Whispers of the Winter Wolf

Episode Thirteen

Part 24: The Viper and the Mountain

The heavy lodge door slammed shut with a thud that echoed the final, frantic pounding of my heart. The sound of the courtyard, the whispers of the pack, the moans of the prisoners—all of it was gone.

There was only silence. And him.

Draven’s arm was still locked around my waist, a band of unyielding steel holding me against his side. He didn't let go. For a long, breathless moment, we just stood there in the entryway, two statues in the dim, firelit room. I could feel him breathing, or rather, fighting for control of his breath. He was vibrating, a low-frequency tremor of rage, relief, and a territorial possession so profound it was almost suffocating.

When he finally released me, it was so abrupt I stumbled. I caught myself on the back of a large, carved chair.

He didn't move to help. He stalked past me, to the center of the room, and stood with his back to me, his hands braced on the great stone hearth. His shoulders were bunched, his entire body a knot of leashed, violent energy.

"Take it off," he growled.

His voice was not the rumbling, gentle tone from the night before. It was the flat, cold, and utterly terrifying command of the Alpha.

I froze. "What?"

He turned his head, his golden eyes blazing in the firelight. They were not the eyes of a mate. They were the eyes of a predator who has just watched its most precious thing nearly stolen. "The tunic," he snarled. "His blood is on it. Take it off."

My hands, numb and clumsy, went to the hem of the heavy black tunic—his tunic. I was so exhausted I could barely lift my arms. I pulled it over my head, my body clumsy with fatigue, leaving me in the thin linen undertunic and leather breeches. I threw the blood-stained garment on the floor. It felt like shedding a skin.

He stalked back to me. He didn't stop until he was looming over me, his gaze fixed on the shallow, long-since-clotted gash on my forearm. The one I’d gotten from Silas's blade.

"Here," he commanded, pointing to the chair.

I sat. My legs gave out more than I chose to.

He stormed to the medical kit, his movements jerky and enraged. He ripped a strip of cloth and uncorked a bottle of cleansing spirits, the sharp, antiseptic smell cutting through the room. He knelt in front of me, grabbed my arm in a grip that was just shy of painful, and began to clean the wound.

I hissed as the spirits hit the raw flesh. His hands were not gentle. He was scrubbing, his knuckles white, his jaw clenched so tight a muscle jumped.

"He touched you," he growled, his voice a low, guttural vibration. "He cut you. I sent you out, and he put his steel on you."

"Draven," I whispered, my voice shaking. "I'm fine. It's a scratch."

"It is not a scratch!" he roared, slamming the bottle down. He stood, pacing like a caged wolf. "I saw it, Lyra! I saw the brute's club. I saw the blade. I stood on that rampart for five hours, smelling your fear and their blood on the wind, and I did nothing."

"You did," I argued, my voice small, "you sent me to—"

"I sent you to lead!" he snapped, whirling on me. "I sent you to strategize! I did not send you to be a one-woman army! I did not send you to duel their Alpha in the dirt while my Guard watched!"

"Valerius followed my orders!"

"His orders were to protect you!"

"His orders were to obey me!" I shouted back, a sudden, desperate surge of my own adrenaline rising to meet his. I staggered to my feet, facing him. "You can't have it both ways, Draven! You can't tell me I am your Queen and then treat me like a pup who needs saving! You told me to show them what I was. I did! This," I gestured to my own bloodied, exhausted body, "is what I am! This is what the wild made me!"

The room cracked with a sudden, ringing silence. We were both breathing hard, staring at each other, the air between us thick with rage and truth.

My strength was gone. The shout had taken the last of it. My face crumpled, the adrenaline crash hitting me like a physical blow. The tears I hadn't shed for three years suddenly burned, hot and heavy, behind my eyes.

"He called me a viper," I whispered, the words small and broken. My rogue's mask, the one of cold, hard ice, was cracking. "Silas. He said... he said you'd have to be careful I didn't decide your throat looked too soft."

Draven’s rage, which had been a white-hot inferno, vanished. It was extinguished, as if doused by ice water. His face, his entire body, softened. The Alpha receded, and the mate returned.

He stepped forward, his movements now slow, achingly gentle. He reached up and cupped my face, his large, warm hands bracketing my jaw. His thumbs stroked my cheeks, just below my eyes, where the tears threatened to fall.

"He was right about the first part," he murmured, his voice a low, deep rumble that vibrated through my bones.

I flinched. "What?"

"You are a viper," he said, his golden eyes burning into mine, not with anger, but with a fierce, possessive adoration that stole my breath. "You are cunning. You are silent. You are underestimated. And you are lethal."

He stroked my hair back from my face. "Lyra, I am a mountain. I am stone, and I am power. I break things. I rule by force. But you... you rule by cunning. You see the cracks in the stone. You find the weakness. You wait. You strike."

He leaned in, his forehead pressing against mine, just as he had before I left. "I did not fall for a soft, pack-raised Luna. I hunted a ghost. I found a survivor. I chose a viper. I chose you."

"But he said..." I choked out, a single tear escaping, "he said I'd... I'd turn on you."

"Let him talk," Draven growled, his thumb wiping the tear away. "He is a fool. He thinks, like all males, that strength must be controlled. He doesn't understand." He pulled back, his eyes holding mine. "Your poison is my poison, Lyra. Your fangs are my fangs. You are not a weapon to be aimed. You are my other half."

The exhaustion was a wave pulling me under. My knees finally buckled.

This time, he was ready. He didn't just catch me. He swept me off my feet, lifting me into his arms as if I weighed nothing. My head fell against his shoulder, my arm slinging around his neck on pure instinct. I was too tired to be shocked, too tired to protest.

He carried me to the bed. He didn't wait for my permission. He didn't offer me the cot. He laid me down in the center of the massive fur-covered mattress, in the nest I had woken up in. He pulled off my muddy, blood-caked boots, his movements economical and sure.

I was shivering, the cold of the room finally seeping in.

He pulled the heavy, dark furs up to my chin, tucking me in like a child. He stood over me for a long moment, a massive, shadowed guardian.

I thought he would leave. I thought he would go to the cot, or to the chair.

He didn't.

He walked around the bed, shucked off his own boots and sword belt, and lay down on the furs beside me, on top of the covers, just as he had the night before. He lay on his back, a solid, warm presence that anchored me to the world.

He was not touching me. But he was there.

"I am... I'm covered in blood and dirt," I murmured, my voice thick, my eyes already closing.

"It is the blood of our enemies," he rumbled, his voice coming from beside me in the dark. "It does not matter."

"Draven..."

"Sleep, Lyra," he commanded, his voice a low, gentle promise. "You are home. You are safe. I have the watch."

And for the first time in my entire life, I believed it. I let the darkness pull me under, my last conscious thought a single, simple truth: the mountain didn't just accept the viper. It had built a fortress to protect her.