Chapter Twelve

“How’d your talk with Sierra go?” Wyatt asks me in a teasing voice, swirling amber liquor in a tumbler.

We’re enjoying a nightcap in his room, sitting in front of a crackling fireplace. After seeing Sierra and Leisel off, I decided to join him for a drink—clearly a strategic error on my part, since he’s taking the opportunity to rib me.

“As well as expected. She didn’t like it when I informed her she’d be joining us when we return to Kinrith tomorrow.” An understatement, considering how the time ended. “How’d trying not to scare her sister in Sierra’s absence go?”

Wyatt’s amused expression sours instantaneously. I don’t revel in the change—probably because I understand the discomfort that comes with being rejected by one’s mate. Fortunately, my brother does have it easier, since Leisel’s so young; his regard for her is currently brotherly and pure. It’ll change to romantic only once she’s of a mature age. So, he’s not a sexual mess like I am.

“She stared at her fucking pet the entire time, pretending no one else was in the room. I never thought a wolf could be jealous of a goddamn chipmunk. Clearly, Sierra’s only fed Leisel negative information about us. Lies, probably.”

My expression hardens. His words are an offhanded insult of sorts to my mate, which is unacceptable to me. My wolf doesn’t like it either and directs a snarl at Wyatt. I might take issue with the views of my mate, but I won’t allow others to disrespect her.

“Tread carefully,” I tell him quietly. “Sierra is to be your queen. Humans often villainize mythics—they have no reason to see us as anything but monsters.”

That fact has never bothered me until now because humans were frankly beneath my notice. Now that I have a mate who, though not entirely human, grew up among them, I’m being lent an unpleasant new perspective.

My father was merely a boy when my grandfather first invaded this realm. Grandfather didn’t actively kill any humans himself, but in the absence of the technology they so heavily relied on, humans started dropping like flies. It really was a case of survival of the fittest—the strong bloodlines prevailed, the weak fell.

I don’t entirely agree with his decision, but I can understand it. He’d been disgusted by just how much of this world had been destroyed by its inhabitants—repulsed by how much greed had impacted this realm. To him, the logical solution was to allow the weak and greedy to die out. There were a few groups of individuals who actively hunted humans, mostly rogues, but for the most part, natural selection took its course.

Even if I did wish to change his actions, I can’t. What’s done is done, and my penance for not making changes during my rule is experiencing my mate’s anger.

It took me off-guard, however, that Sierra was so angry she actually tried to kill me. There’s no other explanation for using such a destructive power against me. I can see that worry over her sister pushed her to act rashly and even sympathize with the sentiment. If anyone threatened Wyatt’s life, they’d be dead before they could second-guess doing so.

As unfortunate as it might be, I was left with little choice but to punish her in a way that will serve as a hard deterrent from her ever trying such a thing again. While shifters are animalistic when it comes to sex, especially with mates—biting, scratching, leaving marks for all to see—a belt wasn’t fun and games. Although I believe it worked, and Sierra won’t try such a thing again, it certainly didn’t help change her view of me. Instead, she now has more reason than ever to view me as the villain.

Fuck.

I gulp down the whiskey in my cup and run a hand through my hair, wondering if I’ll experience the harmony of matehood. Perhaps Claude was right; I should’ve waited for the gods to put her in my path, though I don’t see how that would’ve changed any outcome. Whether our meeting was by accident or construct, she’d have despised me.

Wyatt watches me before quietly conceding, “You’re right. I guess it’s our job to shift our mates’ views from openly hostile to something better.”

“Indeed,” I respond gruffly. “How are preparations for our newest members going?”

Wyatt snorts. “Speedily. Everyone in the castle is working around the clock. By the time we arrive, everything for the Queen and Princess will be ready. Are we riding all the way to Kinrith in one day, or will we make camp somewhere overnight?”

“We’ll make camp. Sierra and Leisel don’t have our strength or stamina; traveling will tire them. Have lady’s maids been assigned?”

Wyatt nods. “Yes. Greta will be Leisel’s—she does well with young ones. Cara will be Sierra’s.”

“Where are their rooms located?”

“The two attached rooms in the East Wing. Both wardrobes are already being assembled and will be prepared by the time we arrive.”

I nod in satisfaction. Then, recalling what Aspen told me about Sierra’s painting hobby I say, “Get a painter’s studio set up in the castle. Have it filled with any and everything an artist would need.”

“It’ll be done,” Wyatt responds easily. “You think that’ll earn you points with your mate?”

Recalling the hatred-filled glare Sierra gave me before leaving, I grimace. “No time soon. But hopefully it’ll afford her some comfort while she adjusts.”

***

The following morning, Sierra pulls the door to her small cabin open before I have the chance to knock, clearly having expected me.

She’s dressed in similar clothing to what she wore last night—extremely worn-down shirt and pants, both articles looking like they might fall apart any minute. Somehow, Sierra manages to make the tattered clothes look sinful, her curves filling them out beautifully. Still, I look forward to seeing her in more expensive clothing—materials I expect will hug her body as if they were made for her. In many cases, they will be.

With her expression set in a look of disgust, one I’m starting to get accustomed to, she gives me a once-over. She glances behind me and sees a group of my pack mates gathered on the horses we’ll be using to travel. Wyatt stands by two mares that I intend to offer to Sierra and Leisel for the journey.

“Good morning,” I say to my lovely, pissed-off-looking mate. “Did you rest well?”

“Yes,” she clips.

It’s obviously a lie—there are dark circles under her eyes that indicate she hasn’t slept in several nights. Now that I think about it, it’s a solid possibility that she hasn’t slept since meeting me—probably wanting to stay alert to protect herself and Leisel.

