3. Chapter 3

Chapter 3

D awn was breaking when Layla stood at the windows and watched the activity outside as she towel-dried her hair. There had been tents put up all over the front grounds, and she was guessing they were all over the rest of the grounds as well. It looked like the whole town had moved to the packhouse. Maybe because of the wards, whatever those were.

When Jackson ordered her to attend the dinner, she assumed the whole town had been invited, but she could see how wrong she had been. So many people walked in and out of the house and spilled out of the tents in large groups.

A line of them walked through the gates carrying the injured into the house.

And they carried their dead into the biggest tent next to the house.

Her heart broke as she saw how many there were. Were any of them the young woman who'd left her children in her care? She must have had more family in the fight to leave her babies like that.

If Jackson had been there, would any of them have died? Would his beast have ripped through the enemy as easily as it had destroyed the wolf that had almost attacked her? Maybe people would have died anyway, but she didn't think there would have been so many.

She threw the towel onto the floor and didn't bother putting shoes on before she unlocked the door and walked out. Her ears picked up activity everywhere as if people were in every room of the house. She had never thought much about it, but had she and Jackson had this massive house to themselves? When she had first arrived, she had assumed it was a hotel of sorts because of the sheer size.

On the second-floor landing, she hesitated. Dylan had told her to stay in her room, where she had been locked up for weeks. Judging by Faith's attitude towards her, she wasn't anyone's favourite person, so her help wouldn't be welcome.

But still, she walked down the hallway, keeping her ears open. There were low, pained moans coming from every room, and there didn't seem to be enough people to tend to them. Two young ladies she recognised from the kitchen came out of one of the rooms holding a basket full of bloody rags. They looked pale and tired, and didn't even look in her direction as they rushed down the stairs.

She slipped into the room they had come out of and saw a man on the bed. They had covered him, but he was sweaty and restless, and his face was contorted with pain. She could smell something in the air—antiseptic, herbs, and the hint of something metallic, which she knew was blood. And there was something else. Something she couldn't put her finger on as she walked closer to the man.

He was a big man, as most of them were, but she suspected this one was one of the security guards she had seen many times doing patrols around the house. Those seemed bigger than most. They had all been smiling and getting ready for a run before the attack, but now it looked like he wouldn't make it to the end of the day.

Tears fell onto her cheeks before she could stop them as she sat beside him. She realised what she could smell in the air. Death. She could smell death clinging to him.

"I'm so sorry," she whispered, putting her hand on his forehead. He was burning up, but she knew they wouldn't even consider taking anyone to a hospital outside their little world.

"If Jackson had been here, he would have stopped this," she whispered again, stroking his damp hair out of his face. Maybe no one would have dared to attack if he had been home. "I wish I could take all your pain."

The man groaned and moved against her hand as if its coolness comforted him. He seemed to settle into a more restful sleep when she continued to comfort him. When she moved to the next room, she did the same. An apology would never be enough, but it was the very least she could do. There were people with missing limbs and cuts and bruises that were too gruesome for her to look at. But she took time to make them as comfortable as she could and sit with them all.

By the time she stuck her head around the door of the last room on the ground floor, it was late afternoon, and she was exhausted. But when she noticed who lay in the bed, her heart dropped. It was the woman who had left her babies. Her breathing was shallow, and her face was as white as the sheets she was lying on. In this room, there was nothing but the smell of death. She couldn't help weeping as she held the woman's hand, and her heart broke for her children. Maybe she should have begged her to go to the packhouse with her children, and she should have joined the fight in the woman's place.

She had no idea how long she sat with her, but when she snapped out of her thoughts, the room was dark, and the woman in the bed was tightly gripping her hand. Her eyes were open, and she looked more alert than she should have been. It had to be the surge before death—when someone appeared better just before they died.

"My children," she whispered.

"They're here. I'll find them and bring them," she promised as she squeezed the woman's hand and released it.

"No. They shouldn't see me like this," the woman whispered as her eyes closed. "I'll see them in the morning."

What if she wasn't there in the morning? She didn't want to go against a dying woman's wishes, but what if she died and left things unsaid? Her breathing was better, and she looked peaceful. It would be less traumatising for her son if they said their goodbyes when she looked like she was just resting.

She sighed and then walked out of the room. It wasn't her choice to make.

Walking through the lobby felt like walking through a warzone. People were talking at once and walking in and out of the house. Some had trays of food, while others carried medical supplies. The smell of food made her stomach growl, reminding her that she'd barely started eating when they had been attacked. She sniffed the air and her mouth watered. Maybe she could grab something to eat while she looked for the children.

"Get out of the way," someone snarled behind her just before he shoved her against the wall.

She was too drained and depressed to react. Besides, they had every right to hate her now.

The smell of food led her past the dining room to the wide doors of the large hall where they had had dinner. She could hear the loud chatter and the clinking of plates and cutlery as if that was where they had set up meals for the whole town. There were too many voices inside, and by the tones of their voices, she knew emotions were running too high for her to be anywhere near them.

With a sigh, she turned away. She was almost back in the lobby when she heard a voice that stopped her.

"Now isn't the time, Zach. Wait for Jackson if you want to discuss his guest." Dylan's voice sounded as clear as he was standing beside her.

"Now is the only time," another voice said. It sounded a little familiar but she couldn't think where she had heard it before.

"If we kill her now, she will be just another casualty of this war. She was safe within these walls while we lost so many of our own," the man continued.

The words speared her heart because they were true. Even though she had snuck around in the shadows and done what she could, she hadn't been in as much danger as those actively fighting.

She walked slowly towards the doorway where the voices drifted from and peeked around the frame. It looked like a den or lounge but there was no one else in it except the two. Dylan looked through a pile of paperwork in his arms while an older man stood beside him. She recognised him as the one Jackson had sat next to at the dinner. He hadn't seemed to like her much then, either.

"You know as well as I do that she's the cause of this. She weakened our King, and a pack we would have normally wiped out managed to sneak in and kill us. It's not right, Beta. She needs to die. At the very least, throw her in the dungeon. Don't let everyone suffer by watching her walk around as if she is our Luna."

"I agree."

The sound of that voice had her sucking in a breath and turning to look behind her.

Jackson.

His icy-blue gaze burnt through her and pinned her to her spot. Though her heart soared because he was alive, her head knew she was in trouble. She had never seen that much fury in his eyes, even in the beginning.

"Jax!" Dylan said as he came to the doorway, and then he must have noticed her standing there. "Layla, I told you to stay in your room."

"See. She's walking around down here, and we didn't even know she was there," the older man mumbled. "We must send her to the dungeons until we sort out the mess she's caused."

Jackson stepped forward slowly, his eyes not leaving hers for a second.

"Don't worry, Zach. I'll fix my mess. She won't be a problem to anyone again."