I was determined not to cower. I lifted my chin, willing myself to bravery.
Instead, I looked again at Vixor’s mask, gleaming in the dim light of the room, drawing my eyes like a forbidden object. I had never thought I’d see it so close, and I took the opportunity to study it. The mask was exquisitely carved to resemble that of a wolf, and it was more detailed than the usual blunt metal masks of the Sworn. Hidden among the lines that made up the fur of the face I saw depictions of trees and thorns. Animals. A deer lurked in the strands of silver fur near one of the ears of the mask, and on the muzzle, woven between the strands, I saw hollow faces. Carvings of his conquests, no doubt. The mask enveloped his face, leaving only his dark eyes visible, like two new moons in a night sky. They were locked on mine. Something about the way he looked at me felt deeply and startlingly intimate.
As I stared at him, he reached up with one hand and removed it.
I don’t know what I was expecting on the other side. A hideous monster? A snarling, scarred face?
But when Vixor lowered the mask, I tensed with surprise.
The Silver Wolf was beautiful.
Like a prince from a fairy tale, he had thick, dark hair that fell in shining waves at the nape of his neck. His nose was straight, his cheekbones sharp, and his jaw straight and strong. Only his mouth hinted at who he was—his lips were almost sensuous, more suited to a coddled prince than a hardened warrior, but they had an almost cruel twist to them too, as if those lips were used to curling in derision and anger. His irises were the lightning blue color that all the Sworn had after they underwent the change. When those eyes locked with mine, my heart sped up. I was afraid, but in an exhilarated kind of way.
Vixor Rae seemed darkly intrigued by my inspection of his features, as if he knew I had been expecting a monster. He leaned forward, a smirk crossing those voluptuous lips as if he thought he’d gained some power over me.
Immediately, I was disgusted with myself. Of course he was beautiful. He was the favorite of the Alpha. His father was a noble in whatever complex hierarchy the Sworn adhered to in their culture. Vixor Rae undoubtedly had the finest breeding that murderous, woman-stealing werewolves could procure. His mother—whatever unfortunate Chosen had born him—must have been the loveliest woman they could find for their breeding purposes. She’d been a girl like me once, probably frightened, torn away from her family to serve the Alpha. To give birth to a baby who would grow up to terrorize and kill her kind.
His beauty was one more horrifying thing about him because of what it meant.
My thoughts must have shown on my face, for the two Sworn behind him smirked at me.
I lifted my chin, scorning their amusement at my expense.
Vixor Rae said nothing, but his eyebrows drew together as if he expected something else from me. Had he thought that I would look at his beautiful and deadly face and throw myself at his feet? He might have saved my life, but he was a Sworn. I still loathed him. I wouldn’t forget what he was and what he’d done, and neither would I forget the woman who had been stolen from her family to give birth to him. I hoped my expression of scorn conveyed that fact.
The silence between us lengthened.
I swallowed hard. My throat was dry. Although I was no longer dehydrated due to the saline they’d injected into me along with the medicine and morphine, I hadn’t had anything to drink since yesterday at dawn.
Vixor noticed. He rose and retrieved a pitcher of water. He poured a cup for me and set it beside my hand before he sat again at the warden’s desk.
I looked at the water. I didn’t want to drink it. It seemed so vulnerable, and I didn’t want to be needy in front of him. But in the end, my thirst won over my pride. I drank the whole cup, trying my hardest not to gulp it.
When I’d drained the cup, I lowered it slowly and found him studying me as intensely as I had studied him. His gaze felt like a blade against my skin.
Was he going to torture me?
“Where is the warden?” I asked, my voice a thin sound in the heavy silence of the room.
Vixor leaned back in the chair and pressed his fingertips together. He still wore his shining black gloves. “He is in a jail cell, hopefully contemplating the ways in which he failed his duty by not having you properly examined. Even the most rudimentary of searches would have discovered that you were marked.”
“He knew I was marked,” I said quietly.
Vixor stilled. His voice, when he spoke, was harsh and laced with anger. “What?”
“If you check the record,” I said, “it should say that they had me examined, and the mark was shown to be a forgery.” I remembered the warden’s words, and my stomach twisted. It felt good to reveal his treachery, even if I were only telling another enemy.
The female Sworn snorted. “That disgusting little cheat. We should dip his hands in acid after all. He doesn’t deserve your mercy, Vix.”
Vixor’s eyes flashed. He rose in one graceful motion and went to a tall cabinet at the corner of the room. He opened the top drawer and rifled through the papers, swearing under his breath at the mess. He produced a document, studied it, and then returned to the desk with it in his gloved hands.
He laid it down before me.
“What else?” he asked. “What other lies has he not inscribed on this report?”
I looked down at the paper. There was my name—Meredith Rider—and the word TRAITOR beneath it. SENTENCED, it read, FORTY LASHES, OR UNTIL DEATH.
My stomach clenched.
“He had me put in a straitjacket and denied food and water the night before,” I said slowly, wondering if such details even mattered to this Sworn. I was all right. How much did they care about my comfort, as long as my body was healthy and capable of producing werewolf children for them?
They had given me morphine, I remembered.
Vixor’s mouth curled. He took the paper back, and then he reached into the desk for a pad of paper and a pen. He scribbled something I could not see.
“Meredith Rider,” he said, eyes still on the paper. “This is your name, yes?”
I nodded. Fear curled around my throat.
“Speak,” he commanded. That impenetrable gaze flicked up to rest on me again.
“Yes,” I said. “That is my name.”
“And your parents’ names?” His brow lifted. His words were clipped, cold.
“Daniel and Margaret Rider,” I said.
His expression changed to something that might have been anger. A flicker of emotion, as if he had caught me in a lie. I wondered if he’d already done research into my family records. If he thought I was an agent from the Order of the Crimson, only pretending to be Meredith Rider.
“My mother went by Daisy,” I added. “But her given name was Margaret.”
His brow twitched. He wrote something else down, the sound of the pen scratching in the air between us.
He must have done research, I was certain.
“Where are your parents now?” he asked. “Did they petition for your release?”
“My parents are dead,” I said.
“And when did they die?” His voice was cold again. Emotionless.
“It was the night of my—” I stopped. I had no reason to provide him with such intimate details as my birthday. “I was ten,” I amended.
If he noticed my hesitation, he did not comment.