Scars of the syndicate

CHAPTER 4

The morning didn't bring sunlight, it brought a heavy, suffocating fog that swallowed the mountainside whole. Bianca hadn't slept a single wink. Every time she closed her eyes, she saw the glowing amber of Silas’s gaze or heard the scratching of claws against the stone outside her bedroom door.

At exactly six o'clock, the heavy bolt on the outside of her door slid back with a loud, metallic clack.

Bianca bolted upright in the massive bed, pulling the velvet duvet to her chin. The door swung open, and Greta stepped in. The old woman looked exactly as she had the night before, sharp, cold, and entirely unimpressed. She was carrying a bundle of dark fabric which she tossed unceremoniously onto the foot of the bed.

"Put these on," Greta commanded. Her voice sounded like dry gravel. "The Alpha is waiting."

"The Alpha?" Bianca asked, her voice cracking from disuse.

Greta’s eyes narrowed, a strange flash of pride crossing her face. "Mr. Vane. He doesn’t like his coffee cold, and he doesn’t like to be kept waiting. Neither do the others."

Bianca looked at the clothes, It was a pair of heavy black denim jeans and a thick, oversized wool sweater in a deep charcoal grey. There was also a pair of sturdy leather boots.

"Why do I need these?" Bianca asked, sliding out of bed. The floor was ice-cold against her bare feet.

"Because the Ridge isn't a ballroom, girl," Greta snapped as she walked toward the door. "And those little heels you wore yesterday are probably at the bottom of the mud by now. Be downstairs in ten minutes, or I’ll let Cassian come up and get you. He isn't as patient as I am."

The threat of 'Cassian' was enough to make Bianca move. She dressed quickly, the heavy wool of the sweater scratching at her neck. It smelled faintly of cedar and something wild, like the forest after a storm. It was the smell of the house.

She found her way back down the grand staircase by memory. The house was silent, but didn't feel empty. She felt eyes on her from every shadow, a weight on her chest that made it hard to draw a full breath.

When she reached the dining hall, the doors were already open.

The room was dominated by a table made from a single, massive oak tree, polished to a dark shine. Silas sat at the head, looking perfectly composed in a black button-down shirt with the sleeves rolled up. But he wasn't alone. Six other men sat around the table. They were all massive, with the same thick necks and predatory stillness as Silas.

The moment Bianca stepped into the room, the sound of silverware hitting plates stopped instantly. Six heads snapped toward her. The air in the room suddenly felt electric, thick with a tension she didn't understand.

One man, younger than the rest, with a shock of blonde hair and a jagged scar across his eye, stood up so fast his chair flew backward. His nostrils flared, and his upper lip curled back to reveal teeth that looked far too sharp to belong to a human.

"Moretti," he hissed. The word sounded like a death threat.

"Sit down, Cassian," Silas said. He didn't raise his voice, but the command was absolute.

"She smells like the man who hunted us, Silas," Cassian growled, his hands gripping the edge of the table so hard the wood creaked. "Why is she at our table? Why is she breathing our air?"

"Because I put her there," Silas replied, finally looking at Bianca. He gestured to a chair at the far end of the table. "Sit. Eat."

Bianca walked to the chair, her legs feeling like lead. She sat as far from the others as possible. A plate was placed in front of her, thick slices of steak, seared on the outside and almost raw in the middle. The sight of the blood pooling on the white ceramic made her stomach flip.