“May I?”

  She dropped her hand into her lap, still holding the collection of fabric atop her shoulder, and nodded.

  Slowly, he peeled the bandage away, and she found herself studying his face instead of her reflection. He was watching intently as the gauze lifted from her skin, until it was a crumpled ball in the basin.

  Jameson’s careful eyes widened.

  Natalia glanced over her shoulder to find that her back was, indeed, a scarred mess. No open or gushing wounds, just a bit of scattered, dried blood among countless red slashes. The length of the raised lines varied, Blake’s strikes had been desperate and uncalculated. She was grateful to find that they had all closed, but when she caught Jameson’s reflection, she could tell he felt differently.

  His brows dipped in anger as he stared at the physical display of hatred across her backside. “I didn’t realize.” His voice was tight, curt.

  “Realize what?” she asked, passively counting the lines.

  His nostrils flared beneath reddening cheeks. “That it was so severe.”

  “It’s much better now,” she assured him quietly, as to not wake Angelica. “I’m not even bleeding anymore. All the wounds have closed.”

  “There’s so many…” Jameson’s chest was heaving. His arms had tightened at his sides, along with the rest of him. He was rigid. She watched as his eyes moved up and down the span of her back in the reflection, never visibly relinquishing aggravation.

  She looked up at him and kicked his knee with her bare toe, calling his focus back to her.

  His head shot between her and the mirror with distaste. “Aren’t you angry?”

  She shrugged, peaking over her shoulder again. “I mean, it’s certainly ugly… but at this rate it will all be gone within a few days.”

  With a finger beneath her chin, he pulled her gaze back to his. He leaned down towards her. “You’re upset that it’s ugly?”

  She dropped the fabric of the shirt and turned her chin from his hand, looking down at her open palms in her lap. The scars on her arms were raised as well, but otherwise invisible to the eye amidst the countless bruises. Her wrist was no longer sore, those bruises had nearly faded from existence—and would likely be gone the following morning. Her back was a hideous tragedy, she knew, but it could have been worse. She reminded herself, she could have been a Human, stuck in a clinic bed for the next month, and likely become trapped within these very scars for the rest of her days. As a Lycan, hers would simply dissolve and become memories, if that. Though she was sure she would never forget this day. “No, not really. I am not upset at all.”

  He sat on his heels to get low, forcing her to look at him as he practically placed his chin in her lap. “How?” Wrinkles formed between his brows in a lack of understanding as his eyes darted back and forth between hers.

  “Why should I be?”

  His mouth dropped. “You were beaten, Natalia…” Natalia. His voice was soft and apologetic and angry, all at once. She bathed in the way her name dripped off his tongue. “In room filled with your own people. He beat you—no, cut you to ribbons—” He gestured to her backside, without revoking his stare. “—in a fight you could have never won. If I were you, I’d be—”

  “You’re wrong.” She looked him square in the eye, emphasizing each syllable.

  He tilted his head—if unintentionally than adorably—as if he didn’t understand.

  “I let him win.”

  He blinked. “Honey, I was there, and let me tell you—”

  “No.” She spoke clearly. “Let me tell you. Blake was losing consciousness. I waited for Guardian Tullsen to call a forfeit. He did not, and he was not going to.” She stared into Jameson’s eyes. “I let him go.”

  Jameson’s lashes fluttered. He looked surprised, as if she’d flabbergasted him with her words. “You showed mercy,” he clarified.

  She nodded.

  He rose, towering over her again, his hard chest close enough for her to smell the remnants of a musky cologne. She tilted her chin away as he braced himself on the lip of the counter, reaching his free hand around her back.

  He slipped his hand beneath the lip of her jersey—his jersey. His fingers delicately traced up her bare back, lingering on each scar as he padded the bumps and lines. He softly traced them, each and every one. Her own eyelids fluttered closed as she basked in the warmth of his body, the heat of his touch. Accidentally, her cheek met the fair skin above his heart. She settled against him and listened to the rhythm of its beating.

