Chapter 3

Chapter 3

Prairie Rose

The drumming ceased as abruptly as it had when Agnar first walked in. The silence in the place was its own roar, but then a younger man, slightly blurry to Prairie Rose's eyes, stepped from the circle of dancers. He was still clothed, all in black, but she could see sweat soaked his shirt. It clung damply to him, outlining his powerful body.

"I did."

Another younger man, probably early twenties and built as powerfully big as the first, joined him. He was naked from the waist up and his sweat-slicked skin glistened in the firelight. "I did."

"And I." A third.

"Me too." A fourth."

"I'm responsible." A fifth.

Five men? Five of them had drugged her? How? In what? The beer? She'd thought it tasted bitter on the back of her tongue, but she'd assumed that's how it was supposed to taste.

She scrambled off the floor, her movements only slightly jerky. What the hell kind of drugs? She threw herself into the stone chair as if it could shelter her. She was beginning to shake. If Agnar's pack could get to her like this, then what more could they do? The fact that she wasn't dead or writhing on the ground, having been poisoned, clearly said that the drugs were of a different nature. Probably meant to embarrass her and not kill her.

Hopefully. Unless they were slow acting.

But it would explain why her body was enflamed with lust beyond reason. It wasn't just the atmosphere or the fact that her mate looked like a god come to drag her to hell, chain her up, strap her ass, lick her pussy, and fuck her every hole until she was a mess for him.

Definitely the drugs. This wasn't her in any way. And it wasn't the beer either, however strong the stuff might have been brewed.

"Your peace has gone too far." One of the voices lifted in challenge.

She tried to see around Agnar, but she couldn't.

"We're wasting our youth and our lives here, doing nothing. You've set us to seeding and harvesting. We're not farmers. We're warriors. We're not builders, making new housing and repairing the old. We still drill and train and we want to fight. We want to reclaim the lands that were taken from us and avenge those whose blood has been spilled."

Another quickly joined in, "You have no stomach for war anymore, Agnar. You're an old man."

Another, equally as impetuous, "You've gone soft, making peace with an enemy instead of demanding a life for a life."

"You're no warrior. You shame us. You shame the whole of the Phaethon Pack."

Had they ever been to war? Killed a man? Prairie Rose knew her mate undoubtedly had. More than one, very likely, and probably in brutal ways. She'd been so annoyed with him over his conversation in the vehicle, the way he talked down to her and addressed her like a child, how he ordered her obedience and respect instead of earning it, but now that she heard the voices raised against him, she wanted to spring out of the stone chair and do a special sort of violence to those questioning him.

If only she could make her legs work. They felt heavy, like the rest of her. Drunken again, not beyond her command, but slow.

"We drugged her because you consulted no one before you took a mate and made this peace pact. You think because you're alpha that you can do as you wish? You say it's for the good of us, but what good comes from stagnation and dying out?"

She wished Agnar would say something to defend himself. Throw out stats proving they weren't dying, that no one was dying. And wasn't that the point? He said nothing. Made no move to defend himself. He just stood there, and she had no choice but to sit and watch his broad back and huge shoulders, to note the way his legs were spread slightly apart. His stance was of someone ready to do battle.

"We drugged her because we wanted to expose her for who she really is. She's an outsider, delicate and unfit for this pack, especially to be an alpha's mate. She's unworthy of sitting beside you. She'll humiliate herself and humiliate you and humiliate this pack. She is nothing. A bitch from the northern tribes who are soft. Barely wolves. Barely anything at all."

Finally, Agnar reacted. He let out a low growl and his hands flexed into fists at his sides.

Her face was flushed with shame and rage. She couldn't imagine how Agnar felt at having her insulted that way when she'd done nothing to provoke it. She hadn't embarrassed herself. She hadn't embarrassed him, even with whatever they'd given her. She might have felt wanton, but her cravings were entirely for him, her mate, and even if he was nothing but a cruel stranger in a new, harsh land, she refused to think that it was wrong for mates to desire each other.

"I challenge you." Those three heart-stopping words rang out bold and clear, echoing in the enclosed space. The fire flicked on, crackling noisily in the ensuing silence.

"And I," another seconded.

The others weren't content to wait. There was a terrible cacophony of howls. People scrambled out of the way, running to the sides of the cave leaving the area between the alpha and his challengers clear, but there were no screams. She caught the eye of a man who raced past the stone chair, his face a glee-filled mask of excitement.

She expected there to be a time and a place for a challenge, but the chaos that broke out proved that this pack was nothing like hers.

Suddenly, Agnar shifted in an explosion of clothing and boots. His body reshaped itself into his wolf, lightning fast. In a blink, he'd gone from a fearsome man to a powerful brown-and-black wolf, but so had the others. There were apparently no rules and no order at all. Five wolves were going to challenge one. They were all huge, varying colors, saliva dripping from bared fangs.

They didn't wait and attack one at a time. Was this their warrior code, their form of honor, that they sprang all at once?

It was a macabre pile of teeth and fur, yelps and cries.

Prairie Rose couldn't see what was even happening past blurs of fur and the flashes of bared and bloodied fangs. She exploded out of the chair, her body finally responding as adrenaline surged with fear. She wasn't worried about herself if something should happen to the one man who alone might defend her and keep her safe. She was infuriated by the unfairness of the numbers. Not a soul in the cave was going to do anything to help. They stood off to the side, some of them watching with naked delight, others with worried or pensive expressions.

