Chapter 15

FIFTEEN

Tempest

Tempest was ashamed to admit that it was too easy to fall into her new routine. Time flew by as days turned to weeks. She'd always been a creature of habit, after all; her entire life with the Hounds had been strictly regimented. A good routine made her feel grounded.

She spent much of each morning training. In the afternoons, Nyx always had something to occupy her time, followed by a friendly sparring session. The female shifter was fas t. Tempest had more bruises from their matches than she'd acquired in a long time, but it was worth it. She'd become faster out of necessity. It also kept her too exhausted and preoccupied to think of much else.

When dinner rolled around, it was a lesson in endurance. Tempest had always been an outsider, but her uncles had made sure to make her feel at home. The den of deceit—the name she'd given the Jester's mountain castle—was not kind to strangers. Each evening, it was made abundantly clear that she was not one of them. Normally, baleful glances and malicious whispers didn't bother her. She'd dealt with them her whole life at the king's court, but this was different. In the king's court, Tempest was an oddity. Here, she was the enemy.

She'd taken to covering her hair with a hood because it attracted too much attention and marked her for what she was: a Hound. Tempest wanted to dye it, but Nyx wouldn't hear of it. Though Nyx didn't say why , Tempest had more than a sneaking suspicion that it had something to do with the Jester wanting to show off the traitorous Hound at his side. Every crook and degenerate from leagues away who'd come to stay in the mountains seemed to want to look upon the Jester's trophy . It rankled her, but she shoved it down. She had a job to do, and information wouldn't be gained if she kept to herself or allowed the suspicious lot to push her out. And they were right to be wary of her. When she discovered all the parts of the truth, she was coming for them. At least, the ones who were the worst of the criminals.

Tempest pulled the linen from her cracked knuckles and dropped to the sparring mat, the lantern light flickering. She rolled her neck and savored the quiet. Nyx hadn't been the only one she'd been training with. Tempest would be the first to admit, it was brutal. It made sparring with the Hounds seem like mere warm-up sessions by comparison. Everyone wanted a go at the Hound. There was a lot of bad blood between the Hounds and those of Talagan descent.

During the first two weeks, she thought she might die, but she was too stubborn to give up. No matter how hard she fought against Pyre or Mal or Brine, Tempest lost four out of five rounds. Luck only granted her a win. It wasn't skill; it was sheer willpower not to lose and chance, no matter how much they beat her. Tempest always got up, even when they told her to stay down. Nothing was ever gained by admitting defeat, or so Maxim said.

Maxim.

Her heart clenched, and she leaned her head against the cold, stone wall, closing her eyes against the traitorous tears that fought to escape. She missed her family. And while she thrived on confrontation, Tempest longed for a safe place just to be herself, to feel like she mattered. Like she had worth. The shifters made her feel like a child all over again—the pitiful female novice taken in by grown men, who indulged their amusement by giving her a chance to fight them. Her fingers curled into fists.

Stop feeling sorry for yourself. You're not a child. Take what they dole out and learn from it.

She was getting better, or so Brine told her.

A small smile lifted her lips. That was an unexpected turn of events.

Apparently, their journey had bonded them. Brine's temperament and attitude had changed toward her since their arrival at the den of deceit. No longer was the wolf shifter directly hostile or snippy just for the sake of it. Well, he was still as prickly and gruff as ever, but he wasn't outright mean anymore. He'd become decidedly neutral, and in turn, he'd become one of her favorite sparring partners. She had studied his aggressive, direct form of attacking, and had then quickly learned how to battle against it. Their matches always left her heaving and covered in sweat, but in a satisfied way. What was even more satisfying was when she'd surprise the wolf, and he'd give an itty-bitty smile. It was like winning a bag full of gold .

Battling Mal, on the other hand, was another matter entirely.

