BOUND BY FATE: Contracted To The Enemy Alpha

Chapter 8— Wrong places, Wrong reasons.

Chapter 8— Wrong places, Wrong reasons.

Kyra

“Arrow's clean through," the healer muttered. “You’re lucky it missed the bone.”

Lucky? I almost laughed. If anything I wasn't lucky. Lucky would have been a shot to somewhere vital, putting me out of my misery quickly. Lucky would have been sensing I was being used by James. Lucky would have been having my father here.

No— if anything, I wasn't lucky. Luck didn't bring me this far and I've learned to live without it.

True to the healer's words, The arrow hadn't gone deep, but it had pierced clean through the soft part between my thumb and forefinger. A stupid injury really. One I couldn't have avoided even if I wanted to.

The injured warrior, Mark, was being attended to by another healer. Callie and a guard had brought us here. She hadn't said a word on the walk but the rage oozing off her said enough.

I gritted my teeth as the healer poured something acidic over the wound. It hissed against my skin and I looked away— just in time to see the infirmary doors crash open.

Two warriors stumbled in first, dragging someone half-conscious between them. More poured in behind some limping, coughing, and bloodied. One clutched a leg wrapped in scorched cloth, and a woman had claw marks raked across her chest, stopping just shy of her left breast.

A boy who couldn't have been older than ten was carried in, whimpering his face streaked with blood, tears, and soot.

Cries of pain filled the air, and instructions flew. Cots scraped the floor. Blood smeared the tiles, makeshift linens, and walls.

The healer's mouth tightened. “By the goddess…” she whispered. Yeah, by the goddess. I hadn't realized it was this bad when the wounded warrior Mark mentioned the attack at the southern border.

I quickly moved aside making room on the cot next to mine as more people flooded in. The two healers moved quickly, hands working fast but it wasn't enough. There were too many people, too much blood.

The older healer turned, her eyes meeting mine for a brief second before returning to the torn thigh she was stitching. “Don't just stand there, girl. You've got experience? Then I need it.”

I hesitated not because I didn't want to help or I had no experience but because I knew exactly how these people looked at me. They hated me. Heck, they would blame me if they could.

And I wasn't sure how they'd react if I helped them.

“Get to work!” the healer snapped louder this time. “Unless you'd rather stand there and watch her bleed out.”

My feet moved before my mind made a decision. I crossed the room and stood beside a woman with an open wound on her thigh. My hand throbbed with the bucket of water I was carrying. The healer looked over and passed me a cloth and a needle. “You know how to hold a vein still?”

I nodded, because I did. Because I'd learned that in the wrong places, for the wrong reasons.

She nodded. “Good then, get to work.”

Somehow, her partial acceptance lifted something heavy off my chest.

I reached for the wounded woman's leg but she jerked back. “Don't touch me, you witch.” she hissed, dragging her other good leg away. “For all I know this could be your doing.” and here we go again with the accusations. All I had to do was have the blood of a Ferguson to be hated. I could breathe and I would be accused of causing a war between two packs.

Before I could find the words to reply back, the healer called across the room. “Then bleed out. Or let her stitch you. Those are your choices.”

The woman gritted her teeth and then glared at me like I was dirt filthy but she didn't resist again.

I moved from one wounded patient to the other, cleaning, stitching, wrapping bandages, and offering what little comfort I could give even though they were mostly glaring at me. Some whose wounds were now in a better shape whispered and pointed fingers in my direction but I ignored them. Now wasn't the time to fight back or give a snarky reply. Some people needed my help even though they didn't ask for it.

A few have been moved to separate rooms to make enough room for the others. The moans and cries have quieted but instead replaced with accusatory glances towards me and whisperings.

By evening, my knees ached, and my good hand was streaked in dried blood. I was wiping a beat of sweat from my brow when the door creaked open again and this time the murmurs stopped—well, reduced.

