Don had apologized for his alleged slip. Rowan had refused to speak to him for it, refused to even complete the bond. Don voiced that it would be best if they waited till Rowan was older anyway.

Rowan didn’t want to wait. He wanted a choice.

He was worried at first that his no longer being human meant he would have to move classes. He was half right. It was time for him to switch studies, but not because he was a beast. It was because he was the Moderator’s beast.

He was going to learn how to help run the Moderator’s branch whether he wanted to be partnered with Don or not.

Rowan noticed the stares from the other Loose Strings. He was having a hard time grasping the concept that he would no longer be a Loose String, that he was now a Knot. They didn’t look at him like they used to. Granted, they had barely looked at him before. He hadn’t had that many friends to begin with, and the ones who had noticed him were more fixated on how he resembled a dead woman. He’d always been an exhibit of sorts. The son of a former partner to the Moderator, the son of a skinwalker.

He was now a skinwalker, not just related to one.

“If anyone makes you feel unsafe, you tell me straightaway,” Don demanded even while Rowan was adamantly refusing to look at him. Words couldn’t describe how violated he felt, having this bond forced on him in such a way. Though he wondered why anyone would make him feel unsafe, he would not ask Don why he even presumed that.

He learned the reasons on his own.

At first there were whispers. Whispers he didn’t notice at first. Then he heard his name spoken under someone’s breath. Rowan was never one to shy away from asking what someone was talking about, so that’s just what he did. He turned around and eyed the pair of Loose Strings he had only just passed and asked, “What’s going on?”

They looked like deer in the headlights of a semi. “Uh . . .,” one fumbled.

“Nothing,” the other was quick to declare.

Rowan’s brow furrowed. “Well I heard you say Rowan so it must be something.”

“We didn’t—”

“Let’s just go.” And then the other was grabbing the one’s wrist, tugging him in the opposite direction and leaving Rowan confused. He wasn’t confused for very long. It eventually got back to him exactly what they had been whispering about. Or rather, he had heard them whispering himself.

Sight was not the only sense that had been enhanced by his maturation. He could hear all the conversations if he listened hard enough.

“I didn’t think eyes could get that creepy. Are his pupils always that small?”

“Do you think he’s more animal now? Like, is he all there in the head?”

“How can he be expected to keep up with us?”

“Are you kidding? How will we keep up with him? He’s gotta be insanely fast now.”

“Too fast. It’s just . . . not right.”

And it wasn’t just Loose Strings spreading the word, either. His own teachers were in on the rumors.

“Idlewood’s just making the same mistake all over again.”

“This time it might get him killed.”

“Why would you want to take such a risk? Those things always go feral.”

“You know, I’ve never seen one that was still for the most part human.”

“Or a blonde one for that matter.”

It was the crude remarks and questions that really made him consider taking Don’s request to heart.

“How do you wipe with those claws?”

“Shouldn’t we be feeding him raw meat or something?”

“It’s a shame, really. I used to think he was kinda cute.”

“It’d be better if he actually looked like a werewolf, you know? Then you wouldn’t have thoughts like that.”

“Doesn’t this mean his dad was into bestiality?”

It was the last question that made him lose his temper. He got up from the room, walked all the way to where the offending Loose String sat, and decked him. He was about to do it again when a rough hand grabbed his arm and jerked him backwards. He only realized he was snarling when the yank had forced him into silence.

And he only felt ashamed of what he’d done when he looked up at the one who had stopped him. “Leave. Now,” a very stern, very red Aiden ordered. Rowan’s own eyes went wide at the coldness of Aiden’s gaze, the harshness of his grip.

The force with which he shoved him away.

Rowan obeyed, but slowly. He moved slowly, afraid that if he went any faster the realization would sink in too soon. It would sink in, and he would burst into tears. He couldn’t bring himself to show them that he had been hurt. Not by the comments. Those had just irritated or borderline angered him. No, what had hurt was . . . .

Aiden had followed him outside. He almost turned and ran to him, just as he would have when he was smaller and more trusting. But he had a gut feeling that that wasn’t going to be the case anymore. “What do you want?”

Aiden bristled, those black wings ruffling at his back. His eyes narrowed as he pointed a finger at Rowan, “Don’t you fucking do that again.”

Rowan could feel his eyes starting to water, but he masked his hurt by snapping, “They were saying—”

“Why were you listening?”

“Because it was about me!”

“Point stands. Don’t start shit.” Aiden’s back straightened, and Rowan was suddenly reminded that he’d never once beaten Aiden in a fight. Aiden still seemed so much larger than him, no matter how much Rowan had grown over time. Since their last match, Aiden hadn’t changed at all and yet he was still more intimidating. “Just feel lucky I even bothered to warn you, kid.”

The word ‘kid’ didn’t roll off Aiden’s tongue as an endearment the way it used to. Aiden’s glare was so strong . . . Rowan felt everything inside him start to sink slowly. Aiden . . . Aiden didn’t look at him like he used to. This wasn’t the disappointment of a mentor who had taught a student to behave better.

This look made Don’s predation seem mild.

“You agree with them . . . don’t you?” Rowan asked.

“I don’t care what they’re talking about.” Somehow that statement didn’t make Rowan feel any better. The next statement denoted why. “You stay in line just like everyone else, or you’ll have to face the consequences.”

Rowan only just managed to keep his lip from quivering. “And they are?”

Aiden actually scoffed. “You’re supposed to be smart. Figure it out.” Rowan didn’t respond. He stared in disbelief at his former teacher, who apparently took this to mean Rowan didn’t get it. “Don’t think for one second that if you go rogue you won’t end up like your mother.”

His blood froze. He was sure he was still frozen when Aiden turned and almost stalked off. By the time he was able to move again, he was wandering aimlessly back to Don’s penthouse.

