Mated to the Warg (Wargs of the Outland, #1)

Thrax

The night before the new moon, the sky was streaked with stars. It should've been beautiful, but she was nervously watching the last blink of moonlight. Watching it glint like a reaping hook, ready to cleave her heart.

She was twisting the silver ring around and around on her thumb, her pulse barreling out of rhythm. She tried to let the silver soothe her. Tried to let it steer her thoughts to happier times. It was all she had of her father. Memories of him were all but faded, though. She treasured it as though it held his scent or an echo of his voice from the other world.

It was the only nixrath in this silverless, monster-ridden patch of wilderness. She straightened, her chin lifting. Now all she needed was a horse to see her plan through. Maeda bless her, she'd ride a spiny boar home if she had to!

Under Thesta's watchful eye, she hadn't been allowed to brood much, or devise a means to find a horse. Nor a spiny boar, for that matter. Thesta had kept her so busy that the hours and days had flown by. Rowan was either learning wargish, skinning hares, hunting fowl, or foraging for roots. She'd found a tick on her arm today and had squealed in disgust. This place was for animals!

But Thesta had calmly shaken her head and pried the thing off her with a disapproving cluck. "It's just a tick, Rowan. Sometimes life throws ticks at you."

She'd shuddered in revulsion. "It was sucking my blood!" She'd never seen one before.

"Yes," Thesta had replied, feeding the tick to the fire, "and there are worse things in the outland after your blood." When Rowan had started to cry, Thesta had sighed. "Maybe if you use the rosemary soap I gave you and take a godsdamned bath, the nasties will leave you alone."

Rowan had sniffed softly as Meera checked her scalp. Thankfully it'd just been the one. But it wasn't only the parasites making her miserable, her muscles were so sore that she gritted her teeth every time she moved. She couldn't even undress or squat over the chamber pot without wincing.

Warg life was exhausting. At night, when the stars blinked awake, she was usually falling asleep. But not tonight.

She closed her eyes and listened to the music floating across the lake, coming from the drinking hall. Somewhere out there, Thrax was feasting with his wargs.

Thesta had pointed the drinking hall out this morning. The bathing house, too. Rowan had declined vehemently when Thesta had tried to coax her to take a bath. Even with the small deer carcass draped over her shoulders and staining her hair and dress in smelly blood, she'd declined. The prospect of stripping down in front of a crowd of wargas was too intimidating. Although, that tick had nearly swayed her.

Thesta had shaken her head in disgust. "You will have to bath on the morning of the new moon, Rowan."

Rowan had ground her teeth. "I might have to do a lot of things, but I will choose if and when I take a bath." Frankly, if she stank, it was to her benefit. Maybe her stench would keep Thrax from kissing her again. And other things.

"No, it's part of the ritual," said Thesta. "It's the washing away of the old self before joining with your mate, body and soul." She went on, oblivious of Rowan's flushing face. "You will become one half of a new whole."

She ignored the heat sweeping up her neck and made a point of rolling her eyes. "It sounds pretty when you rhyme like that, Thesta, but I'm still not getting naked in front of a bunch of strangers."

The Warga looked affronted. "These are your people now, too, not strangers!" But Rowan had remained steadfast and soon, Thrax's sister had given up with a wargish grumble.

That ought to have been the end of it. But no, Thesta had merely enlisted the help of a more formidable force—Thrax himself.

Rowan sat glaring at the scythe edge of waning moonlight, when she felt the foundations shudder beneath her feet. Stomping on the stairs rang out like an invading cohort. Despite her stiff muscles, she shot to her feet, adrenaline spiking.