Page 28 of The Alpha's Betrayed Mate

Wait. Where was Rylan? He’d been huddled against the back wall of the cave by the fire, but that was where the demon had hurled her, and he was nowhere to be seen… and no sooner had the question occurred to her that there was a sudden blur of movement in her vision and a dull, sickly squelching sound. The demon’s one remaining eye burst, spraying her with unthinkable goop. But she was focused not on that, but on the curved piece of iridescent metal that was lodged in what passed for the demon’s eye socket.

Rylan was clinging to the trunk of a scraggly tree at the far side of the sinkhole, one arm wrapped around its trunk, the other still extended at the top of the arc of the best throw she’d seen in years. She wanted to whoop in triumph, but she didn’t have the breath, and there was no time to waste. She yanked the blade from the demon’s eye socket and drove it in again and again, shocked by how much more effectively the iridescent material sliced through the beast’s leathery flesh than even her sharpest knives. How many blades had she lost to this beast’s corrosive blood while barely making a dent? If only she’d known to steal one of its own claws to use against it… and even as those thoughts raced through her mind, she was hacking at every part of the demon she could reach, screaming with wordless, inarticulate rage as she spent every last fragment of her power in tearing into the beast. It was howling too, shuddering and thrashing, retreating from her assault, but she was clinging to it tightly with her other hand, ignoring its attempts to swat her loose. Her own blood was running down her face, blinding her, choking her as it filled her mouth—she’d lost all sensation in one leg, and the other was barely obeying her instructions—still she hacked at the demon, screaming her defiance, her only goal to do as much damage as she could before her life finally left her body.

She felt it fall. She kept stabbing, even as its thrashing slowed and weakened. She could hear voices—not just Belmont and Rylan’s, but other voices, too, the voices of her pack, but she couldn’t afford to look up. It might be a trap, it might be a dream—she couldn’t waste a single shred of the life that remained in her. As long as the demon was alive, she wouldn’t stop. She wouldn’t rest. Only death would stay her hand—her own or the demon’s, whichever came first.

And as the darkness rushed in to take her at last, and she felt the weapon drop from numb fingers that would no longer obey her instructions, her last fervent hope was that death had come for both of them.

Chapter 17 - Belmont

Belmont had never seen Raske move so fast. The old wolf seemed to appear out of nowhere, leaping down from the side of the sinkhole in a shower of dirt and stones with his staff held aloft and glowing with a light that was blindingly bright in comparison to the eerie black flames of the fire. The thrashing heap of demon flesh hissed and smoked where the light touched it. More wolves were skidding down the side of the sinkhole, following Raske’s light in their more resilient four-legged forms, and Belmont felt a savage joy as the pack descended on the demon like a swarm of wasps, snarling and snapping as they tore it limb from limb.

It must be dead, he kept thinking, heart thudding sickly against his ribs as he fought with everything in him to regain his footing. Surely, it must be dead. Dismembered, strewn across the smoking, scorched floor of the sinkhole, the demon at last relinquished whatever dark power it was that moved its limbs. His pack howled a ragged celebration, but Belmont didn’t spare them a second glance. He was already scrambling through what remained of the demon, human-shaped and bleeding copiously, desperate to hold off unconsciousness long enough to pull Venna’s lifeless form clear of the demon’s remains.

As he pulled her into his arms, the curved weapon dropped from her fingertips, clattering against the stone. It would dissolve just like the rest of the demon, now that its life had been extinguished—and that included its venom. He could already feel his head clearing as it melted from his bloodstream, the effects of the poison easing. He smoothed back Venna’s ichor-soaked hair with a shaking hand, desperate to see her silver eyes flutter open.