Tristan stepped inside, gaze sweeping at the room as if he were taking every patient in. He approached the older healer, murmured something to her ears, and then stopped in front of me.

“A moment with you.” And then he turned and left. He didn't wait to see if I followed or not.

I wiped my palms on my pants and followed, ignoring the way the female I was attending to snatched her hand back like I carried rot. I followed him out, brushing past the stares without meeting a single eye. My legs were stiff, and sore from standing too long.

We didn't go far. Just around the corner to a hallway that was, for now, empty. The second the door shut behind me, he turned.

“Give me one good reason why I shouldn't believe you're not behind this?!” He snarled.

I blinked. “You forgot to say ‘please’.”

He looked taken aback and his eyes hardened.

Oops, wrong answer. I saw it in the tightening of his jaw, the flex of his fingers like he was two seconds away from punching the wall— or worse. Me.

“This isn't a game, Ferguson. For once in your life can you even take anything f*****g seriously?! People died. I lost pack members!” right now he looked every inch like he was three years ago when he had stormed into our pack calling us names.

“I don't know, Tristan. What do you want to hear? That if I wanted to destroy your pack, I'd be smart enough not to be here when it happened. Or maybe I was too busy being a live dummy to plan a massacre.” I yelled. “Or maybe I could have used it as a distraction while I found a way out. Or maybe you want another blood oath on top of the one we had? Or I needed to remind you that I’m bound to you and even if I wanted to do anything I can’t.” I showed him where the blood pact mark lay on my palm. “Or maybe I'm just too tired of being blamed for things I know nothing about!”

His eyes bored into mine like he was trying to pull answers I didn't have straight from my skull. He flexed his jaw then he exhaled through his nose like he was trying not to explode. “For your sake, I hope this isn't an act.”

I didn't say anything. I was tired, physically and emotionally. I could feel my body threatening to break down but I held on to whatever strength I had left.

Silence passed between us and Tristan spoke. “we will be burying our dead at dusk.” His voice had dropped an octave, sounding more composed but even I could see the worry written all over him. “You should be there.”

“As what?” I wanted to ask. It wasn't like my respect for any of the dead meant anything unless, of course, he wanted me to be present as his Luna but instead, I blurted out something else.

“Wearing what? The clothes I've had on since my arrival here? I don't exactly have a closet to pick from, Tristan.”

He opened his mouth and then closed it. A flicker of something passed through his expression but it left quickly before I had the time to analyze it.

“I will send someone.” He said then walked away without another word. I was alone now with just the reminder that I would be forced to stand over the graves of people who wished that I had died instead.

Paying last respects to people I didn't know. People who if they were alive wouldn't want me there.

I didn't go back to the infirmary. I didn't want to feel more of their hate pressed into my skin or their glares or the next reminder that I didn't belong.

So instead I wandered aimlessly through the winding halls of the Banewolff estate. Waiting for someone to bring me whatever I was supposed to wear to a funeral that I clearly wasn't wanted in.

The corridors were getting colder despite the warm flicker of torches lining the wall. One corridor bled into the next, I cradled my hand close to my chest. The wound in my hand still throbbed a little but it will heal soon enough. My clothes clung to my skin, a reminder that I haven't taken a bath in… like forever.

My feet slowed near a particular door. I wasn't sure where I was though, but I could hear someone talking… voices as if they were arguing.

Was this about me?

The voices were low. Hushed. Hard to place. Men? Women? Or all men? I moved closer, tilting my ear to the door.

“...Not supposed to last…” the voice sounded familiar. Like a voice I've heard before but can't place.

“... he already suspects…”

“... should have ended her before…”

Fuck! The irritation that comes with half conversations. The itch to know what they were talking about, who they were talking about made me move even closer. My fingers brushed against the edge of the door as I leaned in and then…

Shit!

I shouldn't have because the door gave out. A yelp escaped my mouth as I stumbled forward and then I felt something or rather someone's hand clamped down on my shoulder.