From the very beginning, she had not wanted to fight him at all. She'd seen him in the ring with massive shifters, and he was ruthless. He took down every single man, no matter how far he had to go. He'd almost killed two men and didn't even blink an eye. In addition to his disturbing actions and his need to win, he hated her. Tempest had no clue what she'd done to gain such malice or attention from the man, but it was a problem, especially when he challenged her in the ring. Her uncles had taught her to be wise and humble. She knew she couldn't beat him. But Mal had insisted, goaded, and embarrassed her until she had no choice but to accept his challenge.

Burn her pride.

In battle, he was just as arrogant as Pyre, but far more devious and cutthroat. He didn't pull his punches. The moment her guard dropped even the slightest always meant pain.

Now, Tempest lifted her shirt and stared at the purple bruise spanning her navel. Just today he'd jammed the hilt of a dagger into her stomach so forcefully that she'd puked and then wheezed for five minutes. She dropped her shirt and shook her head. Dima would call her an idiot for going back for more. Tempest huffed. Even if it killed her, she would best the pompous deviant one way or another.

And then there was Pyre…

His fighting style intrigued her. He was just as playful in fighting as he was in everyday life, but make no mistake, he was just as deadly as Mal when he wanted to be. She wiped a hand down her face. From their very first match, she'd been intrigued, and though she was loath to admit it, Tempest enjoyed their sessions more than she should. Pyre was constantly in motion. It seemed as if his feet never touched the floor. Even so, he seemingly found it more interesting to dodge her attacks than attempt to land any of his own.

It was an intricate dance.

And intimate.

She swallowed and tamped down the butterflies that tried to take flight in her belly. It was easy to become enamored with the man one sparred with. Emotions and adrenaline were up. Chemistry was understandable, but if she let any feelings develop… that was too dangerous. She couldn't get wrapped up in the Jester. Any attraction would get her in trouble eventually. While he strived to only show her the playful, fun parts of his personality, she'd always experienced the darker parts. They were deal-breakers. It was important to keep those in mind.

She looked at the door and willed herself to get up. It was late. For a normal household, people would be asleep, but not here. The Dark Court came alive once the sun set. Which worked well for her. While the degenerates were drinking and causing mischief and mayhem, she was exploring the strange mountain palace mostly without disruption. She'd gotten into a few scrapes with loudmouthed, randy lay-abouts on more than one occasion when exploring the place, though the fighting never came to much. A dagger lodged between their thighs was all it took to send most of her would-be opponents running off like frightened children. Her lips twitched. It even scared dragons off.

Pyre had given her permission to explore every nook and cranny of the place. But despite this, she was convinced that something was hidden in its depths that she wasn't supposed to find. But she hadn't found anything—yet. It was only a matter of time .

With a groan, Tempest hauled herself from the floor. Her whole body ached, and she longed for bed. She snatched the bloody linens from the floor and tossed them into the bin on her way out of the sparring room. Chills rippled down her arms as she entered one of the draughty hallways. The palace was so cold. There weren't enough fires to warm the place. The lanterns cast writhing shadows against the stone walls, and she frowned as she moved down the hallway. It was much too dark for her taste.

She wandered down staircases and corridors, memorizing them as she went. Even though her thighs protested the stairs, she was determined to find the dungeons. Surely, they were on the lowest floors, but who knew? The Jester was eccentric. Maybe he liked to toss his prisoners from the ramparts?

Tempest sighed as the air warmed. She liked this part of the journey. The air was warmer here, though more suffocating. It was like breathing water, but she preferred it to the draughts on the upper floors. The haunting breeze whispered secrets and betrayals in her ear. She ran her right hand along the wall of the spiraling staircase. There was so much to learn. Information was key when she dealt with Destin. He wasn't an idiot. She needed something that would appease him. While training was fulfilling, she hadn't gained any more information… Her lips thinned. The annoying kitsune was keeping her out of the loop.

You're not here to look pretty. Dig deeper.

