Oath of the Hunter

18 - Chained to a Tainted Legacy

Awareness flickers like sunlight on ocean waves, pulling me from the depths until I reach clarity. I'm entangled in bed sheets and a warm embrace, sleep a lurking fog in my head. Blearily, I blink my eyes open and find myself greeted by a searing light shining through the small window opposite. Though the curtains are drawn, they're so thin it hardly seems worth the effort; sunlight blazes through them regardless at a sharp angle. The light is tinted amber and, a little belatedly, I realise it's the afternoon, not morning.

Thoughts drift lazily through my mind; leaves caught in the current of a stream. The fight in the woods. The bullets. The lycanthrope. Imogen's revelations about my heritage. Our ambush of those few hunters left behind. Raiding the warehouse for any weapons I can use against that monster lurking somewhere in the woods.

One threat down, two to go.

With a heavy sigh, I grab the sheets and pull them over my head in a meagre effort to retreat once more to darkness. After returning to the Lakeside pack just as the sun rose, covered in mud from hiding the bodies, Rowan, the others and I had to take it in turns to shower and get rid of all the blood and dirt. Imogen, Darius and Milo seemed grateful beyond words for our return, as well as our promise that the hunters were all gone. As it turns out, they waited up all night for us, and they insisted on fixing us breakfast. After downing it in record time, we'd all crashed into the spare bedrooms for some much-needed rest.

As I'm lying there letting time drift along without me, savouring the pleasant heat of Rowan against me, his arms wrapped loosely around my bare torso and his soft breaths caressing the back of my neck, a new noise tugs at my focus. Familiar yet muffled thuds and grunts and sharp orders.

People are training outside.

Intrigued, I peek out of the sheets once more and — conscious of Rowan asleep at my back — set about shuffling out of bed as carefully as possible.

Sure enough, when I pad across the room and shift the curtain a little, I see a group of people and wolves alike at the far side of the clearing locked in controlled combat. They're all organised into pairs or groups of four and I catch sight of Milo weaving between them all, studying each group fervently and calling out suggestions.

"What is it?" Rowan asks, his sleep-thick voice nothing more than a mumble.

I glance at him over my shoulder and find him blinking blearily as he watches me from the nest of ruffled sheets and askew pillows. He sits up with a yawn and runs a hand through his curls in a futile attempt to neaten them.

For a moment, as the sheets pool in his lap, exposing his torso, I'm lost in admiration. His exquisite form of lithe muscle, his sleeve tattoos snaking up his arms, his bronze gaze locked on me appreciatively, his messy curls framing soft, gorgeous features, his full lips curving into a smile as he notices my close attention.

I clear my throat and my gaze retreats guiltily out the window once more. "They're all training."

Rowan hums, and I catch the sound of rustling and creaking as he gets out of bed. Soft pads on the floor alert me to his approach and, when he's at my back, he slips his arms around me with gentle ease, giving me enough time to change my mind. I lean a little into his warmth as we both gaze out at the training session. Every breath I take is laced with nutmeg and cinnamon and musk.

He doesn't rest his chin on my shoulder — he knows I'm a little wary around my neck — but every breath he releases caresses the shell of my ear and sends pleasant fizzles trickling down my spine. I melt a little further against him.

For a while, we lose ourselves to observation, savouring the peace we've found. Until, of course, our little bubble of paradise pops at the sharp sound of knocks on the door.