“Raske,” he said hoarsely. “You have to—”

“He is.” Yara had shifted back, and she spoke for the lorekeeper who was standing with his eyes squeezed shut in wordless concentration, the point of his staff leveled at Venna. But the light that illuminated the runes was flickering, and even as he watched Raske staggered into Yara, who did her best to steady him as the light pulsed and faded. The old lorekeeper’s brow furrowed and he hissed a curse under his breath, and for a moment the light intensified—but then it winked out entirely, and Yara was easing the old man’s unconscious form to the ground. Belmont thought of the impossibly hard taskmaster of his youth, saw the figure of Raske looming ominously behind his pupils, always demanding more of them—more effort, more grit, more determination. He held his students to an impossibly high standard, that was true, but the standards he held himself to were even harder. It didn’t surprise him at all that the old man had literally knocked himself out with the force of the healing spell he was casting.

He only hoped it had been enough.

Belmont glanced up, assessing the situation. Raske was groaning weakly in protest, reaching for his staff, but Yara was with him—he’d be alright. Rylan, too, was surrounded by packmates, complaining loudly as they checked him for injuries. That left Venna. He wiped helplessly at the blood on her face, looked down uselessly at his own clothing, so drenched in demon blood that he was reluctant to even touch it, let alone to use it to clean her wounds. No—he had to get her out of here.

Her body was impossibly light in his arms as he began to struggle up the side of the sinkhole, feet sinking into the sandy, rocky soil as he climbed. How could someone who contained so much strength be so light, so insubstantial? He cradled her head against his shoulder, gathered her legs close, faintly reminded of the way he’d carried Rylan as a baby. There were tears dripping from his cheeks and falling onto her skin, leaving trails in the blood and dirt there. Something kept telling him to get her out of the sinkhole, to get her into the fresh air, as far from the demon as possible. The pain splintering through his body as he forced it to obey him was as distant as the moon. There would be plenty of time to worry about his own injuries once he knew Venna was alright. And if she wasn’t… if she wasn’t, then there was no reason to care about his injuries at all.

He dropped to his knees when he reached the edge of the water, careful not to let the fall jar Venna’s body, then lay her gently down just above where the little waves lapped at the sand. He rinsed his hands in the salt water, each little wave bringing clean salt water and drawing away the thick clouds of blood and dirt. Then he set about scooping more clean water onto Venna’s wounds, gently wiping away the slimy residue of demon flesh that was already dissolving.

“We did it, Venna,” he kept saying, his voice barely audible to his own ears. “The demon’s dead. You killed it. We’re safe. You kept us safe, Venna—you did it, it’s done. You killed it, you won, you outlived it… please, wake up. Please come back.”

At some point while he worked, he realized that the pack had emerged from the sinkhole too, and were gathering around him. They stood there, in silent witness—save for a low, rasping whisper, which he eventually realized was Raske, murmuring a prayer in what remained of a voice that had deserted him. It was so still out here, so quiet—nothing but the glint of the moonlight on the water, no sound but the placid lapping of the water and the wind in the branches of the handful of trees that stood on this small island.

It was Raske who broke the quiet at last, after a dozen repetitions of the prayer he’d been whispering. “Belmont… I’m so sorry, but I must ask. Is there a pulse?”

He hadn’t checked—hadn’t been able to bring himself to confirm, one way or the other, the horrible, awful, unthinkable thing he suspected. No regular wolf could have survived an attack like that, his rational side kept whispering. But Venna wasn’t a regular wolf. Venna had survived eight years in the wilderness, relying on nothing but her wits and her resilience. If anyone could survive this, it was her. It wasn’t a rational hope. But what hope was?

“Please,” he whispered, closing his eyes as he placed one trembling finger against the hollow of her throat. “If not for me, Venna… survive for spite.”

There was nothing. Cold, slightly damp skin, the faded outline of an ancient scar. Belmont felt another tear spill over his eyelid, registered in an absurd, remote kind of way that nobody in his pack had ever seen him weep. He waited. He pressed his finger more firmly to that place in her throat. He tried another place, another. He whispered her name like a prayer. He hoped so fiercely that when at last he felt something flutter beneath his fingertip, he was convinced he’d dreamed it into being. But then it came again… and again… and again.

