7. The Most Important Weapon

7

The Most Important Weapon

FLOR

M y cheeks burned as the laughter grew louder. Some of it was genuine, but I recognized the hard edge in it. There were at least two hundred shifters close enough for me to hear them, and more than a few were mocking me.

"If you kiss the Protector, you get good luck?" Brand was suddenly beside me, glaring around the grounds as if daring anyone to speak. He roared his next words. "If I hear any male repeat that, I will remove his spleen with my teeth."

The shifters nearby stifled their laughter quickly, but one or two of the males were still smiling in a suggestive way that indicated I'd need to squash that rumor, fast.

Or keep a steak knife at my waist to teach them better. I set my hand on top of it now.

"Thanks, Bearman," I called, sending him a wink. His sun-bronzed skin went a deeper hue above his short beard.

"They should show more respect." I couldn't help my grin at his fierce declaration.

But then the atmosphere shifted in the training yard.The males who had been smirking snapped to attention as an older man approached from the far corner of the yard. He was a huge shifter with camouflage-speckled pants and a faded black t-shirt that looked like it was about to start unraveling at the seams. He had to be sixty, but he stalked rather than walked. He was confident and calm, and the other shifters all bowed their heads as he passed.

"Who is that?" I whispered to Margarette, trying not to gawk. He wasn't as tall as Brand, but he was wide—all of it muscle—and dominance rolled off him like a wave."How is he not Alpha?" I breathed, then bit my lip, hoping I hadn't just insulted her husband.

"Possibly because he never found a mate," Margarette answered softly. "He's a dedicated fighter, and an incredible teacher. Our pack is lucky to have him."

"You," the man barked out as he got closer. He had shaved, light gray hair, and strange markings all over him. They were silver scars on his exposed skin, but done in patterns, whorls and loops.

Holy crap. He'd scarred himself on purpose, like tattoos. The pain he must've gone through… But the designs were pretty cool. I wanted some.

"Sir," I answered, when it became obvious he was waiting for me to answer.

He circled me slowly. My wolf did not like having him at my back. I stifled the urge to growl, but circled with him, keeping both eyes on him at all times. He didn't carry any weapons that I could see, but it was clear he was a weapon. And I'd never let one this strong anywhere near my unprotected back.

"Hmph," he grunted, stopping. "Alpha Mate, leave us. You're not well enough to train."

She sputtered. "What? I can train?—"

"Margarette." He shot her a glance, and she submitted, her eyes hitting the ground before she turned and strode away, agitation in every step.

Holy shit. The Alpha Mate couldn't hold this shifter's gaze?

"Eyes up, shifter," he barked, and I obeyed, meeting his gaze.

I froze. His eyes were amber, like mine. Almost the exact shade. His jawline had the same angle, and his skin the same color. Was there some chance… some way we were related?

No, it wasn't possible. As far as I knew, my mom had come from Southern. But her parents had to have come from somewhere. He could be my great-uncle or something.

His gaze burned into mine, and I felt sweat begin to pop out on my upper lip. But his eyes weren't threatening. Just dominant. It felt almost… safe, to be caught in his gaze. I felt connected to him somehow. I didn't want to drop my gaze, and I didn't have to. We were matched in dominance, or close to it.

Somewhere close by, a shifter let out a low whistle. Another one murmured, "Holy shit, she's held Sergeant's gaze for…"

"Two minutes, forty-five seconds and counting," the grizzled soldier interrupted, still staring into my eyes. I saw one corner of his mouth twitching, like he was trying to smile, but had forgotten. "And she's not stopping. Are you, girl?"

I kept staring, unsure if I could answer. My legs were trembling, and I felt like I might shit my pants if this kept going for much longer, but something in me would not let me look away.

"What's your rank, shifter?"

"I'm unranked, sir." Not that I'd ever had the chance to try for rank.

Shifters all around us stopped talking, and whispers broke out.

"It's true."

"She's the one."

"Unranked. But you're living in the Lodge. I see." Sergeant nodded, and for some reason, I had a feeling he understood more than I'd said aloud. More than I understood. "Enforcer Patrick Hillier informed me our Alpha forced your first shift to heal some severe wounds. You haven't even shifted on your own."

Embarrassed, I shook my head slightly, wondering where this was going. Were unranked wolves not allowed to learn to fight here after all? Did he think I was weak? I knew I was an underfed, unranked stranger.

