Marked By The Enemy Pack

CHAPTER 3

I eat because not eating would draw more attention than I can afford, and because my body needs it whether I like the circumstances or not, so I sit on the edge of the bed with a tray balanced across my knees and force myself to move slowly, deliberately, as if I have all the time in the world. The food is simple, broth thick with herbs, bread torn into manageable pieces, and the act of lifting the spoon to my mouth feels oddly intimate under his watchful gaze even though he stands near the door instead of hovering.

The bond hums steadily, not louder than before but more noticeable now that I’m awake enough to register it properly, a low pressure beneath my ribs that reacts subtly to his presence, tightening when he shifts his weight, easing when he looks away. My wolf is quiet in a way that unsettles me, alert but calm, her senses stretched outward rather than curled inward as they usually are around strangers.

“You’re staring,” I say eventually, because the silence has stretched long enough to feel deliberate, and because calling it out feels like reclaiming a scrap of control.

“I’m assessing,” he replies without offence, his tone neutral. “You’re still pale, and your balance is off.”

“I’ve been stabbed and marked in enemy territory,” I point out. “Forgive me for not glowing.”

The corner of his mouth tightens briefly, not amusement exactly but acknowledgement, and he turns his attention to the corridor beyond the door, listening to something I can’t hear yet. Voices carry faintly through the stone walls, low and purposeful, the cadence of a pack starting its day, and the sound of it settles heavily in my chest.

“What time is it,” I ask, swallowing another mouthful of broth.

“Just past dawn,” he answers. “Morning drills will be finishing.”

So they’re already moving, already training, already slotting into routines that don’t include me, and the awareness of that creates a hollow feeling I don’t want to name. My pack will be doing the same thing right now, weapons being checked, stretch rotations called out, coffee poured too strong because it always is, and the fact that I’m missing from that rhythm feels louder than any alarm.

“Have you told them,” I ask quietly. “Your council.”

“Yes,” he says, and the single word lands with more weight than a longer explanation would have. “They know you’re here, and they know why.”

I close my eyes for a brief second, letting the implications stack up in my mind because pretending otherwise won’t make them disappear. “And they agreed,” I say.

“They didn’t object,” he corrects. “Yet.”

That isn’t comforting, but it’s honest, and honesty feels like a small mercy right now. I finish the last of the broth, my appetite fading as tension replaces hunger, and set the bowl aside, wiping my hands carefully on the cloth provided. Every movement feels watched, not predatory but attentive, as if he’s cataloguing my limits.

“I want clothes,” I say. “And a chance to shower.”

He considers that for a moment, his gaze flicking to the bandages at my side and then back to my face. “You can shower,” he says. “I’ll have someone bring clothes.”

“Someone,” I repeat. “Not you.”

“That would be wise,” he agrees, and there’s a subtle shift in the bond that feels like relief, which irritates me more than it should.

He steps out into the corridor to give instructions, his voice low and controlled, and I take the opportunity to stand slowly, testing my weight with care. The room tilts slightly but holds steady when I brace myself against the wall, breathing through the lingering ache until it subsides. I don’t want to be seen struggling, even by him, and the instinct to mask weakness feels automatic.

When he returns, he stays near the door again, deliberately distant, and gestures toward the narrow bathroom tucked into the corner of the room. “Water’s already warm,” he says. “Take your time, but don’t lock the door.”

I lift an eyebrow at that.

“Medical protocol,” he adds calmly. “If you faint again, I need access.”

I don’t like it, but I understand it, so I nod and move toward the bathroom, closing the door behind me without slamming it. The space is small but clean, stone walls smoothed by use, a drain cut into the floor beneath a simple overhead shower. Steam curls faintly in the air, and the scent of soap is neutral enough not to grate.

I strip carefully, folding the borrowed shirt and setting it aside, then peel away the bandages just enough to wash around them, wincing as tender skin protests. Blood streaks faintly down my side as the warm water hits, diluted almost immediately, and I brace my hand against the wall, breathing through the discomfort while my wolf watches quietly from somewhere just behind my eyes.

The mark at my collarbone burns faintly under the spray, not painful exactly but present, a reminder etched into skin and bone, and I touch it briefly, my fingers trembling despite my effort to stay steady. The bond responds instantly, a subtle pulse of awareness that isn’t mine alone, and I pull my hand away sharply, anger flaring hot and sudden.

This isn’t something I can ignore.

When I finish, I dry off slowly and wrap myself in the towel left within reach, then ease the door open a crack. He looks up immediately, attention snapping to me with an intensity that makes my breath catch before I can stop it, and then he deliberately looks away, giving me privacy as a folded bundle of clothes is set just inside the doorway by someone I don’t see.

“Thank you,” I say to the empty hall, because manners matter even when everything else is chaos.

I dress carefully, the clothes fitting well enough to pass for intentional, soft trousers and a long-sleeved shirt that doesn’t pull at my ribs, and when I step back into the room fully dressed, I feel marginally more like myself. The bond hums approval, faint and unwelcome, and I push the sensation aside as best I can.

“They’ll want to see you,” he says, once I’m settled again. “Not today, but soon.”

“They,” I echo.

“Council,” he clarifies. “And my Beta.”

Of course they will, and the image of sitting under that scrutiny while marked by their Alpha makes my stomach twist unpleasantly. “My Alpha will demand the same,” I say. “If he hasn’t already.”

“He has,” he replies. “Messages were sent at first light.”

That’s worse than I expected, and my chest tightens as the reality of it settles deeper. “So what happens now,” I ask.

“Now,” he says, choosing his words with care, “you stay here until you’re stable enough to travel without risking your life, and we keep this contained.”

“And if my pack comes for me,” I press.

“Then we talk,” he says simply. “Before anyone moves.”

I laugh softly despite myself, the sound edged with disbelief. “You think talking will be enough.”

“I think it’s all we have before force,” he replies, meeting my gaze steadily, and the bond hums again, not comfort but alignment, as if acknowledging the truth in that.

A commotion sounds further down the corridor, voices raised slightly, urgency creeping into the cadence, and his posture shifts instantly, Alpha presence sharpening. He listens for a moment, then exhales slowly.

“They’ve noticed the mark,” he says. “Your scent shifted when you showered.”

So that’s it then, the quiet window slamming shut before I even realised it was open. “I didn’t mean to,” I say, even though intention doesn’t matter.

“I know,” he answers, and the certainty in his voice is almost worse than accusation would be.

He looks at me for a long moment, something unreadable passing through his eyes, then nods once as if coming to a decision. “You’ll stay here,” he says. “Doors open, guards posted, no restraints.”

“And you,” I ask.

“I’ll be right outside,” he replies.

The bond tightens at that, a low, steady pull that feels like a promise and a threat wrapped into one, and as the sounds of approaching footsteps grow louder, I realise with a sinking certainty that privacy is already a luxury I’ve lost.

Crossing the boundary didn’t just put me in danger, it made me visible, and in a world built on packs and power, being seen is often the most dangerous thing of all.