Chapter 9 — Smoke in the Kitchen
1619 Words
The kitchens were nearly empty at this hour.
Most of the pack had already eaten. The servants had withdrawn. Only the scent of roasted meat, bread crust, and spilled wine lingered in the air.
Linda stepped inside without announcing herself.
Marcus sat alone at the long wooden table near the hearth.
A single lantern burned beside him.
A half-empty bottle of wine stood at his elbow.
He didn’t look surprised when she entered.
He didn’t even turn fully.
“You walk like you’re about to kill someone,” he said mildly.
Her voice cut sharp.
“Did you know anything about my parents’ disappearance?”
That got his attention.
Marcus turned slowly in his chair.
His eyes studied her face.
“What?”
“You heard me.”
His brows lowered slightly.
“Where is this coming from?”
“Answer the question.”
He leaned back, crossing one ankle over his knee.
“No.”
Her jaw tightened.
“No, you didn’t know?”
“No, I did not know anything beyond what the Alpha announced.”
She stepped closer.
“You never suspected anything?”
“I suspect everything.”
“That’s not what I asked.”
Marcus took a slow sip of wine.
His eyes never left hers.
“Why now?”
Linda pulled the crumpled letter from her pocket and threw it onto the table.
Marcus glanced down at it.
Unfolded it slowly.
Read.
His expression didn’t change.
He set it back down.
“This isn’t mine.”
“I didn’t say it was.”
“You’re implying it.”
“I’m asking.”
Marcus leaned forward.
“And you believe an anonymous arrow over the words of your Alpha?”
Her temper flared.
“I believe my parents didn’t simply fall.”
The room felt smaller.
Marcus’ gaze sharpened slightly.
“You’ve carried that doubt for years.”
“I carried silence.”
He tilted his head.
“Silence is easier.”
“For whom?”
“For those who benefit from it.”
She stepped closer again.
“You were always questioning the throne.”
“Yes.”
“You challenge Damien openly.”
“Yes.”
“You said things began to fracture after my parents died.”
His eyes flickered.
“I said the clan changed.”
“Because they were gone?”
“Because power shifted.”
She inhaled sharply.
“What do you know?”
“Nothing more than you.”
Her control snapped.
In one fluid motion she closed the distance, drew her dagger, and slammed him back against the stone wall beside the hearth.
The chair clattered to the floor.
Wine spilled across the table.
Her blade pressed against his throat.
The metal touched skin.
Marcus did not fight.
Did not flinch.
He simply looked at her.
Up close.
Calm.
“You want to test that theory?” she asked quietly.
Her voice shook—not from fear, but from emotion she had locked down too long.
“Careful,” he murmured.
“Answer me.”
“I did.”
“You’re lying.”
“If I were lying, you’d smell it.”
Her blade pressed harder.
A thin line of red appeared at his neck.
“You always thought you were stronger than them,” she said.
“Stronger than the Alpha’s sons.”
“I am.”
“You thought my father was a threat.”
“I thought your father was honest.”
Her grip faltered slightly.
“He didn’t deserve what happened.”
“Then what happened?” she demanded.
Marcus’ eyes did not waver.
“I don’t know.”
She shoved him harder against the stone.
“You expect me to believe that?”
“I expect you to know me well enough to know when I lie.”
She hesitated.
That hesitation was enough.
Marcus’ lips curved faintly—not mockery.
Something else.
“You think I wanted them dead?”
“You wanted control.”
“I want stability.”
“You hate Damien.”
“I hate weakness.”
“You hate Morgan.”
A flicker passed through his eyes.
“I distrust him.”
“And you expect me to believe you had no role in their mission?”
Marcus’ voice hardened slightly.
“That mission was ordered by the Alpha.”
Her breath hitched.
“So you knew about it.”
“I knew they were sent beyond the ravine.”
“And you said nothing.”
“It wasn’t my authority to countermand the Alpha.”
“You could have warned them.”
“They already knew what they were walking into.”
Her blade stilled.
“What?”
Marcus held her gaze.
“They were not naive.”
Her heartbeat pounded in her ears.
“They knew it was dangerous.”
“Yes.”
“And they went anyway.”
“Yes.”
“For the clan?”
“For something more complicated.”