Maybe he wasn't going to train me. Maybe he just wanted me to show what I could do with a steak knife and that was all.

Fuck that noise. I stared harder into his eyes, feeling the stirrings of anger, ignoring the small trickle of blood I could feel starting to roll down from my nostril.

"No quit, huh?" he breathed. "You'd keep this up until you passed out, I bet."

"Yes, sir," I said, the words respectful, but the tone the same one I used to tell assholes to fuck off. "But I been told more'n once that I'm stubborn as a mule and only half as smart, so I mightn't stop even then."

Still holding my gaze, he let out a bark of laughter. Someone choked out, "Sergeant laughed ."

The older shifter's eyes flicked once to my shoulder. Then, next to me, something shifted. I saw something, or someone, moving toward me, too fast. I whirled, hands up, the knife out of my belt and in my grip. Seeking the threat.

It was Brand. He tilted his head, eyes on my knife. "Please don't stab me, little flower."

Sergeant let out another bark and grabbed Brand, pounding him on the back hard enough to break ribs. "Boy, step aside. You may have fought me to a draw earlier, but I can still beat your ass."

"I know you can," Brand replied. "But I was hoping instead of me, you'd train my friend, Flor."

Sergeant grunted one word. "No."

My heart sank. "You're not going to train me? Because I'm unranked?" I backed away, not bothering to hide my sneer. "Fucking packs are all the same."

Brand's hand landed gently on my arm, flooding me with warmth. "Flor, no." He gently steered me back toward the soldier.

Sergeant's obvious confusion made his features seem less forbidding. "That is not what I meant. My apologies, shifter. I've been given the task of testing you so we can determine what level you'll start at in training." His lips tightened. "I only personally train the highest level of Enforcer. If I spar against shifters who aren't skilled enough, I can… Well, we've learned that's a bad idea."

I took a calming breath. "Okay. What tests do you want to do?"

"What weapons training have you had?"

"None," I announced baldly. He lifted a bushy eyebrow at the steak knife in my hand. "Unless you count silverware and cleaning supplies," I amended. "I'm pretty good with those."

"I've heard," he said. "Heard you sliced open our Alpha Heir last night." His eyes gleamed. "Rumor is he's still not healed."

"Want me to show you what I did to him, sir?" I asked, flipping the knife expertly in my hand. Brand let out a low hiss of breath at the implied threat.

I thought, for a second, I might make the soldier laugh a third time. Instead, his mouth just did a weird twitching thing. "Call me Sergeant." He held out a hand.

"Call me Wills." I grasped his forearm, and he returned the hold, both of us staring into each other's faces again. Something in me recognized him. He felt like… pack. Like family.

"Right, Wills," he said after a long minute. "Put away your knife and let me see what you can do."

What I could do without a knife? "With what weapon, Sergeant?"

"With the most important weapon you have, shifter."

Something in his tone caught my attention. This was a test. Del had asked a lot of questions just like this, trying to trick me. Checking to make sure I knew better than to chase down the obvious prey, in case something more important—or more dangerous—was waiting in the bushes nearby.

"Well, then, you need to ask me a question, I guess," I said slowly.

He narrowed his eyes, but a glint of something that may have been respect was in his amber gaze.

I lifted an eyebrow, knowing I'd answered correctly. "A puzzle? A riddle, maybe?"

His nostrils flared slightly. "Thought you said you had no training."

"At Southern, it was against pack law and Alpha command to train an unranked shifter to fight." That was completely true, and he could hear it in my voice.

"Then who taught you the most important weapon a shifter has?—"

"Is your brain? Try being unranked for a while, Sergeant. You learn pretty fast that you have to outthink the rest of your pack, just to stay alive."

"Fucking Southern," Brand muttered behind me. He sounded pissed.

But the Sergeant at Arms just looked intrigued. "Southern, hm? I've never been there. Never had an interest in visiting. I think that may have been a mistake." Those amber eyes caught mine again, and I almost flinched at the storm of emotions there. Memories, or maybe nightmares, swirled in the depths of the soldier's stern gaze for an instant, and I bit my tongue to keep from asking who he was. If he knew who I was. The only thing stopping me was the presence of so many others around us.

But then he shook off whatever thoughts had caught him, and barked out a question. "Second most effective weapon, then, shifter?"

