A Werewolf's Unexpected Mate-Chapter 122: A Guardian’s Instinct
[Ann’s POV]
The last time I had come to this village—with Lady Ovelia, Sir Ace, and Ray—our purpose had been singular and grim. We had eaten, slept at the inn, and left for Thunoa without a second glance. But this time, as I walked through the vibrant, pulsing streets, I finally allowed myself to see the place. The village was vast, its energy sprawling and untamed. The houses were still predominantly wood, but I noted several new structures rising with foundations of pale gray cement, their surfaces smooth and unweathered. Soon, I thought, this will no longer be a village. It will be a town. The progress was tangible in the air, a scent of fresh lumber and wet mortar mixed with the festival’s indulgence. This place had truly improved over the past eight years, shedding its rustic skin for something more ambitious
My primary duty, however, left no room for architectural admiration. My eyes, sharp and methodical, scanned the crowd for any sign of the man in the red mask I had glimpsed earlier. The memory was frustratingly vague; I wasn’t even sure if he was human, witch, or werewolf. He had moved with a neutral gait, his scent lost in the festival’s olfactory storm. My wolf, usually a restless presence in my chest, was eerily calm and silent, offering no guidance. It was disconcerting. The constant assault of music, laughter, and shouting was beginning to wear on my heightened senses; a dull, throbbing ache had started to build behind my ears, a price for my constant vigilance.
Then, my focus narrowed. Across the flow of the crowd, I saw a man—lean, with shifty eyes that darted more than they settled. His gaze was locked not on the festivities, but on the open handbag of an elderly woman. She was dressed in fine, dark blue silk, her fingers adorned with several silver rings, her posture speaking of noble bearing. She was distracted, enchanted by a troupe of fire-eaters, completely unaware of the predator in her periphery.
His hand was a blur, a practiced strike. He dipped his fingers into the bag and emerged with a leather wallet, the movement so fluid and swift it was nearly invisible. A regular human would have missed it entirely. Too bad for him, I was the one watching.
I closed the distance between us in three silent strides, my soft-soled boots making no sound on the packed earth. Before he could retreat into the crowd, my hand shot out, my fingers closing around his wrist like a steel manacle.
"What are you—" he gasped, his head snapping toward me. His face, initially shocked, twisted into a mask of anger. He tried to yank his arm back, but my grip was immovable.
"Bring it back!" I commanded, my voice low and cold as river stone. I didn’t raise it, but I let the full force of my gaze strike him, my eyes boring into his, promising consequences he couldn’t yet imagine.
"Someone stole my wallet!" the old woman cried out, her voice shrill with panic as she frantically patted her bag.
The thief’s bravado shattered into pure panic. His eyes widened, the whites showing all around looking for an escape.
"Let go of me!" he snarled, his anger now laced with desperation. He opened his hand, letting the wallet fall to the ground, and in the same motion, his other hand dove beneath his tunic, emerging with a thin, wicked-looking dagger. He swung it in a short, brutal arc aimed directly at my neck.
I didn’t flinch, only a cold, analytical response. My free hand came up, intercepting his swing not by the blade, but by his wrist. My fingers tightened, finding the precise pressure points. I heard the delicate bones grind together. A strangled grunt escaped his lips.
The people nearby finally noticed the altercation. A wave of gasps and startled cries rippled through them, creating a small circle of space around us.
"You—" he wheezed, his face contorted in pain and fury.
He never finished. I didn’t give him the chance. I drove my knee upward in a sharp, efficient motion, striking his abdomen with enough force to hollow him out. The air left his lungs in a pained, whooshing groan. His eyes lost focus, his body went limp, and he slumped, unconscious, in my grasp.
I heard shouts now, voices calling for the village watchers. I released my hold on his wrist and let him drop to the ground, a heap of defeated malice.
Within moments, two watchers pushed their way through the gathering crowd. One was a werewolf, his posture rigid and his eyes scanning the scene with a familiar, predatory assessment. The other was human, his hand resting on the pommel of his sword, his expression more cautious.
The werewolf watcher’s gaze settled on me, a flicker of recognition passing between our kinds. "Are you the one who caught him stealing?" he asked, his voice a low rumble.
"Yes," I replied, my tone flat and factual.
"Your strong for your appearance, young lady," the human watcher said, his eyes wide with a mixture of admiration and surprise.
"She’s a werewolf, after all," the werewolf watcher said to his partner, as if that explained everything. He then nodded to me, a gesture of professional respect. "Thanks for catching this thief. Saves us the trouble."
"I was just doing what is right," I said. It was not a boast, merely a statement of my operational parameters. Justice, in this context, was a simple equation.
He gave a slight, understanding nod, then hefted the unconscious man over his shoulder with ease. The two watchers then moved back into the crowd, the incident already closing behind them.
I bent down and picked up the fallen wallet, brushing a speck of dirt from its fine leather. I walked over to the old woman, who was still looking pale and shaken. "Your wallet, my lady," I said, offering it to her with both hands.
"Oh, thank you, my dear. Thank you," she said, her voice trembling with relief as she took it from me. Her eyes, sharp and intelligent, studied my face, then dropped to my ears, noting their distinct, tapered shape. She seemed to come to a decision. She opened her bag once more and retrieved a small velvet pouch. From it, she produced a pair of earrings: elegant hoops of gleaming gold, each set with a series of polished, deeply black gemstones.
Before I could protest, she reached out and took my hand, her skin soft and wrinkled against my palm. She placed the earrings in my hand and closed my fingers over them. "Take this as my thanks," she said, her voice firm now, leaving no room for refusal. "The circle is made of real gold, and the gemstones around it are real obsidian." She offered a warm, genuine smile.
"I cannot accept this," I insisted, feeling the heavy, cool weight of the gold in my hand. "For sure, it is expensive. My duty required no payment."
"You deserve it," the old woman said, her gaze unwavering. "Not just for retrieving my property, but for the manner in which you did it. There is a strength in you that is rare."
I looked at her determined expression and saw the futility of further refusal. A strange, unfamiliar warmth spread through my chest. "Thank you," I said, the words feeling foreign. I allowed a small, genuine smile to touch my lips. I carefully fastened the earrings to my ears; the gold was cool against my skin, the obsidian stones dark and serene.
The old woman’s smile widened. "The obsidian is the same color as your eyes and hair. It suits you," she said with a satisfied nod. Then, with a final pat on my arm, she turned and melted back into the festival crowd.
The weight of the new earrings was a tangible reminder. My hand rose to touch one of the cool obsidian stones, and my thoughts instantly flew to Lady Ovelia. A flicker of guilt pricked at me. Sir Ace is with her, I reminded myself firmly. He would let the world burn before he let harm come to her. I should not worry. I was her bodyguard, sworn to her safety. That duty did not mean I had to be physically tethered to her side every moment. My role was also to proactively eliminate threats in the wider environment, to be the unseen shield.
A competitive fire ignited in my chest. I cannot lose to that fairy. The thought was sudden and sharp. Gale had his bond, his magic. But I had a lifetime of training, instincts honed in darkness, and a will forged in fire. I would protect her in my own way.
With renewed resolve, I turned my attention back to the shifting crowd, my senses once again stretching out, searching for a glimpse of a featureless red mask and the silent, dangerous man who wore it. The hunt was still on.
