My hands curl into fists, claws threatening to pierce my palms. Rage clawing at my throat. Who dares?
Ember doesn’t look at me. She drops her gaze to the grass, shoulders tight, shame radiating from every line of her body. As if she failed, instead of being sabotaged.
Lucia notices me watching. Of course she does. Her lips curling in a mocking smile, and she leans to whisper to thewolves beside her. Her laughter carries, sharp and cruel, and all of it directed at Ember.
I want to tear them apart. To rip their throats open one by one and leave them bleeding in the grass just as I did their mates. But the trial is still sacred ground. As an Alpha’s mate, Ember will need to be able to handle the females, or they won’t respect her. I can’t have that either. And so I stand there, the bitter taste of restraint thick on my tongue, chest heaving with the effort not to move.
Instead, I keep my eyes on Ember. On the girl who carries my heart and yet still hasn’t given me hers.
And I’m reminded that there are things I don’t know the answers to: Is she still untouched? Is she still mine?
Or had someone else broken her in the year I’ve been forced to wait? My jaw clenches until I taste blood. There will be other trials. Other chances to prove she belongs to me. Other chances to see if I’ve been holding onto a ghost — or if my mate still holds a candle for me.
Chapter 39
EMBER
Roman is propped up on his bed with a dusty book when I’m ready to leave for the second trial.
“You’ve really become quite a book nerd,” I comment.
“And you’re quite the temptress,” he retorts.
I roll my eyes.
“Have fun,” he teases. “Tell Thorn I said hello.”
“I doubt there will be much talking.”
“Ew! Gross.” He gags, flopping over onto his stomach with his book.
His antics loosen the tension in my shoulders, but only a little. By the time I reach the temple, blindfold clutched in hand, my palms are damp with sweat. The Scent trial. It’s ridiculous to even attend. I’ll never forget his scent. It’ll forever be ingrained on me. A year later, my mouth still waters just thinking about it.
I slip the blindfold over my head, and darkness swallows me whole. My heartbeat is so loud it nearly drowns out the priest’s speech and command to begin.
Wolves shuffle around me, bodies brushingpast my shoulders. I catch bursts of scents as they pass — wet stone, musk, damp fur, and coppery animal blood lingering on someone’s breath. None of them are the one I’m looking for.
I walk deeper. The laughter and snarls fade as though I’m stepping into a void. My nose twitches, searching desperately. I turn one way, then the other. Still nothing.
“Thorn,” I whisper through the darkness of the blindfold, as though saying his name will conjure him. But the air around me is empty. A strange hush prickles the back of my neck. The jostling has stopped. I stand alone in a wide pocket of silence. Suspicion curls in my gut. Slowly, I tug at the blindfold and blink into the dim chamber. The moon, having fallen behind clouds, casts the temple into shadows.
I was right. Every wolf has moved away, forming a wide berth around me. Their blindfolds tilt suspiciously low, enough for sly glances.
Then the smell hits me. Sharp and acidic. Totally wrong.
I sniff and twist, horror knotting my stomach as I find something glistening down the back of my ankle. Urine.
Did I step in it? My stomach lurches. But the truth settles in quick as the snicker echoes across the chamber. I turn to lock the dark eyes of Lucia peering over her blindfold.
She leans against a column with her little pack of widows, smirking. One whispers something and they all laugh behind their hands. The sound slices sharper than claws. Hot shame burns up my throat. My cheeks flame. The priest’s signal cuts through the air, dismissing the trial. Wolves file past, whispering and throwing pitying glances at me.
With all the other scents leaving, I catch a faint scent of pine. My heart stutters. My gaze snaps up.
Across the chamber, Thorn is already barefaced, blindfold discarded at his feet. His eyes lock onto mine, icy and unreadable. I freeze. Can he smell it? Gods, he must. His nose is too sharp, too trained. He must smell everything.
Does he think I failed to find him? Or worse, that I didn’twantto? Gods, I’m the worst mate because this is the third time I’ve failed him.
The humiliation crushes me. Before he can step closer, before I can decipher pity or disgust in his eyes, I stumble back. Then another step, before I bolt, dashing out of the temple toward the baths with the sound of laughter still ringing in my ears.