I almost reached for my knife again, but stopped. After my mind, my second most effective weapon was… "Got it," I replied, rotating my ankles. "Where's the track?"

"The track?" He almost seemed pissed, and sniffed the air, like he was trying to scent a lie.

"You said my second most important weapon." Del had always told me that after intellect, speed was any shifter's most vital tool. Speed and endurance.

"Hmph. No training, she says," he growled to himself, but was obviously happy with my answer. "Run until you can't anymore, then do five more laps."

"Yes, Sergeant."

"Boys, take flank." I frowned, then saw that Glen and Finnick had joined us and were standing a few yards off.

"Yes, Sergeant," Glen and Brand answered.

Finnick just groaned. He was wearing the gray sweatpants like many of the other shifters, but his t-shirt looked like it had been ironed. Ironed over a set of ridiculous, sculpted abs and stretched over broad shoulders. Somehow, he made the simple workout clothes look like a magazine spread, maybe for Ireland, with his short red hair and piercing green eyes. Why did my eyes keep going back to his torso, like they had special ab-magnets stuck inside?

I forced myself to remember his words again, the ones he'd repeated. They'd hurt like knives being plunged into me. "I am not your true mate, Florida Wills, and you are not mine." Like I'd even hinted that it could be true. Why were the hottest guys always the worst assholes?

"C'mon, Cityboy," I teased him, trying to keep my voice flat. "I'm sure a grown-ass shifter like you can keep up with me. Even if you can't beat me in a fight."

Finnick glared, but Glen kept pace at my side as I began to run. "Not sure any shifter can keep up with you. But I think you can keep a lot of shifters up ." He waggled his eyebrows. When I didn't respond, he pointed to his crotch with both hands. I stuck a foot out and tripped him hard. Sexual banter wasn't my thing.

Running, however? I could run all day. I ran, and remembered training with Del, and thought about the amazing food I'd eaten the day before, and that bitch Vanessa, and wondered what was for dinner tonight. Or lunch. Maybe more steak? I'd seen venison in the fridge, though. And ham. I couldn't remember the last time I'd tasted ham.

Then I let myself think about the shifter hierarchy here. I'd seen plenty of shifters with leather necklaces who were training in the yard, which reassured me this place wasn't exactly like Southern. Some of those unranked shifters had been holding real weapons, learning to fight. Some of them were really good.

I still wanted to talk to those fighters, the ones with the chokers on, and figure out how the ranking system really worked, before I trusted Margarette's assurances that Northern was better than my old pack.

My thoughts glided through my mind as effortlessly as my feet did around the three-mile track surrounding the Northern main compound. I was just starting to wonder when dinner was, when I heard Sergeant calling.

"Wills, enough!"

"Sir?" I stopped, panting. My legs were humming, still full of energy. "I haven't gotten to my limit yet."

"I can see that." He glared past me, to where Glen and Brand were grinning like idiots. Red-faced, sweaty idiots.

Finnick was nowhere to be seen. Brand answered my unspoken question. "Finn twisted an ankle about ten miles ago."

Ah. I hadn't noticed. I turned back to Sergeant.

"You went thirty-one miles, Wills," he stated. He seemed pissed. "I should have put some weights on you; I wanted to test your endurance."

"I ran a lot at Southern." Ran for my life.

"Not as part of training, though," he said, once again seeming to hear the words I hadn't said out loud. "I can't break protocol. It sets a bad precedent for the young bloods who think they can do better than my routine." He frowned even harder. "It'll be conditioning for at least a week for you, then basic forms and drills. You'll be with our Enforcers-in-training, but no sparring just yet." He nodded to Brand and Glen. "I want her ready for rank testing and weapons training by the next full moon."

"Yes, sir," they both shouted. Sergeant marched off, glaring at the grass like he was mad at each blade he passed.

As soon as he was out of earshot, I let out a laugh and fell to the ground. "He's terrifying!"

Glen slumped next to me. " He's terrifying? You're every bit as bad. You just ran me and Brand into the ground."

"She killed Finnick," Brand snickered, from where he was lying face down on the grass at my other side. "He gave up and went inside and died."

Glen groaned. "More like he gave up staring at her ass, and went inside to eat the dessert buffet."

"Dessert buffet?" I perked up, ignoring the ass comment. "That's a real thing? What's on it?"