He got back to his room. He stared at the pile of books he had been given on skinwalkers. He stared at the assignments he was supposed to look over and assess for negotiation purposes. He stared at the information he was supposed to memorize about relations with other Red Cord branches from a Moderator’s perspective. He had plenty to do.

But . . . he hated it all at the moment. He hated everything.

“Did you assault someone today?” Don asked Rowan before dinner. Rowan looked away. His eyes were puffy. He’d shoved the books and assignments on a shelf in his room when he’d gotten tired of staring at them. His refusal to answer finally made Don lose his patience. “That sort of behavior is intolerable. Infighting only weakens the organization and you are in a position where you need to set an example.”

“What’s the point?” Rowan asked. At long last, he answered Don.

“Excuse me?” The words were so soft and low, he was suddenly reminded of how Don resembled a toad to him.

There were a million ways Rowan wanted to answer that. Their organization was built on a lie that humans and inhumans were to be treated equally, so how was he at fault for the way he had just been treated? It was reportedly difficult for someone who had no family to go feral, so why was he being treated like he may go feral at any moment? The books he’d been given were so vague on the Witchery Way and skinwalkers, so he must be evil by default? What came out instead of these questions? “I didn’t ask for this.” Don was silent, and Rowan knew he was waiting to hear more. Rowan . . . had a very difficult time articulating everything he wanted to say. He tried though. “I thought . . . inhumans deserved the same respect as humans.”

“They do,” Don conceded.

“They knew me before I was,” he held up his hands, not wanting to say the word aloud, “this.”

“You’ve changed, my boy.”

“Have I really?” He turned a glare at Don. It was a tearful one, but a glare all the same. “I don’t feel any diff—,” he covered his mouth as he was interrupted by his own whimper. A canine whimper. He glanced down, face red and heated with embarrassment.

Don took a seat beside him and he remained quiet. He kept his gaze focused on the ground, slumped as if in defeat. Don’s hand rested on his back, and though he considered it he did not shirk away from the touch. The Moderator was silent for a moment longer before he said, “I know this is not what you had in mind.” Rowan managed to resist scoffing. “And I can’t imagine how difficult it must be for you. You may be no different in mind, son. But people won’t see your mind if you attack them—”

“Do you even know what they said about—?”

“No, but if you had told me instead of acting of your own accord I might have handled it for you.” Rowan’s mouth clamped shut then, heart heavy in his chest. “You are a very intelligent, understanding young man.” Rowan looked up at him, more tears gathering in his eyes. Don’s face was stern, his eyes piercing, but the words sounded so genuine. “But as far as the world is concerned, you are now an inhuman. And an uncanny one at that.” Before Rowan could ask, Don explained, “They will treat those of you who look just a shade less than human worse than true monsters.” Less than human. Rowan was . . . less. “Few will understand you, my boy.” If by few he meant none here in the Red Cord, Rowan could believe it. “Do you see now why I wanted to protect you?”

Rowan didn’t answer, and Don didn’t press. He resumed his cooking. Rowan refused to eat, though. He simply picked at the food and rearranged it, making it look like he had eaten some when really he had just scraped it around the plate. That night he didn’t sleep. He left the skinwalker books on the shelves, as well as the papers he needed to memorize. He instead spent the night reading the case files, holding the stone wolf the Warden had presented him with in both hands. He rolled it between his fingers as he read through a dissertation on the failed reconciliation between a selkie woman and her husband, who had stolen her skin and hidden it. It was up to him to write down his thoughts on how the negotiation could have been handled. As he shared his thoughts on the blank page, he squeezed the figurine tight in his other hand. Moving onto the next case, he began reading only to focus on a single drop of saltwater on the pages. He stared at the drop until it was joined by another.

He closed the folders and leaned back on his bed, still squeezing the figurine as his chest and throat tightened. He almost choked on a sob, arms flopping outstretched on the mattress. The figurine fell from his hand and hit the floor with a thunk. He passed out in that position, and woke up with a blanket tucked around him and the case files stacked neatly on his nightstand. His throat was still sore from the crying, chest still tight from his many defeats the day before.

He got up to go shower, then wound up staring at his markings in the mirror. The Scorch Marks were shaped like barb wire, a harness wrapping around his bosom with lone red wires decorated over his collarbone and shoulders. The skin was still raised, but it didn't burn to bathe anymore. It was now insensitive to touch, red scar tissue that lacked that particular sense. He ran his fingers along the barbed wire.

And wanted to cry again.

He didn't though. He stepped into the shower and turned the water to scalding. Once finished, he went back to his room and got dressed. Coming back to the case files, he picked them up and let his eyes wander over their covers and names once again. Then he went over to the shelf where he'd stuffed his information packet and collected that as well. He left the books abandoned.

He met Don in the kitchen, placing his work on the table beside the plate set out for him. Don glanced up, expression somewhat dead as it tended to be in the mornings. As it tended to be since Rowan had refused to speak with him.

Rowan was chosen to speak with him now. “I feel like you're the only one willing to teach me what sort of example I'm supposed to make.” That was . . . the most politically correct way he could put it. Now he needed to speak plainly. “I'm not going to be able to learn in the same environment anymore. And . . . if I'm gonna be your partner, I need to know what's expected of me.” Words on paper were not going to cut it for him. He needed someone to work with him.

He needed to not feel as alone as he did now that he had been officially rejected by everyone. Everyone except Don, who had greeted him with open arms at each turn.

Who had stood up and moved to Rowan to repeat that action.

Swallowed in his embrace, Rowan closed his eyes and allowed the hold. He even returned it.

Maybe one day, the hold wouldn't feel so empty on his part.