The scuff of a boot against stone caught her attention. Tempest paused. Just a drunk knave or something more insidious? The footsteps quicken. Winter's bite, she didn't have time for this. She took two stairs at a time and ducked into the first corridor she came across. Fighting on stairs was just stupid. She sprinted into the darkened hallway twenty paces and then turned to face the stairway, pulling daggers from her wrist sheaths. Her breath sawed in and out of her chest. Tempest scowled at the doorway when two shifters burst into the hallway. She didn't have time for this. Her body ached, and she didn't want to fight anyone. Why couldn't they leave her alone?

They paused. Her pulse leapt. Not just shifters. One was a giant. The enormous man took a slow step closer, a weak light playing over his face. There wasn't any kindness there, only malice.

"Would you like to play?" the giant asked softly, menace blanketing his tone. Her jaw clenched. Whatever happened next would hurt.

"Yes, she wants to play," the slithering voice of the shifter said as he emerged from the shadows behind the giant. She fought a chill as a forked tongue flicked from his mouth. A reptilian shifter. The only question… was he venomous? She couldn't allow him close enough to find out.

The giant grinned and pulled a broadsword from his sheath with an evil hiss. Wicked hell, a broadsword? Really. He raised his heavy sword and charged. She dodged beneath his guard and popped to her feet, just in time to parry an attack from the shifter. He was fast. She sliced at his arms, and he bared his teeth in a hiss.

Ratsbane. A snake, not a lizard.

She spun away and grunted as she met the giant's second attack. Her teeth clacked together from the strike that rattled her very bones. Her spine cracked against the stone wall, and she cried out as pain ricocheted through her system. She wouldn't last long if she kept taking hits like that. She needed to fight smarter .

Tempest bared her teeth and ducked away, slashing at the giant's abdomen.

"Stupid little wench!" the giant growled.

Tempest panted, keeping both men in her sight. Her legs wobbled. She shouldn't have trained so hard today.

Dig deeper. You're not weak.

Her fingers clenched her daggers. She hadn't broken for Mal, the Jester, or King Destin. She would not break now, especially to such unsavory brigands. If she gave them the slightest bit of weakness, they'd tear her limb from limb.

"So, boys, are you just going to stand there all day, or can we crack on?"

Her words did the trick. It riled both men, and they attacked.

She fell into a dance of sorts, defending herself. Her arms were shaking, and sweat slicked her body to the point that the hilts of her daggers slipped in her palms. She needed to get out of there. The snake man darted forward, and she feinted backward, her left foot slipping, twisting her ankle.

Heat and pain exploded around her foot. She hissed and shifted her weight just as the giant slammed his fist into her left shoulder. Tempest crashed painfully to her knees. The reptile shifter sliced her leg. Tears sprung to her eyes, and she cried out. The wound was deep. The giant lifted his huge foot, and only years of training saved her life. She rolled out of the way and stumbled to her feet. She lurched toward the staircase. Maybe she could just roll down them.

A hysterical laugh bubbled in the back of her throat. She was dead.

So much for standing strong .

Blood poured down her leg in waves of red; throbbing agony crashed into her over and over again. She limped to the stairs and glanced over her shoulder. The giant and shifter weren't attacking. They just stood in the flickering light like specters.

The giant nodded at her, his fathomless gaze locked on her. He chuckled. "Remember this. You might eat with us, train with us, but you're not one of us. Your weakness and arrogance will get you killed."

She swallowed and stumbled onto the staircase. As quickly as she could, she dragged herself up the stairs, pain and blood loss making her dizzy. Her whole body trembled as mocking laughter echoed up the stone staircase. She paused to make a tourniquet for her leg from her soiled shirt before continuing her death climb. She passed no one.

By the time she reached the level her room was on, she crawled along the floor, her leg dragging behind her. Just a bit farther . The hallway spun, and she barely clung to consciousness. She almost cried when she spotted her door along with the most unwelcomed visitor lazing on it like a petulant lord without a care in the world.

Mal.