"When I can feel my legs again, I'll show you," Glen said. "Give me a minute."

Brand started doing some stretches, and I followed suit. Glen just sat there, staring at me like I'd grown feathers or something. It made me super self-conscious. "What?" I wiped at my face, wondering if I'd slobbered on myself while I was running.

"I just realized I don't know what your favorite dessert is. Or your favorite anything. How will I know how to woo you, milady?" He fluttered his lashes and grinned.

I rolled my eyes, but couldn't help smiling back. "Wanna play Twenty Questions?" I'd overheard some of the other shifters playing that game at Southern. It seemed dumb, giving up that much information to someone who might use it against you. But I didn't think Glen or Brand would do that, and I kind of wanted to know more about him, too.

He shrugged. "Why not?"

"Okay, favorite dessert is… ice cream." I'd only had it a couple of times, but I remembered thinking it was what I'd request for a final meal. Just a giant bowl of ice cream the size of my head. "Chocolate ice cream."

Glen nodded. "Good choice. I'm a rocky road guy, but I can deal with chocolate. Next question: favorite movie? Mine is Fast and Furious 6 ."

For some reason, Brand snorted, then muttered, "More like Pride and Prejudice , Glenda."

" Princess Bride ," I shot back.

Glen's smile got wider. "Want to watch it tonight? I have—I mean, Mom has that in our collection."

"Heck yeah!" I'd watched it a bunch of times, since it was one of the only movies Del had sneaked in to play while we did dishes in the kitchen.

Glen reached over, picked up my hand and kissed it. "As you wish, Alpha Protector." His deep blue eyes caught me, and I felt the whirlpool of his attention pulling me under. I leaned forward, and so did he, like some sort of gravity field had caught both of us, drawing our lips together…

Smack! Until an acorn hit him in the middle of his forehead.

"What the hell, Brand?" He grabbed it and tossed it away.

I blushed and scooted back. Brand was glaring at Glen, and I could feel the tension rising between the two. "So, um, Brand says he likes to sculpt. What's your hobby, Glen?"

Brand snorted something that sounded like, "Semi-professional fornication."

Glen glared him to silence. "I read," he replied. "A lot."

"Oh, is that what we're calling it now, brother? So you read to all those women," Brand mumbled. "Keep a lot of books in your bedroom these days?"

Glen bristled visibly, but his face was flushed. He was really upset, or embarrassed. "What the hell, brother ?"

"Ignore him." I grabbed Glen's hand again to distract myself from the upwelling of anger I felt just thinking about him with other women, then dropped it when the tornado energy started up. "What do you like to read?"

"Nonfiction," he said, staring down at my hand, or the ground, I wasn't sure. "Pack histories, human histories, biographies."

I swallowed, the bitter taste of aluminum foil in my mouth. Why was he lying?

Brand snickered. "Tell the truth, Glenda."

"Fuck off, Brand."

"Glenda?" I asked, mock-glaring at him. "Is there something you'd like to share?"

"No." Was he pouting? His lower lip was jutting out slightly. It made me want to bite it.

"He's extremely ticklish, you know," Brand whispered. "I bet you can torture the truth out of him."

"Hmm, is that so?" I reached over, running my fingers across Glen's ribs while I held him in place with a hand on his arm. He could've gotten away, but he wasn't really trying. "What do you really read, Glenda?"

"Stop. I'm not kidding, stop!" He lurched, letting out a very non-masculine giggle.

"Why? You gonna pee your pants?" I tickled him even more viciously, following him as he tried to squirm away. "How about now? Gonna tell me what you read?"

"No!" He flopped onto his stomach, army-crawling away.

I rolled over on top of him, straddling his back, and kept torturing him with my fingers on his sides. "What do you read, Glenda? What's your little secret?"

He let out a groan and lay still under my relentless hands. "I'll never tell."

I tickled him more ferociously. "Don't you want me to stop?"

Glen groaned again, and Brand grumbled, "Pretty sure there's not a man alive who would want you to stop, Flor."

Wait… What am I doing? I was lying on Glen's back, my whole body flattened against him, my arms and legs wrapped around his waist. The energy between us felt like a heat lamp had been turned on in between our bodies.

Shit. Shit.

I jumped up, horrified. I'd basically molested him. "I didn't mean to… I was just playing."