She stared at him.
“What does that mean?”
“It means you are asking the wrong wolf.”
She pressed the blade closer.
“Then tell me who.”
Marcus’ voice lowered.
“Ask your Alpha.”
Her anger surged again.
She pushed him harder—
And that was when she felt it.
A presence behind her.
She turned her head slightly.
Bailey stood in the doorway.
Frozen.
Eyes wide.
Taking in the blade at Marcus’ throat.
The blood.
The closeness.
Something shifted in Bailey’s expression.
Not shock.
Not fear.
Disappointment.
And something like disgust.
Linda’s breath caught.
Bailey held her gaze for one long second.
Then stepped backward slowly.
Without a word.
Without a sound.
She disappeared into the corridor.
Linda’s grip faltered.
For the first time since entering the kitchen, uncertainty pierced her anger.
Marcus noticed immediately.
“Careful,” he said quietly.
She stepped back, lowering the blade but not sheathing it.
Her breathing was uneven.
“You’ve lost control,” he observed.
“Don’t.”
“You never lose control.”
“Don’t.”
He adjusted his collar slightly where the blade had cut him.
Blood trickled down, but he didn’t seem concerned.
“I did not send that arrow,” he said calmly.
“Then who?”
“If I knew, I would not be standing here.”
She studied him.
Searching for deception.
She smelled wine.
Smoke.
Old stone.
No fear.
No lies.
Just tension.
“You believe something is wrong,” he said.
“Yes.”
“So do I.”
She said nothing.
Marcus stepped away from the wall, moving carefully so as not to provoke her again.
“The clan began to fracture after your parents died,” he said quietly.
“Because they were strong.”
“Yes.”
“And because they questioned decisions.”
Her throat tightened.
“They were not rebels.”
“No.”
“They were loyal.”
“Yes.”
“And loyalty threatened someone.”
She swallowed.
He stepped closer—not threatening.
Measured.
“The incident tonight,” he said, glancing toward the doorway, “remains between us.”
She narrowed her eyes.
“Why?”
“Because if it reaches the council, you lose credibility.”
“And you?”
“I gain leverage.”
She understood the implication.
“You won’t use it.”
“No.”
“Why?”
He studied her for a moment.
“Because I need you.”
Her jaw tightened.
“For what?”
“For truth.”
“About my parents?”
“And about Rowan.”
Her eyes sharpened.
“What about Rowan?”
“You helped move his body.”
Her breath stopped.
Marcus’ gaze didn’t waver.
“I know you did.”
Ice slid down her spine.
“How?”
“I notice things.”
“You’re accusing me.”
“I’m asking why.”
She said nothing.
Marcus continued.
“If Rowan’s death was convenient… then someone benefits.”
“You think Morgan killed him.”
“I think Morgan benefits from silence.”
Her thoughts collided.
“You hate him.”
“I distrust succession without scrutiny.”
“And you want me to spy.”
“I want you to see clearly.”
She lowered the dagger fully now.
Her hand trembled slightly before she forced it still.
“You would trade my silence tonight,” she said slowly, “for my help.”
“Yes.”
“And if I refuse?”
He met her eyes.
“I keep my silence anyway.”
“Why?”
“Because I don’t want the clan to tear itself apart.”
She searched his face.
He looked tired.
Angry.
Determined.
But not deceptive.
“You place the clan above blood,” she said.
“Yes.”
“Even above your brother.”
A pause.
“Yes.”
Silence stretched between them.
The hearth crackled softly.
She felt the weight of Bailey’s gaze lingering in memory.
The weight of the letter.
The weight of Morgan’s touch.
The weight of her parents’ absence.
Marcus extended a hand toward the table.
“Help me uncover what happened to Rowan.”
“And in return?”
“I tell you everything I learn about your parents.”
Her voice lowered.
“And if the truth destroys the throne?”
Marcus didn’t blink.
“Then it was already broken.”
She stared at him.
Her silence wasn’t agreement.
But it wasn’t refusal either.
Marcus inclined his head slightly.
“We begin carefully,” he said.
“No one must know.”
Her fingers tightened around the dagger hilt.
Especially not Morgan.
She said nothing.
But she didn’t walk away.
And that was answer enough.
- Writer