Tempest struggled to her feet and tried to act like she wasn't hurt, but it was useless. And completely dumb. Anyone could see she was a bloody mess, between the odd set of her shoulder, her bloody leg, and her twisted ankle. Mal scanned her from head to toe in one fell swoop of his icy gaze. He said nothing.

She clung to the wall and lifted her chin. "Go on," Tempest challenged him, shaking on the spot with her effort to stay standing. "Make fun of me. Call me weak. Call me a coward for running away—"

Mal did none of those things .

One moment he was leaning on her door, and the next she was in his arms and they were moving into her bedroom. She flinched as he kicked the door shut behind them and stormed across her room, his frigid expression revealing nothing. He gently sat her on the chaise lounge near the fire and wordlessly moved across the room. He rummaged through the large wardrobe opposite her bed. He returned with a box full of bandages and healing supplies, his steps stiff. Stars, she hurt. All she wanted was her bed.

Mal motioned for Tempest to lower her camisole from her shoulder, which she reluctantly did.

"What are you doing?"

With a vicious pull of her arm, he reset her dislocated shoulder. She screamed before she could stop herself and then slumped into the chair, her body trembling with discomfort. Her head lulled, and her eyelids seemed just too heavy to keep open. Mal lowered himself to his knees, and she blinked slowly as he grabbed her ruined trousers and ripped them off of her.

"Strong," she muttered, her tongue feeling clumsy in her mouth. And indecent.

"Shapeshifter," he muttered.

Tears squeezed out of her eyes, and she panted as he began to clean the cut on her leg. Sweet poison, that hurt. He opened a pot of salve and the familiar, cloying smell of mimkia filled Tempest's nostrils. She gritted her teeth as Mal began applying the drug to first her leg wound, then her shoulder, and finally her ankle.

It was nothing like when her uncles cared for her. Mal was efficient, but cold—begrudgingly helping her. Tempest resisted the urge to outright cry when the mimkia burned her skin, but she bore through it. In a few moments, she knew there would be no pain at all. Hopefully, tomorrow she'd be healed enough to walk. Thank the winter for miracle drugs.

Tempest dipped her chin and blinked slowly at Mal. He ignored her and inspected her ankle. He clucked his tongue as he gently moved it this way and that to check if it was broken.

"Careless," he muttered.

She glared at him. If she'd been careless, she would have been dead five levels down in an empty corridor. Bastard . As if this were her fault.

Apparently satisfied with the state of her ankle, he carefully bandaged it up before gracefully rising to tower above her. Everything he did was like an exercise in control. She'd not seen him express any emotion other than disdain and snobbery since she'd arrived. But despite that, there was something about his strong, silent presence that made her feel small and protected, as odd as it was.

"Who caused all this pain?" Mal asked bluntly, his voice cutting through her like a winter breeze.

There was something about the way he asked the question that bespoke death and pain. Her lips thinned, and she glanced at the fire. She didn't know who exactly attacked her, but she could describe them. Was it worth it, though? Her assailants had caused pain, but they hadn't killed her or attempted to rape her. That was more than she could say for some of her other fights since arriving at the mountain palace. If she gave the men up, it could result in losing the trust of the shifters she'd worked so hard to gain.

Don't protect the guilty.

She closed her eyes and inhaled deeply. Were they truly guilty? Or were they just acting on prejudices, just as she had done at one time? Tempest didn't know, and only time would tell.

Tempest kept her mouth shut and met Mal's icy gaze. She'd stay silent. For now. He cocked his head and studied her. She expected a biting comment or a threat. Instead, he smiled.

Her whole body stiffened, and her heart began to pound. It was a charming smile—or should have been charming—but she saw right through it. It was the kind of smile that signaled death was standing before you.

She shivered and opened her mouth to protest, but before she said one word—to protest or lie or anything else that she could think of—Mal left the room.

Tempest wavered, her eyelids lowering as she stared at the door.

What had she done?