Chapter 6
1929 คำ
Chapter 6
“Snide comments? Like what?” Warlord asked during their nightly ritual. He was lying in bed, the sheets kicked down to his waist, wearing only a pair of black briefs. The glow of his phone illuminated the sharp lines of his torso, a contrast to the soft, warm light of Arden's quarters.
“Just that. Snide comments. He’s just whining about my bond with you,” Arden said dismissively. She was sitting in her beanbag chair, a piece of furniture that had sat in the corner as mere decoration for years but had now become the most important spot in her room. She worked a brush through her hair, letting it fall in waves after being pinned in a tight, military bun all day.
“Anything in particular I need to know?” Warlord questioned, his voice taking on that low, analytical edge he used when he was assessing a threat.
“Nothing you probably haven’t already heard before. They’re harmless. Annoying, yes, but harmless,” Arden stated, her eyes following the rhythmic stroke of the brush.
“Have you reported him to your commanding officer for it?”
“No. They’re just words, Westley,” Arden insisted, her tone light but firm.
“Words have meaning, Arden, and words aren’t always completely harmless. Even if he’s talking about me, he’s saying them to you because he knows you won’t do anything about it,” Warlord responded. He shifted on the mattress, his protective instincts chafing at her nonchalance. “He’s testing the boundaries.”
“Douglas is a fascist narcissist, Westley. Everyone in the brigade knows this about him. They pay him no mind. They let him ramble. Ignoring him is the best way to deal with someone like him,” Arden said, leaning back into the beanbag.
Warlord was about to reply when the distinct, heavy thud of footsteps echoed from the hallway outside his bedroom door. In the quiet of the townhouse, for a werewolf, even the lightest footsteps were loud.
“What the…” Warlord whispered, his body instantly tensing.
“What’s wrong?” Arden asked, her voice shifting from relaxed to combat-ready in a split second.
“I just heard someone walking down the hall,” Warlord replied. He stood up, his bare feet silent on the floorboards.
“Isn’t everyone asleep?”
“They should be.” Warlord’s master bedroom faced the front of the property, positioned directly over the garage. He padded over to the window, peeling back the edge of the curtain just enough to peer out into the moonlit street.
His eyes tracked a dark silhouette moving away from the house. “Where is this fool going?” Warlord asked out loud, his brow furrowed as he watched the figure.
“Who?” Arden pressed.
“Fury…”
“He’s leaving the house? At this hour?”
“Yeah, and he’s only wearing his sweatpants,” Warlord replied, his sharp eyes taking in the pale skin of Fury’s bare chest against the night.
“You should go check on him and make sure he’s okay,” Arden suggested.
“He’s a grown man, Arden, and a trained bounty hunter. He can handle himself,” Warlord said dismissively.
“Gee, I can see you care about your friends,” Arden sarcastically remarked.
“He’s been a shell of himself since his mate rejected him. I’m staying out of his way unless he needs something,” Warlord briefly explained.
“Why would she reject him?”
“She’s apparently engaged to someone else,” Warlord answered.
“A werewolf… engaged to someone else?” Arden questioned in disbelief.
“She’s not a werewolf. She’s a light witch.”
“A light witch?” Arden repeated, her voice trailing off as she processed the information.
“Yup.”
“Well, that explains the complexity, but it doesn't change the soul-crush of a rejection. Even we fairies feel the pull toward our true love, especially after we mark them,” Arden said, her voice softening with genuine sympathy. “Are you sure you don’t need to go check on him?”
“No. He can mindlink us if he needs us,” Warlord stated aloofly as he got back into bed.
“You’re a great friend,” Arden mocked again, her sarcasm echoing through the speaker.
“I love him like a brother, Arden. And I hate that he’s hurting,” Warlord defended, his voice dropping an octave into a more serious tone. “But he’s not a pup, and he doesn’t want help. He’s already made that abundantly clear. I’m respecting his boundaries while he navigates the rejection on his own. If and when he asks for backup, I’ll be there. But I’ve learned that inserting oneself into someone else’s business when they’ve already asked you not to is a waste of time for everyone.”
Arden went quiet for a beat, then her voice turned playful. “Then perhaps you can apply that same logic to this situation with Douglas.”
“No can do,” Warlord immediately responded, not a second of hesitation in his voice.
“And why is that?” Arden asked, though she already knew the answer.
“Because you are my mate, which makes you my business,” Warlord stated, his protective aura practically radiating through the phone line. “Anything that has happened or will happen that has to do with you, from the moment we met until one of us dies, will always be my business. So, no, my lovely fairy mate, that logic does not apply to this situation with Douche Bag Dougie.”
