Expelled from her old school for a crime she didn't commit, Ivy must gain the trust of the High Pack at Ridgeview Academy to stop her new home from going up in flames.
Season 2 of Witchfire
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───── Piper ─────
Ivy was beautiful when she frowned, the result of delicately shaped brows, symmetrical features and full lips that pouted naturally. Her eyes held a trace of fear that could have made even the weakest of men feel needed. She looked the way princesses in fables were described; like a damsel to be saved from distress.
But she wasn't a damsel, and I was a gladiator by trade, not a knight. Ivy had proven herself to be a competent opponent in the previous match, and so I eyed her, slowly but surely disassociating what I saw from any recognition of human worth.
Her competence both eased and provoked me. On one hand, the student body would not suffer unduly because of her recently awarded membership to the High Pack; that was something to be grateful for, at least. But it also meant that Ivy had experience. Experience with fighting, with winning, with working her way up through the ranks. It meant there was a chance, however slim, that she could beat me today.
I tasted something bitter and bit my tongue, dampening the flavour with salty blood. Whatever her previous qualifications, whatever her experience, I would not lose this fight.
"Silver-steel?" Ivy questioned, gesturing towards the array of blades on the weapons trolley. Fashioned from a unique blend of steel and sterling silver, the swords, daggers and knives glittered like diamonds in a jeweller's shop window.
"Is there a problem with that?" I asked, arching an eyebrow.
It was a rhetorical question, and she knew it. Of course there was a problem with silver weaponry; werewolves were allergic to the metal, and it could end up killing one of us before the day was over.
That was the point.
"No," Ivy lied. It was almost convincing.
I sensed a familiar presence looming at the borders of my mind, so I waved the girl toward the trolley. "You choose first," I said, already turning away.
It didn't take long to locate the face that went with the questing thought. He was staring straight at me, blue eyes burning brighter than driftwood consumed in flames. Before engaging in the telepathic union, I tucked my thoughts into an even stricter order than usual. It was a ritual of mine, one that all members of the High Pack knew of and accepted without question. Mental unions often came at the price of privacy; how many times had a careless or distracted werewolf distributed their secrets amongst the members of an entire pack, to the embarrassment and horror of all involved? How much had those revelations cost them?
I refused to pay those prices.
Satisfied that all of my secrets were stowed away in some deep recess of my brain, I let down my guard and waited for Colden to invite himself in. He always did.
The High Alpha's thoughts splashed against mine. The sensation was both shocking and clarifying, like stepping underneath the icy cascade of a waterfall. My skin rippled with an exquisite shiver. Whatever the reality of our feelings, our telepathic connections had always been something to savour, despite the legions of information we held back from each other. Even now, I could feel Colden holding back; his thoughts were coiled tight, tighter even than his muscles as he strove to keep our aspirations and emotions and memories strictly parallel.