  “Why?” His voice was soft.

  She blinked up at him. “Why what?”

  “Why did you show him mercy?” His gaze no longer held anger, nor judgement or disapproval. It was simply a question.

  Her response was just as simple. “I am not my people’s enemy.”

  He drew his hand from her back, absently shaking his head as he cupped her cheek. His hand was warm, his eyes shallow puddles of green that threatened to drown her—and she would sink willingly.

  He brought his lips slowly towards hers, as if he were waiting for her to pull away. When she didn’t, their lips met with anticipation and excitement. She kissed him back, without experience, she was sure he’d notice but didn’t care. She kissed him the way she’d wanted to kiss him when their eyes had locked in the cafeteria, and when they’d hung suspended from the rock wall, and when he’d lifted her into his truck. Snaking her arms up and around his neck, she pulled him closer, allowing his hips between her legs. He was hotter than fire, and she wanted to burn.

  His hand made way down, settling on the small of her back as he pulled her against him. A soreness lingered from the day’s events, but she welcomed it as their bodies pulsed together, like longing magnets. Her heart raced in her chest, the green-winged butterflies flickered to life in her stomach, and the sound of his breath echoed in her ear as the kiss deepened. He released a soft groan, and Natalia shuddered.

  He broke the kiss with a quick exhale, leaning his forehead into hers as his fingers clutched the jersey’s hem. “Sorry,” he exhaled heavily, chest rising and falling in deep breaths as his arm tensed beside her. She glanced down to find his hand still gripping the lip of the counter, his knuckles even whiter than usual.

  She stifled a giggle, shaking her head against his as she smiled. She wasn’t sure why he was apologizing; she certainly was not offended. “That was lovely.” Then, a thought dawned on her. “For me, at least.” She cleared her throat, dropping her arms into her lap. He did not ease his grip on her top, or the counter. She looked into her hands. “That was my first kiss. So, you know… if it was bad, I’m—”

  “Stop,” he said, ferocity in his eyes. He relinquished his grip on her and the counter, bringing his hands up to either side of her neck. His thumbs gently grazed her temples. “Just… stop.”

  He treated her to another deep kiss, this one soft and slow and intentional. His hands never left her neck as they exchanged slow and passionate brushes of lip and tongue. What is happening? Natalia was coming to realize how quickly they were moving… Should we slow down? Her fingers found the belt loops of his trousers, her body wanted more. She wanted to follow him to bed and roll with him between his sheets for the rest of the night… but was that wrong? When he pulled away, she thought she had her answer.

  “Might I take you out?”

  She opened her eyes and stared at him in astonishment, fighting the urge to laugh. Against her will, the corners of her mouth turned up in excitement. She nodded.

  His smile was broad as he leaned in to kiss her again, this time, quickly. “I should take you home.”

  He was right. Her father would be furious with her for staying out so late, but she didn’t care. Anything would have been worth that moment. They lingered for a while, his hips between her knees, his fingers running through her hair against her scalp. Shivers trickled down her spine. Whatever was happening between them, Natalia did not question.

  She let her fingers glide over his long, bumpy arms, turning her head to place a kiss in the center of his palm, before he finally stepped away.

  She dismounted the countertop and followed him out of the washroom. He held his hand out behind his back for her to take, and she did. They descended the stairs slowly, walked out through the front door, and got into his truck. She was in no hurry to leave… but she knew her father would be waiting. She pushed away thoughts of his impending shouts as she squeezed Jameson’s hand, a striking contrast against hers. His skin was practically iridescent beneath the moonlight, where hers fell stealthily into the shadows of nightfall.

  They drove in blissful silence, his hand in hers, their fingers entwined, the whole way to her house.

  Blake

  Isaiah Bane was a large and intimidating man, Blake noted, watching from his bedroom window. The councilman was glaring down at Natalia from their porch across the way, shouting, for the whole block to hear. She’d been escorted home in a black truck just minutes before, and her father was not happy that she’d been out so late. She was never out late.

