To heal a Rogue

LYSANDER

She scraped the last of the bread off her plate the moment I stood up, and I gave her a second to swallow before I said it.

”Let’s go.”

She had no argument in her, not this time, just a small nod and a last glance at the steward.

”Thank you,” she said. ”For the food.”

The steward inclined his head, his expression as unreadable as it had been since the moment he’d stepped in front of us in the corridor. ”Consider it a final supper,” he said, and the words landed with a weight I didn’t like, casual and matter-of-fact, the way a man announces the weather.

I didn’t correct him. There wasn’t time, and some part of me suspected it would only make him dig his heels in further.

We left the tailor’s room and started down the corridor, and I waited until we’d put enough distance between us and the door before I spoke.

”The masked men that attacked you,” I said. ”You saw one of them clearly. Was there anything odd about him? Anything at all?”

”Like what?” she said. ”Did you find something?”

I glanced around once, checking the corridor for anyone close enough to overhear, and dropped my voice low.

”Beware of the night children,” I said. ”It refers to Lycans.”

She looked at me like I’d said something absurd, her brow furrowing, and then a short laugh escaped her, disbelieving. ”Is that code for something?”

”No,” I said. ”Lycans. Actual Lycans.”

”Yeah,” she said. ”Our very own boogeyman. Every pup gets told to behave, or the Lycans will come for them in their sleep. It’s not real, Lysander.”

”I thought the same,” I said. ”Until about ten minutes ago. They were real. Apparently they still might be.” I kept walking, forcing myself to keep my voice even despite the churn in my stomach. ”So tell me. What did they feel like? I need you to be completely honest with me. Whatever happened in that library, I need the truth, not the version you think is safe to give me.”

She stopped walking for a second, just long enough that I noticed, and when she caught back up, her jaw was tight.

”They shot your uncle,” she said. ”That’s what I know. Neither of them shifted. Neither of them felt different from any other wolf I’ve ever stood near.” She threw her hands up slightly, frustration bleeding into her voice. ”They looked like anyone else, Lysander. How is a fucking Lycan even supposed to look?”

I studied her for a long moment; something in the careful way she’d delivered that answer didn’t sit right with me. There was also what the bond was clearly hammering into me.

”You’re still hiding something,” I said.

”I’m not.”

”Spill it.” I stopped walking entirely now, turning to face her fully. ”I have been nothing but honest with you since I dragged you out of that cell. I am trying to save your skin, Bonnie, and this only works if it goes both ways.”

”Even if I were hiding something,” she said, meeting my eyes without flinching, ”which I’m not, it would have nothing to do with your uncle. Let’s not forget I want my name cleared too. I have just as much reason to want the actual truth out there as you do.”

I held her gaze a moment longer, searching for the lie in it and not quite finding one, though something about the whole exchange left an itch under my skin I couldn’t scratch away.

She was clearly trying to push that whatever she was hiding was not important to the case, but how would she know that?

I hated that I needed to let it go. But there were clearly other pressing matters now.

”We should head to the library,” I said instead.

”Wouldn’t that place be off limits right now?”

”It would,” I said. ”But I should still be able to make a request.”

We reached the library a few minutes later, and the doors were taped shut, a yellow cord stretched across the frame in a wide X, sentinels posted on either side with the particular stiffness of men trying very hard to look like they belonged there. One of them straightened the moment he registered who was approaching, and there was real deference in it, not the performative kind.

”Alpha Lysander,” he said as he stepped forward. ”We’re actively investigating the scene. I’m afraid access is restricted.”

”That’s fine,” I said. ”All I need are some books. History texts. If they’re not part of the crime scene itself, I’d appreciate it if someone could retrieve them for me.”

”Of course,” he said. ”What subject, specifically?”

I hesitated, deciding against saying the word Lycan out loud in a corridor full of ears that didn’t need to hear it yet.

”Anything on the first people,” I said. ”The old histories.”

He nodded once and disappeared past the tape, and I noticed, in the second before he vanished from view, a flicker of something crossing his face when his eyes passed over Bonnie standing slightly behind me. Disgust, quick and instinctive, gone almost as fast as it appeared, buried back under professional composure before I could call it out loud.

I said nothing. There wasn’t a version of that conversation that would end well for anyone that was not Bonnie standing in this corridor.

We waited. I paced a short line in front of the taped door, restless in a way I didn’t bother hiding, while Bonnie stood with her arms crossed, watching the sentinels watch her in return, her jaw set in that stubborn line she wore like armor.

Ten minutes passed, maybe more, before the sentinel reemerged with an armful of books, and another man trailing behind him carrying a second stack.

”This is what we could find, Alpha,” the first sentinel said, stepping forward.

I moved to take the books from him.

That was when the second man dropped his stack entirely.

The books hit the stone floor with a heavy, scattered thud, pages splaying open, and I heard him gasp, a sharp, involuntary sound that yanked my attention straight to Bonnie beside me.

She had gone white. Completely white, all the color drained out of her face like someone had pulled a plug somewhere beneath her skin.

I looked back at the man who’d dropped the books.

He wasn’t quite dressed like the other sentinels. The uniform was close, close enough to pass at a glance, but there was a variation in the cut, a detail that marked him as something else. A retainer. Like Bonnie had been, before her hair and everything underneath it came undone in the library.

He was shaking.

Not the kind of tremor that came from cold or nerves. This was rage, pure and barely contained, his whole body vibrating with it, his hands curling into fists at his sides as his eyes locked onto Bonnie’s face and refused to move.

He charged her.

I moved before I’d finished deciding to. Every instinct in me surged forward at once, some cold and immediate certainty rising up through my chest that I would not hesitate, that if this man’s hands got anywhere near her I would put him down and feel nothing about it afterward. My wolf was already there, already awake, already calculating the fastest path between where I stood and where he was heading.

The other sentinel got there first.

He dropped his own stack of books and grabbed the retainer around the chest, hauling him back with both arms locked tight, and the man fought against the hold with a strength that seemed to come from somewhere far beyond ordinary fury. He screamed as he strained against the grip, his voice cracking with the force of it.

”You monster!” he shouted, his eyes never leaving Bonnie. ”All retainers will suffer for your crimes! The ones who gave you a roof in this estate will be jailed! Killed, most likely! And for what? Because they could not see past your deceit? Others will lose their positions entirely because of what you did!” His whole face had gone red, twisted with something that looked less like anger and more like grief wearing anger’s face. ”You deserve more than death!”

”Control yourself,” the sentinel holding him hissed, his own boots skidding slightly against the stone as he fought to keep his grip. ”You are standing in front of the soon-to-be Alpha King.”

The retainer didn’t stop straining against the hold, though his volume dropped, some of the fight draining out of him even as the fury in his eyes stayed lit.

I looked back at Bonnie.

Her eyes had gone glassy, bright with the kind of tears that hadn’t fallen yet but were close, dangerously close, and her hands had curled into the fabric of her sleeves like she needed something to hold onto just to stay upright.

Then she turned and bolted.