Page 46 of The Ashpaw: Part One

Darion’s jaw flexed, eyes flickering towards her for only a moment before landing back on the beta guard before him.

“Those bruises cannot be self-inflicted,” Jules said, bowing his head. “If her position was decided to pay for her own discretion, then those who have broken the code that guides her should receive their own punishment as well.”

“So she has been touched?” he asked. The answer was obvious, so he followed his question quickly with another. “By whom?”

No one replied, and his expression darkened.

“Silence will not protect you,” he said slowly. “If I have to root you out myself, it will only stoke my ire further.”

Fern found the woman responsible, staring straight ahead with her knees trembling.

Darion’s eyes ran across the Solvekh, about to land on her, when Kyntha rose gracefully from her seat, her hands smoothing her skirt.

“May I speak, Alpha?”

Darion turned toward her at once, some of the tension leaving his face.

Alastair inclined his head. “You may.”

Kyntha folded her hands before her, her expression thoughtful. “I do not doubt Beta Jules speaks from compassion,” she said softly. “It is an endearing quality that would make him an excellent mate to a worthy she-wolf one day.”

Jules stiffened, clearly uncertain where this was leading, while Fern clocked the meaning immediately.

Kyntha did not find her worthy.

And while Fern really didn’t care what Kyntha thought of her, to voice it here and now felt… calculated.

“But compassion can sometimes mistake manipulation for suffering.”

Fern went cold.

“I cannot speak to every bruise or slight that mars the Ashpaw’s skin, for I was not there.”

The measured, performed fairness of her words made Fern’s stomach twist, and somewhere from the darkness in her mind, she barely made out the soft whimper of her wolf.

“But I have observed her.” She stepped closer to the table. “She startles prettily when approached, lowering her eyes and trembling at just the right moments. She draws notice without ever appearing to seek it.”

Heat flooded Fern’s face.

No. No, she wasn’t like that at all.

“She lingers where others can see her. Responds to attention even when discipline forbids it.” She paused, offering Jules a small, almost regretful smile. “It’s no wonder she can inspire such loyalty amongst wolfkin she barely knows, even with such a plain face.”

The room swayed towards her, as though they couldn’t help but agree with what she was saying. Perhaps they did, or had all along, and merely wanted someone to speak it out loud so they could finally voice their own private thoughts about her.

She did not mind so much if people found her plain, but to think she had ever purposefully tried to gain the lustful eyes and hands of men, wolfkin or human, left her reeling.

“There are some she-wolves,” Kyntha continued, “who create unrest not through malice, but instinct. A desperate need to be centered, reassured, and pursued.”

A few knowing chuckles rose from the crowd.

Fern wanted to scream, to rush to the front to argue against her. But the bruises that banded her ribs kept her from sudden movements, sobering her quickly from such irrational impulses.

“She is young. Unshifted. Frightened. I do not blame her for grasping at sympathy where she can find it.” Her voice gentled further. “But if every tear and bruise becomes cause to overturn consequence, then what lesson is learned?”

Darion’s expression hardened by degrees, and Fern watched in horror.

The softening around his mouth vanished, his shoulders squared, and the tiny fracture of doubt sealed shut.