Sunlight stabbed through the tent flap, hitting Areli square in the eyes. She groaned, every muscle in her body screaming in protest. Her ribs throbbed with a dull, deep ache—someone had wrapped her torso tightly with clean linen bandages while she slept, the bindings firm and smelling of medicinal herbs.
She was lying on something incredibly soft. A high-quality beast pelt. And she was wearing a man's shirt. It smelled like Hudson.
She sat up slowly, wincing as her bound ribs protested, clutching the shirt closed. Hudson was sitting a few feet away, watching her. His gaze was intense, possessive, and surprisingly gentle.
"Areli," he said, his voice deep and steady.
She met his gaze, refusing to look away. She had saved his life. She owed him nothing else.
Hudson stood up. He dropped to one knee. He placed a fist over his heart in a formal salute.
"I offer you my Mating Bond," he said, his voice ringing with sincerity. "I will protect you with my life."
Areli's breath caught. A Mating Bond from a Tier-1 Warlord? It was the ultimate security blanket.
But she wasn't going to be bought off that easily.
"Before we talk about bonds," she said, her voice cool and hard, "we need to talk about justice."
Hudson raised an eyebrow but remained kneeling.
"Your subordinate drugged me and forced my hand," she said, pointing toward the tent flap. "I want accountability."
Hudson didn't hesitate. He stood up and strode out of the tent. Areli pulled on a coat and followed, moving slowly and favoring her left side, one hand pressed flat against her bandaged ribs.
The camp was quiet. Doyle was kneeling on the ground, his back bare. Curt and Brown stood nearby, their faces grim.
Hudson walked up to Doyle. "You violated her agency. The punishment is the whip."
Doyle didn't flinch. "Yes, Warlord."
Hudson picked up a bone whip studded with barbs. He raised his arm.
Crack.
The whip bit into Doyle's back. Blood sprayed. Areli watched, her face expressionless. A fine mist of crimson drifted near her boots, and her stomach gave a violent, sickening lurch. In her past life, the sight of flayed skin would have sent her into shock. She had to dig her nails into her palms to keep from looking away. But then she remembered the icy water closing over her head, and Doyle's ruthless hands forcing the drugged pouch over her face. In this primitive, unforgiving world, weakness was an invitation for death. This was the currency of survival. She forced her breathing to steady. She felt no pity. Only a cold satisfaction.
Thirty lashes later, Doyle lay in a pool of his own blood. Hudson dropped the whip, turning to look at Areli. A silent question.
She nodded. The debt was paid.
"Pack up," Hudson ordered. "We're going to Blackridge Clan."
The journey, though short by beastman standards, was grueling for Areli. She could not walk the distance unassisted. Hudson, without a word, lifted her onto his back, his hands careful to avoid her bandaged ribs. She looped her arms around his neck, her pride stinging but her body grateful. As they traveled, she focused on her breathing, consciously using the rhythmic motion to assess her injuries—two cracked ribs, maybe three, but the bindings held them steady. By the time the camp's border stones came into view, the sharp edge of the pain had dulled to a manageable throb. Hudson set her down gently, and she straightened her spine, refusing to show weakness before her enemies. As they approached the clan's territory, Areli felt a familiar knot of tension form in her stomach. This was the place where the original Areli had died. It was time to make them pay.
They walked into the central square. The clan was gathered. And in the middle of the crowd, standing in front of Areli's old, tattered tent, was Gloria.
Gloria was mid-speech, her face a mask of sorrow. Then she saw Areli. Her eyes widened in shock, then narrowed in malice.
"Look!" Gloria shrieked, pointing a trembling finger. "The traitor is back! She eloped with wild males!"
Eugene stepped up beside her, looking heartbroken. "Areli, how could you betray my love?"
The crowd erupted. Hisses and boos rained down on her. Curt and Brown reached for their weapons, but Hudson held up a hand. He looked at Areli.
This was her fight.
Areli looked at the mob. She looked at the two liars. A plan formed in her mind, sharp and lethal.
She let her eyes fill with tears. She let her body sway, looking like a broken, defeated woman.
And then, she struck.
