Page 3 of The Alpha's Betrayed Mate

“Pack,” she managed, head aching at what felt like an onslaught of words. “The pack. Where—”

“They’ve been cared for,” the woman said, reaching out to put a hand on Venna’s shoulder. She grimaced at how easily that gentle pressure pushed her back to the bed, hated how weak her body was. “What’s the last you remember?”

Venna’s head was pounding. She lay back against the pillow, knowing that even without this woman in her way, her body was hardly strong enough to sit up, let alone to get out of this room. Besides, where would she go? She let her eyes slide shut as Syrra leaned forward over her, repeating her question, asking her name. They didn’t know her name? She was on the brink of answering before she bit her tongue. Why give them any more information than she needed to? Raske had recognized her, that much she knew—the look of cold fury on his face had cut straight to her core. The whole community would know about the exile who’d returned to her pack soon enough. Better to play dead, at least until she was strong enough to come up with a better plan.

And so she let the adrenalin fade, and darkness came up to claim her.

Was it hours or days later that she awoke? Her willing retreat into unconsciousness must have been more effective than she’d expected, or maybe her body was just in sore need of the rest. Either way, she was surprised the next time her eyes eased open to reveal a completely different room, a new bed beneath her, new scents in her nose beyond the familiar acrid scent of the healing ointments that had been applied to her wounds. Wariness at war with the drowsy weight of sleep, Venna struggled to sit up, hissing again at the tug of half-healed wounds.

Where was she now? This wasn’t the infirmary she’d woken up in. The walls of this building were older, the floors clean but clearly faded and marked with long use, and the window frame in the far wall still bore the marks of damage and then a hasty repair. There was afternoon sunlight spilling through the glass, and from the waving branches of vivid and unfamiliar trees, she estimated she was on an upper storey. That alone made her stomach lurch. How long had it been since she’d been inside a building more complex than the run-down old hut on the outskirts of pack territory where she took shelter during the more serious storms? It made her feel uneasy, being up high. It cut off a route of escape, if she needed one… and she peered with narrowed eyes at the closed door in the other wall, wondering what foes lay beyond it.

At least she was alone, and her head a little clearer than it had been. There was a pitcher of water at her bedside and she drank greedily from the side of it, ignoring the tumbler that had been set out beside it. The likely timeline began to coalesce from the confusion of dreams that had marked her last few hours. The demons had attacked just outside of the city, back on Halforst, she knew that much. Then there was a dark stretch in her memory. The pack must have turned back the assault, then dragged themselves to the Council for healing. Then they’d made the journey through the Portal. Trust Raske to remain committed to the plan even in the face of devastation.

What did it mean that they’d brought her with them? She was almost tempted to take it as a positive sign, but the fact that they’d barely bothered to treat her wounds told her it was more likely she was a prisoner than a guest. A dim memory surfaced, her hands bound behind her back… she flinched as her body tensed, sending a warning stab of pain through her injuries, but her hands were free. Had it been the Kurivon lorekeeper who’d unbound her? Or Belmont?

Belmont. The one person she’d wanted to avoid at all costs. She’d done so well to stay away from him all these years, even when it had become necessary to spy closely on his conversations to find out the details of the planned move to Kurivon. What a relief it had been, to know her pack was leaving Halforst for good. A fresh start. Freedom at last, from the terrible ghosts that lingered in their past. Venna had recommitted herself to their protection with a new ferocity, knowing that the day was coming that they’d be leaving for good for a place where they’d be safe. They’d been so close… and Venna closed her eyes against the fresh wave of grief that battered at her.

How many lost? How many casualties? How many of her friends and family, of the people she loved more than she loved her own life, had been taken in that attack? And how would they feel when they learned that she was back, the monster they’d thought they were rid of? They’d blame her, of course. Blame her for the attack, blame her for the casualties, blame her for tainting their arrival here on Kurivon. They’d never believe that she hadn’t intended to come with them. As far as she’d been concerned, the plan was to see her pack safely to Council Headquarters, and then disappear into the forest for good. Just like they’d thought she had, all those years ago…

Footsteps. The soft sound yanked her from her ruminations, sending her into fight-or-flight mode in an instant. Venna dropped her head b ack against the pillow, playing dead, hoping the pounding of her heart would settle before the visitor could see the vein jumping in her neck. Through half-closed eyes, she saw the door swing slowly open and two figures move quietly into the room, clearly wary of disturbing her rest. One was short and seemed almost to glow, the white robes of a senior lorekeeper reflecting the light through the window. Syrra, she remembered, the curiously blue-eyed woman who’d dressed her wounds.

