Page 20 of Secrets and S'mores
“Is this how training is done in Granite Ridge?” I ask, casually drifting to the side so we can begin to circle one another.
She closes her teeth over her bottom lip and I don’t expect an answer. Finally, she says, “Not really, we do more drills, and then when we spar, it’s usually a competition.”
“Do you guys do that a lot?”
“Yeah.” Her tone is flat and cold.
“Are there prizes?” I ask with a forced grin.
“Usually whoever does well gets dinner, and those that do poorly get the shit beat out of them.”
“Are you serious?” I ask, my feet halting.
Without warning, she surges forward. My shock costs me a fraction of a second, but it’s enough. Throwing my weight onto my back foot, I grab her arms so I can push her aside, but I can’t get a clean hold on her. We go down in a tangle of arms and legs.
Her nails dig into my forearm and she pins me with a defiant sneer. I could knock her off easily. She doesn’t have the weight to hold me down. But the look of triumph in her eyes gives me pause.
It’s not until I feel metal against my ribs, where my shirt has pulled up, that I realize what she’s doing.
“Ember, don’t.” My words are more plea than warning.
Bold hazel eyes stare back and her hand trails up until she grips her knife tight to her breast. “Onyx, just let me have this. I never go without it. It’s for emergencies and I promise not to use it unless my life is in danger.”
Relief courses through me. She isn’t about to disembowel me.
“I think we’re done training.” I try to keep my tone neutral, but disappointment tinges each word.
She pushes back as I sit up until she’s hovering over my lap awkwardly. Already, her knife is tucked away, and she gathers her hair into a twist at the nape of her neck. I find the line of her jaw and the curve of her mouth fascinating as she glances away from me.
“So what about wolves who aren’t ranked? In your pack’s competitions,” I ask, trying to bring back our conversation.
Ember shrugs and sits back on her heels. “Everyone holds a rank in Granite Ridge. If they can’t fight, they don’t have a place with us.”
That doesn’t make any sense. How does their pack operate? “What about seniors?”
“We don’t really have any,” she says, cocking her head at me, as if she’s unsure why I’m questioning her.
“What about kids? What age do they have to start training?”
“Um, twelve-ish? I think I started at ten, actually. But we don’t have a lot of kids. We occasionally take in strays, so there are a few teenagers.”
“Your pack isn’t exactly normal. You know that, right?” I blurt without thinking. Mentally kicking myself, I shove my hand through my hair and brush it away from my forehead.
“So I’ve been told.” There’s that lip curl again. I’m not sure if she’s showing disgust at her own pack or defensiveness at my judgment.
“Do you ever want something different?” I ask, unsure of what I’m trying to gain in this conversation.
“Why isthisconsidered normal?” She questions me, opening her hands in a sweeping gesture. “Just because you grew up with it?”
“Well, no,” I argue.
With a haughty laugh, she tucks a leg under her and rises. Anger shines in her eyes and the tightness around her mouth. “It’s amazing you guys ever stood up to us.”
“Excuse me?”
Her eyes rove down my body as I stand to meet her. “Your pack is weak.”
Hot anger floods my blood, drowning out the empathy I had for her. My tone is harsh and I can’t help it. “We aren’t weak. And we don’t beat each other half to death and then starve our packmates as punishment.”
