The Exiled Alpha | ✓

31 | If We're Lucky

At the head of one street is a group of bounty hunters— trademarked by their sinister black apparel and deadly tools strapped to every body part. They stand out from the rest of the crowd for more reasons than their clothing. They're visibly distraught.

The first expression they've ever portrayed in front of an audience, and it's one of grief. The hunters' shoulders are slumped, gloved fists balled at their sides. Some of their mouths are twitching, lips quivering as they try, in great effort, to keep the poker faces they were trained to.

Rather than going into a blind rage from looking upon their leader's dead body, they seem... shattered.

Romanov was their kingpin while they were just numbers under his control. That's what I had thought at least. Looking at them now, standing frozen in place with shock, maybe I was wrong.

Senya...

She's a bounty hunter just as they are, but her distressed-tinged face isn't among them. She isn't here and the leaden feeling spreading in my stomach tells me that's a good thing.

"Riot," I dare cautiously, "We need to go. Now."

He doesn't respond. My mate is standing just as statue-still as the bounty hunters staring at us across the diameter of the plaza. Except his countenance is achieving exactly what the hunters would covet: a cold, unreadable expression.

It's as I look between the two opposing parties that I realize I'm not the one being stared at. Just like the punishments back in Visari, my presence isn't even acknowledged. No. They're staring at the wolf standing tall beside me, poised and ready to achieve his bloody feat all over again. He remains stoic-faced, despite a whole city's worth of werewolves' eyes staying glued on him. The same eyes of the people he's expressed so much hatred for.

In front of all of us, his ruby red eyes start to fade. The red glow dies out, leaving obsidian irises surging with wisps of deep grey, like a monochrome fire burning inside them.

He's unaffected by the attention, completely emotionless. Possibly even a bit disdainful. It's the exact same demeanor he carried in Visari, and undoubtedly the same he had when he dominated Balaige.

And with it, he turns and walks away.

• • •

Never did I think I'd be so relieved to be sitting back in this giant hunk of iron and steel ever again. This time the train car is empty of anyone else but us. The night hours, Riot explained, aren't as popular among humans.

With a heavy sigh, I let myself sink down into the cushioned seat, for some reason thinking that it might be able massage away the reality of it all.

"Exiled" isn't a strong enough word to describe what Riot is anymore. Nor are the thousands of death warrants on his head enough to describe his public image.

I followed Riot out of the city as if we were going on a casual stroll. He was as calm as a dead man while I was an overly anxious bundle of nerves waiting for a flaming arrow to stick into his back. When we approached the golden gates, the guards took one glance at the bloody wolf accompanying me and opened them without question. It was as if the news of Romanov's death had spread without a word.

Everyone feared the Exiled Alpha before. The whispers of the things he's done at Balaige made sure of that. Now it's like they're scared in a different way. As if they know now that it isn't the title of 'Alpha' that he's after. And if they don't, I do.