Glen lay motionless, but he muttered, "Keep playing." I lifted my shirt halfway up to cover my face, pretending to rub away the sweat, but really just trying to hide.

"Um, Flor?" Brand's voice was a squeak.

I pulled my shirt down and saw his eyes on my chest. "What?" I lifted the shirt again and checked to see if there was something there. I'd only flashed him my sports bra. Well, that and my scar.

Brand came from a pack that valued strength, and I'd always been told that scars were signs of weakness. But Margarette had changed my mind about what a scar meant. They could be more. Signs of valor. Although, I'd been born with this scar so it was probably more a sign of a botched delivery. But no one knew that.

I glared at him, daring him to mention it. "What, Brand?"

"Um, you. Um…" He'd slammed his eyes shut, like I was naked.

"Brand, I barely have boobs. I may as well be a twelve-year-old boy. I could probably walk around without any clothes on?—"

" Stop, " Glen moaned. "Stop talking, Flor, or I'm never going to be able to turn over."

"Turn over?" Finally, my brain put it together. He was hiding a hard-on. I glanced at Brand, who'd moved one of his legs to hide his own crotch. I giggled. "You boys need to get out more."

"Glen gets out plenty," Brand mumbled.

For some reason, the thought of Glen "getting out" with the females in his pack pissed me off again. Why do I care? "Right. Time for lunch?"

"Give me a minute," Glen muttered, rolling to face away from me. "And I haven't ‘gotten out' in weeks."

"Whatever," I sneered. "Hope I haven't been cramping your style." I shot Brand a look, just to be fair. "Or yours. Y'all don't have to babysit me."

Brand ducked his head sheepishly. "I didn't mean to… I'm…" His cheeks above his dark beard were flushed, and he looked miserable. "I'm sorry."

Scowling at his friend, Glen stood and offered me his arm. I took it, being careful of the bandaged part, though it seemed like it wasn't bothering him at all. "Go to lunch with me, Flor?" I stood, wiping the grass off my pants and very carefully not looking below his waist, or Brand's as he stood. Glen let out an exaggerated sigh. "I like Regency romances, okay? My Aunt Linn loved them, and she read them out loud to me when I was little. Innocent, kissing on the hand kind of things."

It was a conversational olive branch. I took it. "Oh. That's not silly. That's nice. Maybe, um, you could lend me one." I hadn't had a new book to read in a year.

Glen brightened. "Sure. You can have any of mine."

We walked quietly until Brand spoke. "You know what we do for fun now. I sculpt and carve. Glen reads and fu—well, Glen reads. What are your hobbies, Flor?"

"Um, cooking, I guess?"

He shook his head. "That was your pack job. Do you really like cooking?"

"No," I blurted out, surprising myself. "I hate cooking." I stopped, feeling an emptiness inside. "I used to sketch a little, but I wasn't very good. It was just… stubby pencils and paper were free, right?"

"We can get you art supplies," Glen told me. "I'll tell Mom, and we'll make an order?—"

"No, please!" I laughed ruefully. Margarette would probably buy an entire art store, and I didn't want to put her to any trouble. Or, to be honest, feel any more indebted to her. But I couldn't say that out loud. "Like I said, I wasn't good at it."

Brand spoke quietly. "Was there anything you wanted to do, just for fun? You don't have to be good at something to enjoy it."

I made a face. "I guess the only things I enjoyed were things I could do well, that helped me survive. Like fighting, or hunting. Even running."

"Please, no more running," Glen groaned. "Books. What kind of books do you like?"

I shrugged, feeling awkward. I didn't even know what kinds of books I'd pick, if I had a choice. "I'll read anything. I never had enough to decide what I liked best. Do I have to choose?"

They both said no, but it was obvious the game was over, and the flirting along with it.I was such a freak. I couldn't even answer basic questions like what my favorite class was in high school, or what I liked to read, or what was my fucking hobby—unless you counted staying alive and away from rapists as a hobby.

My chest felt tight. I didn't belong here, with normal shifters like these guys.

"You can read anything in our library, Flor," Glen said as we reached the back doors to the Lodge. "In fact, after the movie, I'll turn you loose there. You can take as many books to your room as you like."

I forced a smile and followed him to lunch. I might not belong at Northern, but I would do what Del had taught me: learn everything I could, as fast as possible.

And someday, I'd find a place I did belong. A pack that felt like I fit in. Then I'd rest.

But not yet.