My wolf, who pestered me to seek out Sierra from the moment we parted, lays down with a whine, upset that we’ve caused our mate distress.

He was in complete agreement with me last night on punishing Sierra, furious that she struck out at us with lethal intent. He wasn’t, however, happy to see her go—wanted to soothe her, at the very least, before parting ways.

Unfortunately, I don’t see my presence being soothing to my mate any time soon. The dilemma between knowing that Sierra will need her space and wanting to constantly have her around me will certainly play on my self-control. Self-control that has been trained into me from a young age and has never faltered—until I met my mate.

“I need to saddle and prepare our horses,” Sierra tells me. “It’ll take twenty minutes.”

She calls over her shoulder, “Leisel, it’s time to go, sweet girl.”

Within moments Leisel appears at Sierra’s side and stares right into my eyes with an anger that belies her small size. I’m mildly surprised that she’s able to hold eye-contact with me, but I shouldn’t be. Whatever bloodline these sisters come from, it’s remarkably powerful. If they were shifters, they’d both undoubtedly be dominant enough to be Alphas.

“I have horses you’re welcome to ride,” I offer.

Sierra wrinkles her nose at the thought. “No, thank you, we’ll take ours. I assume there’ll be a place for them in whatever stable you use at Kinrith?”

I incline my head. “The Alphas stable is on the same land as my home, a fifteen-minute walk from the house. The stable hands are all very good at what they do—your horses will be well taken care of.”

My mate snorts. “Nobody touches our horses but Leisel or me. I was there through their births, when they were broken in, and have been taking care of them singlehandedly for a decade.” She pauses, looking surprised at how much she’s divulged. The bond’s coercing her into revealing more about herself which satisfies me, though I doubt it brings her the same satisfaction.

“I want to know more about that,” I tell her.

She gives me a look of such contempt it almost makes me wince, bringing a growl of displeasure from my wolf.

“I bet you would,” she says, and walks away, hand in hand with Leisel.

I lean against the wooden logs making up the exterior of the cabin, watching as the sisters traverse through a field of crops, and go right into a small, red-painted stable. Then, once they’re out of sight, I wander into the house.

My objective is simple; learn more about my mate. The more I know her, the more I’ll know what to do to get in her good graces.

I glance around the main area, marveling at the cleanliness of the space. My eyes flit briefly over the row of books stacked strategically in each corner of the room, as well as a collection on top of the fireplace mantle. On a worn sofa are two small bags that I have no doubt carry Sierra and Leisel’s meager belongings. On the kitchen counter, I see a note lying on top of a white letter titled Deeds to the Land and Cabin.

I glance over the note with interest.

Mariketa,

I thank you, from the bottom of my heart, for the many ways you have helped Leisel and I over the years. I can’t describe how fundamental your teachings were when Leisel was an infant, or how much it meant to know I had someone to turn to.

It’s with my deepest regret that I must leave Aesara, on orders from Camden Kent. He found a technicality that puts Leisel under his pack’s reign, and where she goes, I go.

I’ve signed over the deed to this land to you and Parker. The cabin, fields, and stables are yours to do with as you please—whether that be to use the land or sell it.

I’ll never forget the days you spent here, teaching me to care for Leisel when she was born. I’ll never forget your generosity or kindness during the most difficult times in my life. I’ll forever treasure everything you taught me.

I hope I can use any influence I gain to return resources to humans—especially considering they were ours to begin with. I envision myself walking through Aesara one day, not greeted by poverty and difficulty, but instead by a booming, progressive town filled with opportunity.

Please give Wesley a hug for me and thank him for all the time he’s spent with Leisel. She adores him and will miss him dearly, as will I.

With my deepest appreciation,

Sierra West.

I set down the letter, wishing there was more information and more specifics on Sierra’s life. It’s obvious she faced difficulty from a very young age, difficulty that grew as she did. She’s learned to be so independent that I’m not sure she knows how to let someone else care for her, which will be another hurdle in our relationship. Those seem to be piling up.

I peek into the two bedrooms, not finding much of interest, but am frozen in astonishment when I step into the last room at the back of the cabin.

It’s covered in paintings—beautiful masterful paintings that depict everything from landscapes to nature to inanimate objects. On an easel in the center of the room is a stunning painting of a luminous moon hanging over an intricately detailed forest. The midnight sky is covered in stars so picturesque they might as well be diamonds, and the forest is remarkably realistic and intricately detailed, looking like it’s straight out of a fairytale.

I’m not much of an art-lover—I respect people who create art but rarely have time to appreciate it. This painting, however, is so vivid and encompassing that it demands my attention.

“What are you doing in here?” Sierra’s voice snaps from behind me. I spin around, knowing that I’ve been caught, but not ashamed of that whatsoever.

Sierra stands in the doorway, her face red with indignation, arms crossed over her chest. I see movement from behind her, and guess that Leisel’s in the cabin, likely gathering last-minute items.

“Admiring your work,” I respond honestly, glancing back at the painting again. “You’re remarkably talented.”

“My work isn’t yours to admire,” she says through gritted teeth. “You have no right to be in here.”

It’s clear to see I struck a sore spot by invading her painting room—likely because artists often feel sentimental about their creations. The painter my family commissions for royal portraits tends to go off on prolonged rants if we move or even breathe too much during sittings.

“I have every right to be in here,” I respond calmly. “We’re mates. What’s yours is mine, and vice-versa.”

Her golden eyes blaze with anger. “Get. Out.”

Knowing I’ve pushed as far as I can for the moment, I stride past her. “We’re ready to leave when you are. The journey is long, and I’d like to make camp before sundown.”

With that, I leave the cabin, letting out a sigh of frustration, knowing that tearing down Sierra’s fury at my mere existence will be no easy task.