Reject me twice (Kira and Theron) novel Chapter 87

Brennan comes through the gates on the sixth day, his horse lathered and blowing, the boy himself barely better — mud-caked, hollow-eyed, swaying in the saddle with the particular exhaustion of someone who has pushed past every reasonable limit and kept going on principle alone.

I receive him privately in my study, door closed, Senna posted outside.

“Sit down before you collapse,” I tell him, pouring water from the desk pitcher. “Drink first, then talk.”

He drinks, wipes his mouth, and straightens with the visible effort of a young wolf who would rather die than deliver a message poorly. “Verbal response from Queen Kira, Alpha. Word for word as she gave it.”

“Go ahead.”

“Commander Frost’s intelligence network conducted a full search on a wolf matching the description you provided. The search returned nothing.” He pauses, recalibrating.

“The queen’s counsel is this: keep her close, extend just enough trust to create the conditions where her true intentions will surface. Let proximity do the work.”

“And Malik’s addendum?”

Brennan’s expression shifts — the careful neutrality of a messenger who knows the words he’s about to deliver carry edges.

“Someone capable of erasing their scent trail and fabricating convincing injuries has backing. The question is whose fingerprints were wiped off her before she arrived on your border.”

I absorb this. The crown’s intelligence network is the most extensive operation in the territories — Malik built it from nothing, and it reaches into corners most Alphas don’t know exist.

His people found nothing on Ciri. This answer is not comforting.

“Good work, Brennan. Get food and sleep — you’ve earned both.”

“Thank you, Alpha.” He hesitates at the door. “There’s one more thing. The queen said it informally, after the official message. She said to trust your instincts. That you’ve been right about threats before, even when the evidence wasn’t there to support it.”

Kira’s faith in me still catches like a hook in my chest — the trust I destroyed and she rebuilt, offered back without demand.

“Dismissed,” I say, and he goes.

I spend the day watching Ciri from vantage points throughout the settlement — the battlements above the kitchens, the corridor window overlooking the servants’ wing, the training yard with its sightlines to the herb garden.

She’s been assigned kitchen duties — standard for newcomers. Ciri has taken to the work without complaint, washing dishes, chopping vegetables, hauling water with the efficient economy of someone who understands that usefulness buys belonging.

The staff has warmed to her with easy acceptance — the head cook gives her the larger tasks without being asked, which means she’s earning trust at the functional level.

I watch her carry a full cauldron of stew from the hearth to the serving table without strain, her arms steady, her balance centered in a way that speaks of physical conditioning well beyond what kitchen work demands.

When another servant stumbles near the fire pit, Ciri catches the woman’s elbow and steadies her before the stumble becomes a fall — her hand moving with the speed of trained reflex, not startled reaction.

I watch her interact throughout the morning. She’s polite — not warm, but considerate, offering help before it’s requested, remembering names after hearing them once.

She moves through the kitchens with an economy of motion that’s almost graceful, wasting no gesture, occupying no more space than necessary.

“And then made her disappear from every record Malik’s network can access. That takes a different kind of resource entirely.”

“So what’s the approach?”

I think about Kira’s advice and Malik’s warning. About trained eyes and a reflexive knife draw.

“We bring her closer,” I say. “Kitchen duty keeps her contained, but it also keeps her at arm’s length. I want her in the main hall during meals. Give her a seat among the pack, let her believe she’s being integrated. I want to see what’s underneath.”

Senna nods slowly. “I’ll adjust the arrangements. Anything else?”

“Keep your observers in place. And Senna — watch her hands. They’re telling a different story than the rest of her.”

She nods, and disappears into the evening, and I stand on the wall looking out over a territory that Marcus left me to guard alone.

The pines are black against a sky turning indigo, and somewhere in the servants’ wing, a woman with trained eyes and a fighter’s reflexes is sitting in a room that I gave her, eating food that I provided, building a life inside walls that I’m responsible for.

Kira said to trust my instincts. My instincts say Ciri is a blade wrapped in linen — functional, unremarkable, designed to pass through hands without drawing attention until the moment someone grips too hard and discovers what’s hidden inside the folds.

The question isn’t whether the blade exists. The question is who sent it, and what it was sharpened to cut.