The other figure, though, took her no time at all to recognize. Even with her vision obscured and her gaze unfocused, she’d have known him anywhere. Tall and remote as an old tree, still and unruffled as a pool of clear water… she’d always admired the way he moved, that merciless economy of motion that seemed to place him exactly where he intended to be almost by magic. Every other wolf in the pack had always known him first by his distinctive dark red hair, a family trait that had marked every Alpha in memory for the pack’s whole long, proud history… but Venna would have known him without it. She’d have known him in darkness, she’d have known him in silence, she’d have known him from the way he breathed, by the faintest touch of his skin against hers. She’d have known his voice in a chorus of thousands.

And right now, it was taking everything in her not to open her eyes and drink in the sight of him. Fatal as that error would have been, some part of her still felt it would be worth it. What was her life worth anyway? She’d been caught red-handed, following a pack that had exiled her, and it was clear now that she was the Alpha’s prisoner. Her life was forfeit. In a way, her life had been forfeit since the last day she’d seen him. His first day as Alpha of the pack… the day he’d pronounced her an exile, and banished her from everything she’d ever loved.

Syrra was speaking to Belmont in a low voice, and though Venna strained to make out her words, she was struggling to hear over the roaring of her pulse in her ears. It was a miracle neither of the two could hear her heart pounding. She felt like a caged animal, desperate to flee, to batter herself against the window behind her until it shattered and let her broken body fall to the ground below. But she held herself still, pulling on all the strength that had let her survive the last eight years.

“She woke for a minute or two in the infirmary,” Syrra was saying. “I tried to orient her, but I can’t say how much she heard of what I said.”

“Did she speak?” Belmont’s voice. It was all she’d had of him over the last eight years, and even that a rare pleasure… the danger of eavesdropping on the Alpha tempered by the pure, heartbreaking delight of hearing him speak.

“Barely,” Syrra said. “She asked about the pack, then lost consciousness.”

Venna gritted her teeth, annoyed she’d spoken at all. This woman was her captor, her enemy—she shouldn’t have given her any hint of what she was thinking. Knowledge was power, and any insight into her thinking was a weakness that could be exploited.

“Did you tell her?” Belmont had long since mastered the talent for speaking without a hint of emotion betraying itself. He might as well have been enquiring about the weather. But even still, Venna could feel the heaviness of the question, somehow—as though the very lightness of his speech betrayed the enormity of what that careful control was hiding.

“I told her they were being cared for,” Syrra said. “I don’t know how much she understood. How much she remembers.” A long pause. “Belmont, her injuries were demon-inflicted.”

“Yes.”

“Then she fought on the pack’s side.” Venna could hear how carefully the woman was speaking and found herself wondering how well she’d come to know Belmont. He’d been here for the last eighteen months, after all, and Syrra was choosing her words with the care of a person who knew how quickly Belmont could shut down a line of inquiry he wasn’t interested in entertaining. It sent a strange stab of hurt through her, a twisted kind of jealousy that would have threatened to make her laugh if silence wasn’t so desperately important. It was stretching, now, the silence. Belmont came from a long line of Alphas who knew exactly how to use an uncomfortable silence to their advantage. If Syrra was hoping that her implied question would be answered if she waited long enough, she had another thing coming.

Finally, the lorekeeper sighed. “I don’t like keeping prisoners, Belmont. I want to know why this woman is being treated like an enemy.’

“I appreciate that, Syrra.” He might as well have been out among the stars, Venna thought faintly. Clearly the tropical climate of Kurivon hadn’t thawed that icy mask he stood behind. Quite the opposite. “You understand, of course, that this is an unimaginably difficult time for my pack.”

“Of course. But—”

“I’m grateful for your understanding. The situation regarding this woman is complicated, and I have a great many difficult conversations ahead of me today. Can I rely on your patience, for the time being?”

“You don’t have to do all that, Belmont.” The snap of vexation in Syrra’s voice surprised Venna. In another life, it might have endeared her to her. “I’m a friend. You can just say ‘trust me, Syrra, this is a mess I’ll get to asap’. There’s no need for … politics.”

“My apologies.” Unruffled—but Venna hadn’t missed the slight pause before he spoke, and judging by Syrra’s soft exhalation, neither had she. “Her injuries?”

“Healing.” Venna kept her breathing steady and her eyes closed, aware that the figures by the door had turned their attention back to her. “I can’t stress enough how much of a beating she took in the pack’s defense, Belmont. I’m not certain how she survived at all. Any one of those wounds could have proved fatal on its own.” Venna would have squirmed with embarrassment if she could have. What a pathetic sight she must have been, the poor wounded martyr. What must he think of her? Syrra didn’t know the full story, that much was abundantly clear from the way she was talking about her, as if she was a hero, instead of…

Belmont’s implacable silence stretched and stretched, and finally Syrra clicked her tongue, clearly giving up on getting any more insights from the Alpha. “The bottom line is that she’s not going anywhere,” the lorekeeper said briskly. “Even if she regains consciousness today, it’ll be at least another day until her wounds heal enough for her to get out of bed, let alone go anywhere. So you’ve got a bit of time before you need to decide whether the woman who nearly died protecting your pack is a prisoner or not.”

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