  What had she been doing?

  “Childish!” her father spat. “Here I am, waiting all night, checking the windows and talking to the neighbors—of course no one had seen you—just for you to arrive in a strange truck with a strange boy, in the middle of the night!”

  Natalia looked even smaller than usual as she stood beneath Councilman Bane, sheathed in rain and shadows. Blake wanted to march across the road, pull her into his arms, and steal her away from her unloving home, this unloving place. His skin pricked with jealousy for the boy she had been off with.

  Natalia looked up at her father and spoke soft words which he could not hear over the downpour, despite his open window.

  “That’s all you have to say for yourself?!” the man shouted incredulously. Every time he spoke, his voice bellowed louder. She dropped her head in resignation. Isaiah jolted his long dark arm through their open front-door and boomed, “Get out of my sight.”

  She hurried in, her bare feet scurrying quickly through the puddles and up the steps, like a dog who’d been reprimanded. Isaiah followed her in with a loud ‘slam’ of the door.

  Blake stilled on his bed beside the window, elbows propped up on the sill as he awaited the familiar glow of light to flicker on through her bedroom blinds. When it did, his heart skipped a beat.

  Her blinds were drawn open. She paced across her bedroom in a flimsy black jersey that was far too large on her, its hem bounced loosely around her thighs as she bit her nails. He could see the reflection of a floor-length mirror propped across from the window; it was as if he were watching two of her, walking around in circles, through the sheet of falling rain.

  She stepped towards the mirror. He could not see the details of her face in the reflection, but he’d memorized long before. He could clearly see the mass of her dark hair, a bit tangled in the back, and he knew that it framed the circumference of her small face, her bangs surely mingling with the hair of her eyebrows. Her rich, amber eyes had blinked rapidly as her bangs had grown too-long, tangling with her long lashes in the most adorable way. He’d watched her trim them herself in that very mirror countless times before.

  She began to lift her top. He’d be ashamed to admit that he’d watched her disrobe before, but he could never bring himself to look away. She did not consider whether the light was on or the blinds drawn or the window open—she changed shamelessly, as if she knew he was watching.

  Sometimes, he wondered if she did.

  She pulled the back of her jersey up to expose her backside before turning to examine it in the mirror. Even with his Sight, he could not clearly see the scars through the falling rain—but he knew they were there. They were long and wide and probably red, and would most likely take days to heal completely. They had been deep, blood oozed from them as she’d laid beneath him earlier that day, and again when Jameson lifted her from the floor. The guilt settled atop his shoulders heavily as he wished he could rewrite the past. If someone else had volunteered to fight, then he could have been the one carrying her off to safety…

  But he wouldn’t have. To associate with her would surely bring shame onto his own family, and his mother could not afford another scandal.

  So, he watched her. Sometimes from afar, through the rain and darkness in the middle of the night, and sometimes from up close, sitting beside her in class or battling her in a duel. All of it, against her will; none of it was her choice. She had no choices to make. Until she was Claimed, she lived only to represent and carry her family name.

  Blake was grateful to be a male Lycan.

  When she left his line of sight, her lamp remained lit. He waited for what seemed like hours. The rain had all-but ceased when she finally returned. She was wrapped in a towel, her hair no longer wet from the previous rainfall, but from the shower she’d just stepped out of. He felt his cheeks flushing as she paced back and forth across the room. She always looked tan, of course, with skin the color of burnt caramel… but when she wore white, her skin positively glowed, as if she’d absorbed the very light from the sun. A fitting comparison, he noted with a smile to himself, as it was not the sun which lit his days… but her.

  She dropped her towel, and his heartbeat quickened further. She dressed at her leisure, pulling a pair of sleep trousers on over the taught skin of her thighs, followed by a sleep tunic, a silky-looking thing with buttons up the front. She buttoned only two in the middle, before hurrying over to the lamp beside the mirror. She dowsed the flame, and he was alone again. He dropped to his bed, images of her flooding his mind’s eye.