“She’s alive,” he said, hardly believing it himself. “She’s alive!”

He’d always love his pack for the speed with which they sprung into action, then. They pulled up a boat to get Venna back to the mainland, the rest diving into the water to swim alongside. Fighting his body’s desire to lapse into unconsciousness, he sat in the boat with Venna held tightly in his arms, hoping to somehow warm her cold skin even though he was shivering too. They tried to take her out of his arms when they reached Kurivon, but he shook his head. He’d brought her this far. The least he could do was get her to the library. They walked with him, a strange little procession moving through town in the middle of the night, curious wolves emerging from their cottages to watch with worried eyes. He was grateful to see a few of his wolves peeling off to hang back and explain the story to the other pack. Right now, if he spared a single scrap of energy for speech, he knew he’d pass out.

Finally, they reached the library. Someone must have run ahead, because Syrra was already waiting for him in the doorway. She didn’t try to take Venna from him—just pointed him to a room, where he could see a bed prepared and Syrra’s supplies already laid out. With all the care he could muster, he laid Venna’s form down on the soft bed, only drawing back when he was certain she’d come safely to rest. He swayed on his feet, registering a dull kind of satisfaction.

“You should probably sit—” was all he heard before darkness rushed in.

When he woke, he was sitting upright in a chair, and the faint light of dawn was beginning to creep through the window. A bleary downward glance told him that he must have been out for the count—while unconscious, someone had changed his clothes and bandaged his wounds, which would have been no small undertaking. But that wasn’t what he cared about right now. What he cared about was the figure lying in the bed by the window, impossibly small, chest rising and falling in a reassuring rhythm in the dim light. He watched her sleep for a long moment, letting himself feel every bit of the joy that suffused him. She’d survived it. Why was he even surprised? It would take more than a demon to take down Venna, he’d always known that.

Belmont caught his breath when he rose to his feet, wincing at the pain that rushed through him at his unguarded movements. Moving more carefully now, grateful he was at least able to get across the floor, he approached her bedside. Like him, she was covered in neatly wrapped bandages—he could smell the faint, exotic scent of herbs in the room and smiled faintly, something telling him that it had been Syrra who’d tended to the two of them. But as much as he wanted to talk to Venna, he couldn’t bring himself to disturb her sleep. She rarely looked as peaceful awake as she did asleep… besides, from how pale she looked against the pillow, he knew she needed as much rest as she could get.

He did too, most likely. But he had a few things to get out of the way first. No rest for an Alpha, hadn’t he always believed that?

Belmont took the journey across the island slowly and carefully, breathing low and even as he took the opportunity to take an internal inventory of his wounds. From the press and tug of bandages, he knew he’d accrued a good collection of flesh wounds, but in terms of broken bones he seemed to have gotten lucky. His right hip ached terribly with each step, his left arm had been in a sling when he’d awoken, and if he breathed in too quickly he’d experience a warning chorus from half a dozen ribs that were at least cracked, if not broken… but with Venna alive and Rylan unhurt, he’d have taken any amount of injury in good cheer.

By the time he reached the community center, dawn had given way to day. Kurivon’s wolves were already up and about, and he caught more than a few curious looks from passersby as he let himself into the community center. The pack were sleeping on their usual side of the hall, and he realized with some amusement that they’d left things set up for the trial on the other side. Could it really have been less than a day since they’d been here, since he’d been writhing in the grips of his awful suspicion that Venna was in league with the demons? He felt like a new person entirely.

Still, there was something to be said for the structure. Aware of the murmurs of his waking pack, he made his slow, stiff way over to the tables and chairs that had formed the makeshift stage of the trial area. Reluctant to sit down in case he found himself unable to rise again, Belmont leaned instead against the table, scanning the room as he waited for the rest of the wolves to join him. It wasn’t long before they were there, filing into the seats that were set out for them, most of them exchanging slightly embarrassed glances as they fidgeted with their sleeping clothes.

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