Chapter Forty-Five

Kane

Willow adjusts her brand-new cloak as she weaves around some oily cobblestones. Her face is barely a shadow. Her hair—or rather, lack of hair—is easily concealed.

“It was only a matter of time before I cut it,” she tells me. “At least, this way, we turn a profit.”

A profit, sure, but at what cost? Literally sacrificing a part of herself? She was supposed to be done with that shit the second she left Southside.

This is why all villages can go to hell, my inner alpha growls.

Even with both of us properly fed and clothed, Silas’s pack secure beneath my cloak, I feel more exposed than I did when we got here.

Willow had no problem putting her trust in that lanky omega back at the shop. Me? I’m less easily convinced.

“We can’t stay here,” Willow mutters. “Silas could be searching for us in the village center.”

“We’re not far off,” I remind her. “If he were nearby, I’d scent him.”

She bristles. I don’t need a bond to tell me how anxious those words make her feel.

“I'm sure he’s fine,” I say, despite myself. “Probably just fucking around somewhere.”

“Yeah.” She scoffs. “Silas is really the ‘fuck around’ type.”

What does she want me to say? That, actually, he probably got taken down by the Southside squadron? That they’re interrogating him, torturing him, as we speak?

“I’m sorry,” she sighs. “It’s just, if something’s happened to him—”

“I get it. No magic imprint bond for you.”

“No.” She scowls. “He could die.”

I roll my eyes. “Southside isn’t gonna kill him on the spot.”

“They could. Southside’s sentinels, even the Northside guard. To one, he’s a deserter. To the other, an enemy.”

That much is true. For the first time, I wonder what happens to Willow’s omega if her imprint mate dies. Would she feel it? Would it … hurt her?

Christ. I need to start taking this seriously.

“Let’s go back to the alley,” I grunt. “Your blood should be more than enough for him to track us down.”

“It’ll be faded,” she argues.

“If he can’t pick out his imprint mate’s scent,” I snarl, “he doesn’t fucking deserve you.”

With that, and with dusk on the horizon, we return to the merchants’ stalls. The air is rank with food, coin, and dissent. I don’t know how any of these people even have their scent receptors anymore, with all this constant overload.

“In there,” Willow suggests suddenly, indicating a tilted building up ahead.

“A bar,” I grunt. “You’re joking.”

“We have coin,” she reminds me, “and time to kill.”

“Aren’t you gonna draw attention, wearing your hood inside?”

She smiles bitterly. “I’m an omega in my alpha’s company. You tell me to keep my hood up, no-one will bat an eye.”

I almost growl. And rogues are the barbarians?

Somehow we end up inside, my inner alpha seething at the cramped space. Way too easy for another alpha to bump shoulders with my mate. The noise is equally unbearable—a lone musician trying to get out his tune as patrons cackle and clink glasses. Shouldn’t it at least be dark before they start getting wasted?

“Two ginger beers,” Willow advises me under her breath. “And two shepherds pies.”

I recite the order to the barmaid. She notes Willow’s hooded appearance with mild suspicion, then looks at me again, and nods.

We barely speak through our meal. Willow is too busy hanging her head. I’m too busy scanning the other patrons, daring them to even breathe in my mate’s direction.

“What do you think?” Willow asks, nodding to my plate.

I scoop another mouthful. The meat tastes off, and the potatoes are so salty I have to take a drink for every other bite.

“It’s fine,” I mutter.

Those green eyes peer out from under the hood, flickering knowingly.

By the time we’re done, the bar is crawling with alphas—most at least half-drunk. I try not to sneer at the shame of it all.

“I take it you’re not much of a drinker,” Willow notes my disdain.

I grunt. “In the wilds, getting drunk makes it harder to stay sharp.”

“You mean, it’s harder to come by.”

“No. I mean rogues, as a general rule, try not to die.” At her curious silence, I probe, “What about you?”

She shrugs. “Sometimes. Dinner parties. Social events. Always under supervision, of course.”

“Right. So the precious little omegas don’t get wasted.”

“Oh, no. We got plenty wasted.”

I raise my eyebrows. “No shit.”

“We were noble, unbonded, omega villagers. Hardly surprising we needed to blow off steam.”

Who’s ‘we’ ? I want to ask. For someone I’ve plunged my teeth into, she’s told me jack shit about her life. I know the worst thing that ever happened to her. I know she loves me, for some reason I’m too grateful to question. But what about everything that came before?

“Huh.” I sit back. “I would’ve liked to have seen that.”

She scoffs. “You’d probably have taken one look before carting me off to my nest.”

“You think I’m a killjoy?”

“I think you hate drunk alphas,” she returns, “especially when they’re staring at me .”

I can’t control my inner alpha, who is all-too eager to prove her point, as I angrily scan the room once more.

I bristle. “Who the fuck is that?”

I didn’t notice her come in—her, or her mate. Her eyes are blue as ice, staring at me unblinkingly. Her mate is tall, but slouched. Dark, oily hair falls across his jaw, hiding his features.

