streak when on a bender. Surprisingly Officer Sutherland is his second cousin on his mother’s side, proving that blood relations don’t always dictate character either. Her father, who is now dead, having died alongside ten other wolves and fed to the fire the night of the uprising, has left Naomi an orphan like Billie and Ethan.

When my wolf connected with both Naomi and Asher, any doubts as to their true nature and their abilities to help protect and support my mate vanished. They’re both curious, loyal, and self-assured enough to be who they are, even when beaten down, even when bullied or not understood. And their wolves? They’re loyal, intelligent, playful, hopeful fighters—and powerful. So powerful I’m surprised my father didn’t get his paws into them as energy sources. But I could sense their wolves’ abilities to read others, Asher’s in particular, which is one of the reasons I believe he and Naomi are so close. They’ve been purposefully flying under the radar, Naomi by being reclusive and standoffish, while Asher used his gregarious flighty persona to hide his talents, insights, and intelligence.

Cocking a brow, I say more than ask, “Are you able to stay for a few more hours? We’ll have dinner. Let us know of any dietary restrictions.”

“We’re here for however long you need us, Alpha,” Naomi replies and slides her gaze to Wilhelmina, her brown eyes sparkling when she does. “Duchessa.”

“Yes, this is where we want to be,” Asher affirms.

Wilhelmina smiles and gives a weak thumbs up “Awesome.” A little tightness eases in my chest, seeing her move her thumb and partially curl her fingers.

Jax strolls over to Asher and claps a hand on his shoulder, chiming, “Great, let’s find you a not-so-nice coat and clean up the yard before it gets too dark.”

“Thank you, Beta Jaxson,” Asher says, removing his long woolen trench coat. “I’ll make sure to pack a variety of outfits in the future.” He places his hands on his trim hips and looks to the ceiling, sighing. “I do have one that would have fit yard work perfectly.”

“Why am I not surprised to hear that?” Jax teasingly questions while throwing the young wolf a wink.