She didn't think once about bringing Agnar dishonor. She wouldn't stand by and watch him be killed like this. No man and no wolf deserved to die such a death, ripped apart by the very men who should have loved them, honored them, trusted them, and given them their obedience because they'd sworn a pack oath to be loyal to their alpha. Castor had said more than once that Agnar was a good man with a gruff exterior who worked tirelessly to bring a lasting peace to his pack. They were ungrateful for all that he'd done and now they were going to spill his blood.

A black wolf went flying. He was flung against the wall of the cave so hard he slumped down on impact. She gasped as another, a white wolf, flew off and limped away, bleeding from a nasty wound on his side. He slumped to the ground, the red puddle beneath him growing. He was bleeding out and still, no one moved to help him.

She was torn between doing something to help Agnar and rushing to the hurt wolf. Even if he had challenged her mate, she couldn't watch him bleed out.

Finally, her better judgment won out. She raced across the cave and stepped on the bottom half of her dress. It was old and the cotton tore clean away. She wadded up the cloth and stuffed it against the gaping wound, pressing hard. "Help me!" she screamed.

Someone moved. A young woman. She placed her hands over the quickly reddening fabric. By the look on her face, that wolf was her mate.

"You'll need something else to stop the bleeding." Prairie Rose jerked herself upright, head swimming violently with the effort of too much movement.

She wouldn't let her body go down again. Another wolf flew off of Agnar, steeling her determination. There was just enough of him showing that she could see the multiple wounds where he bled from. Bite marks and claw marks both. He looked half ripped apart. Blood pooled around him as the other wolves battled.

A second wolf was flipped and pinned in the struggle. It came back, its shaggy brown fur matted in blood. Agnar whirled on it again, throwing off the gray and black wolves both. The three circled and attacked as a set, but Agnar caught one by the throat. He shook the black wolf until it lay limply on the ground and a red lake seeped out beneath it. She watched in amazement, while it was an unfair fight, it was clear how Agnar became alpha. He might have been trying to steer his pack away from the old ways, but underneath he was a true warrior. The remaining two wolves attacked together, taking Agnar down to the ground. Prairie Rose closed her eyes, unable to watch her mate die. It shouldn't have mattered, a stranger who she was bound to by obligation and an oath, and not by her heart, but that very organ clenched in her chest, bleeding for a man who deserved a better death.

A wicked scream pierced the air. Her eyes flew open. Wolf. Not human. And not Agnar. There was only one wolf still attacking, and that one was quickly pinned. Agnar grasped it by the throat, his muzzle soaked a purple red, and he finished the job. The light went out of that last wolf's eyes.

Agnar, triumphant, lifted his head and howled his mournful cry to the roof of the cave. It was such a lonely sound, forsaken and heartbroken, that it nearly cracked her ribs to hear it. Bloody spittle dribbled from her mate's mouth. There wasn't an inch of his fur that was brown anymore. He was a living, breathing bloodbath. He'd slaughtered his own packmates. He was the kind of man who would be haunted by this night for a long time to come, she thought, even if it was necessary for his own survival.

Those five young and unseasoned, cocksure youths had wanted a taste of death. Some of them got it.

Limping and swaying, but somehow still upright, Agnar turned and walked past the fire. The cave was so silent she could hear people sucking in their breath as he passed.

Instinct more than obligation pulled Prairie Rose in the direction of her mate. She followed in the bloody wake he left, his paw prints red on red dirt, his blood purple black in the ghostly firelight. She didn't look at anyone else as they walked. She had no idea if Agnar could make it back to his home or even where that was. Why was no one helping? Why was no one doing anything?

An older man who carried himself half like a prince and half like a solider moved off the wall. He was going to do something. He was going to help. Gratitude fluttered inside of her, crashing down all around her so that her eyes filled up with tears.

But then the man turned. She saw his face, and it was like looking at a ghost.

That man was an older version of Castor. The father who tried to murder his own son by torturing him to death. The father who whispered poisonous words of treason and betrayal in his alpha's ear until a good man rescinded the oath he'd made and handed Castor over to his beta.

Alexander. He could be no other.

Prairie Rose surged forward, walking unsteadily, wavering a little and swaying, but she propelled herself in the right direction. A scream tore out of her throat when she saw the silver flash of a blade pulled from Alexander's boot. "Agnar!"

He was either too hurt or too weary to turn. He just stopped, swaying and bleeding, only an animal strength and an iron will at the core of him kept him upright. He looked like a deer that had been set on by a pack of wolves and had managed to get away only to die slowly and painfully as it bled out.

She'd never seen cruelty like this.

It sharpened her mind. Honed her vision.

The weapons had been set aside. She noticed that when she entered the cave. She caught the gleam of a giant battle axe, scrolled with ancient runes down the handle and twisted designs on the blade. She lunged for it, her adrenaline and need to fight overpowering the drugs that slowed her. The axe was heavy. It took all her strength to heft it, and when she turned, she stumbled. She flew blindly forward, yelling out as she did.

"Alexander Phaethon!" He turned at the last second and dodged, the raised blade that he'd intended to sink into his alpha glistening above his head, ready for her instead.

The axe fell first. She couldn't hold it any longer and gravity did what she didn't have the strength to do. It plunged into Alexander's arm, cutting him so deeply that he dropped the knife and screamed in horror.

Blood spurted from the wound, dousing her in a wet, violently hot spray. She tasted the metal salt of it in her mouth as it landed on her lips, painting the whole of her red. She had no idea blood could be so hot when it exited the body.

She swayed to the side, in shock or something else. She fell to her hands and knees, her vision shuttering and growing dim. She clawed her fingers and pulled herself through the dirt. Closer. If only she could reach Agnar. She couldn't let him die. She'd get to him, and she'd lay herself over him and that would stop the bleeding. Her body alone would be enough to heal him.