“We need to leave,” I announce, dragging Willow toward the door.

She starts. “Why?”

“Because.” I glance over my shoulder. Sure enough, now they’re both staring. “I think Mal figured out who you are.”

Behind us, Mal and his mate don’t get up to follow. The image of them just sitting there fills my inner alpha with dread.

“This is insane,” Willow asserts. “I told Mal, if he tried to mess with—”

“I don’t think he’s the one we’ve gotta worry about, bunny.” I scan the dark street, searching for the nearest escape route.

“Are you sure he was there for us?” she demands, struggling to keep up as I haul her into an alleyway.

“I know a trap when I see it,” I snarl back.

I drag her deeper, constantly checking to make sure we’re not being followed.

“Kane—” Willow gasps.

“Not now, bunny.”

“Kane!”

Finally, I turn. Two figures are tailing us, cloaked in black.

Willow’s eyes widen. “Shit,” she hisses.

I follow her gaze to the two new figures swaggering in from the other end. There’s no moving forward without going through them. No moving backward without going through the others. We’re trapped.

Without thinking, I pin Willow to the wall. If only it, or the adjacent building, were one-story, I might be able to hoist her up. Give her a running chance.

Instead, all I can do is stand my ground.

“Evening, lovebirds,” the nearest alpha leers.

“Heard a rumor that one of you’s got pretty red hair,” another adds. His beady eyes glint hungrily as he examines me. “Guessin’ that’s not you.”

“You get one warning,” I growl. “Back. The fuck. Off .”

“Is that any way to speak to your betters, rogue ?” a third chimes in. His lip curls. “At least your whore knows to keep her mouth shut.”

Behind me, Willow growls.

Well, there goes their warning .

I whip out my dagger, flinging it at lightning-speed. The blade finds it mark in the third alpha’s throat. He gargles on his own blood, eyes rolling back as he sinks to his knees. Before I can retrieve the weapon, two more alphas charge.

“Kane!” Willow tries to break free. “Let me help!”

Fuck no. If she joins the fight—god forbid, gets hurt —I’ll lose what’s left of my self-control. Get us both killed.

I counter the alphas’ onslaught, refusing to dodge or weave. If I move even an inch from where I stand, my mate will be in the line of fire.

“We don’t need him,” one of them snarls, lurking away from the main fight. “Strike to kill!”

Two machetes come flashing out. I could almost laugh. What the fuck do villagers need with machetes?

Then someone actually swings it.

Pain slices hotly across my cheekbone. I growl, shoving him back, only for the second machete to slash up my jaw.

“Alpha!” Willow cries.

“Give me your blade,” I order.

She doesn’t answer. One minute, her body is warm and secure against my back. The next, she’s gone.

My heart stops. I glance down in time to watch her squirm out from under me, brandishing her goddamn cooking knife.

She slashes one of our attackers behind his knees. He barely gets out a pained roar before I punch him clean out.

“Little bitch!” the lurker barks.

A big angry boot flies into Willow’s stomach. I see the attack coming, the world turning thick and sluggish, and yet I can’t do a damn thing to stop it.

She slams into the bricks. Her head makes a sickening crunch .

The bond splinters, her omega’s agony and my alpha’s outrage merging into one ravenous beast. I don’t give a fuck about weapons anymore—theirs, or mine.

I’ll finish these fuckers off with my teeth.

I lunge at the closest alpha, gripping his skull hard enough to pop his brains clean out. He tries to scream, but the sound gets lost as I bite deep into his jugular, tearing through flesh, muscles, and tendons.

“Holy fuck …” the fourth, final, alpha wavers. “What are you?”

I can see my reflection in his trembling eyes. My jaw stained with blood. My pupils dilated to flat, black discs. Pure, feral rage rolls off my pheromones like acid.

He screams as I knock him face-first into the cobblestones. Probably begs for his life. Truthfully, I can’t discern words anymore. All I can hear is his filthy heart, still beating .

“Halt!”

That’s not my mate’s voice. Which means it’s just another asshole who needs to die.

Something pinches the hollow flesh behind my ear. And then … I’m seeing stars, my stomach turning over itself, as I slump over the alpha I was about to kill.

“Kane,” a familiar voice demands. I can’t do jack shit to steady myself as Silas props me up against a wall, my limbs heavy and foreign as led. Standing around him are three alphas in uniform. Dark blue tunics. Black boots.

Northside guards.

Silas says, “Willow’s non-responsive. I need to know where she got hit.”

Where were you ? I try to roar. We were waiting. My mate was waiting.

“Bastard,” is all I manage to bite out.

One of the guards laughs. “It’s thanks to this bastard,” he declares, “the three of you are under Northside’s protection.”

What the fuck is he talking about? My ears ring loudly, painfully.

“Be more specific, cadet.” Another guard crouches down. She tilts her head at me like I’m a caged beast, her lips curving into a smile. “Technically speaking … they’re prisoners of war.”