Arden couldn’t help but burst into laughter at the horrible nickname Warlord just came up with. “Douche bag Dougie? Really, Westley? You’re a world-class bounty hunter, and that is the best insult you can come up with?”
“It’s efficient and accurate.”
“Well, I can’t argue with you on that one.”
“I could always call him Doucherman Doug,” Warlord added, making Arden laugh again.
“Now, that’s a good one,” Arden chuckled. “Very sophisticated. I’ll be sure to tell the Royal Guard that my mate, the legendary hunter, has renamed our most problematic member.”
“Don’t you dare,” Warlord warned, though there was no bite in it. “I have a reputation to uphold. I'm supposed to be the stoic, serious one. If word gets out I’m making up playground nicknames, my Alpha will never let me live it down.”
“Your secret is safe with me,” she promised, her voice dropping to a softer, more intimate register. “But I like this side of you, Westley. The one that isn't just about logic and spreadsheets.”
“You’re the only one who gets to see it. Just… be careful tomorrow, okay? If Doucherman Doug starts acting up, remember that you’ve got a mate here who’s ready to tear a hole in the sky for you.”
“I know,” she whispered. “I love you, Westley.”
“I love you too, Arden. Get some sleep.”
As the call disconnected with a soft click, Warlord placed his phone on the nightstand; the silence of the room didn't feel heavy anymore; it was filled with the lingering echo of Arden’s laughter and the steadying weight of her promise.
He didn't even bother pulling the covers up. He rolled onto his side, his body finally yielding to the exhaustion. The memory of her voice acted like a psychic lullaby, soothing the restless wolf pacing in his subconscious. For the first time in days, Horace stopped prowling and settled down, mirroring his human’s surrender to sleep.
In his dreams, the distance between Utah and the fairy kingdom didn't exist. There were no six-month contracts, no snide comments from Douglas, and no rejected roommates wandering the streets. There was only the scent of pine and starlight, and the feeling of Arden finally within his reach.
While Westley drifted into a deep sleep, Arden found herself wide awake, her skin humming with a restless energy that a beanbag chair couldn't contain. She stood up, reaching for a dark, heavy jacket to pull over her shoulders.
In the fairy kingdom, wings were a badge of identity, usually shimmering in soft lavenders, pale mints, or iridescent pastels. Most fairies flaunted them, letting the sunlight or moonlight catch the delicate veins in a constant display of ethereal beauty. But Arden kept hers tucked away, hidden beneath the fabric of her uniform or heavy cloaks.
She didn't do it out of shame, but out of a desire for peace. Her wings were an anomaly—a striking, aggressive fire-engine red that seemed to pulse with a light of its own. To some, the hue was a sign of a rare and powerful lineage, sparking bitter envy; to others, it was an omen of a volatile nature, making them keep a fearful distance. For Arden, however, they were the secret to her true identity. A secret only King Duncan knew about.
Up here, in the cold, thin air where the moonlight turned the clouds to silver, Arden’s true nature hummed through her veins. The world below knew her as an exceptional fairy with an unusual wing color, but the truth was far older and infinitely more dangerous.
She wasn't just a fairy. She was a Phoenix.
According to ancient legend, the Phoenix was the ultimate survivor, capable of weaving a shroud of glamour so thick it could fool even the most perceptive magical eyes. To survive the centuries and the greed of those who would hunt her for her feathers, rumored to be filled with power, she had chosen to imitate the Fae. The wings, the magic, the military discipline, it was all a masterful mask. Her fire-engine red wings weren't a mutation; they were the literal manifestation of her elemental core, a hint of the bird of fire hiding beneath the skin of a fairy guard.
She banked hard to the left as she glided with the fall winds of Utah. Below, the kingdom looked like a toy set, fragile and small. She wondered if Westley’s wolf could sense what she truly was. Shifters were intuitive, and Warlord was sharper than most. Had he smelled the faint scent of ash and sunfire on her skin? Or did he truly believe his mate was just a feisty fairy?
Arden tucked her wings and dived, a crimson streak plunging toward the dark canopy of the mountains. She felt the heat rising in her chest, the raw power of the Phoenix strumming in time with her heartbeat. Being a guard required restraint, but in the skies, she could let the mask slip just a fraction.
As she leveled out just above the tree line, her mind drifted back to Douglas. He called Warlord a "beast" and a "creature," but he had no idea that his snide remarks were provoking a creature whose flame could incinerate his entire lineage with a single breath if she ever truly lost her temper.
Arden flew around for a few more minutes before landing silently on the hillside just outside of the Kingdom’s walls. Her red wings folded into her back, and she pulled her jacket back on, hiding the fire once more. The legend said the Phoenix was a solitary creature, but as she looked toward the horizon, she knew that wasn't true for her. She had a pack waiting for her. She had a wolf.
- ผู้เขียน