  He’d been Called to her, of course. On his eighteenth birthdate, he’d laid eyes on her as she strode past Professor Prival, and was immediately a changed man. She’d sat behind him, per usual, but her very scent had triggered him. She smelled of strawberries, always, but especially on that day. He nearly ran from the room, afraid he would not be able to withstand her proximity, but he feared the distance which would separate them.

  With time, it became easier. He learned to enjoy their shared spaces, learned when was appropriate to utilize her distance, but never overstepped the predetermined boundaries. She was painfully unaware, though he thought it best that way. He could imagine a different life, a life with Natalia, in a different territory. Perhaps overseas, even. The Renaih Pursuit ventured out to sea each day, in search of new and unclaimed land, and there were other Kingdoms across the sea as well. He could find a way—become a marine, join the Pursuit, and take Natalia to a new place. A place that might not facilitate judgement and shunning and abuse.

  Alas, it was only a fantasy. A result of his overactive imagination. A pipedream, at best. Even if he Claimed her at the Ceremony, declared her as his mate, she would not have him. Not without a fight, at least, and his parents would not outlive the shame. He closed his eyes and replayed the good memories. Her hand on his abdomen the day the Achromans arrived. The way she’d stared up at him with eyes of blue-speckled honey. The way her body had felt against his during their duel, even as he began to lose consciousness. Memories she’d certainly loathed—if she even thought of them—but he cherished, nonetheless.

  Chapter fourteen

  Natalia

  Natalia found herself rising in a much better mood. On her arrival home the night before, her father had yelled at her, but it could not have dulled her elation. Thoughts of Jameson had kept her awake most of the night, and her excitement to see him again did not bode well for her sleep regimen. When she finally did fall to sleep, she did not dream. Despite everything that had transpired, she felt optimistic.

  She happily jumped out of bed and got ready for the day, washing up quickly, combing her hair, even applying a layer of strawberry lip oil. When she picked out her outfit, she reached for a pair of fitted black trousers and a blush-pink sleeveless jersey, to match her flimsy sandals. Doing a double take in her floor-length mirror, she noted that the scars on her back were even less noticeable than the night before, and the bruises on her arms—while still very noticeable—were already dulling. For the first time in a long time, she felt pleasant.

  As she reached her bedroom door, she paused, turning to take in her messy bedroom. With a bit of time to spare, she went around her room, scooping the laundry from her floor by the arm full. She filled the bin, made the bed, and collected the empty drinking glasses from the nightstand, before regarding her space once again. The carpet definitely needed washing, but overall, she was satisfied with her quick work. She made a mental note to start packing after lessons.

  Natalia jumped at a loud honking sound. She rushed to the bedroom window, pressing her palms into the sill as she peered down. A familiar black truck was stalled in the road. The headlights shone through the drizzling rain as heat lightening shot across the grey sky above.

  She hurried anxiously down the stairs and towards the front door, just to be stopped by her father.

  “Off to lessons?” he muttered from behind his newspaper, sitting beside the bay window.

  She stared at her hand wrapped around the doorknob. “Mhmm.”

  “Let us not repeat our indiscretions of last night.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  She shuffled out the door, closing it quickly behind her before hurrying down the porch steps. Rain met her shoulders like mist caught in the wind. She crossed the lawn quickly and reached for the handle of Jameson’s truck, forgetting just how heavy it was. She pulled it open with both hands. Inside, Jameson’s eyes were shielded by a pair of black sunglasses, the corner of his mouth turned up at the side as she climbed in.

  “Good morning,” he said coolly as she pulled the door closed.

  “Morning,” She smiled in his direction. “I didn’t know you’d be… uh, collecting me.”

  “Can’t have my favorite little Lycan walking the roads by herself.” He chuckled as he pulled the vehicle onto the street.

  “What about Angelica?”

  “Lorretta collected her,” he laughed, adding a bit of emphasis on Natalia’s previous phrasing. “She’s lodging in a guest house down the way from us.”