Chapter 3: Villain or Heroine?

In the past half year, living at the Frost Pack’s lodge, I’d learned a lot about the world. More than I ever wanted to know.

Some lessons came easy. Most came hard.

I prided myself on being a good blade, but Julian didn’t send me on every job. That stung more than I cared to admit.

Sometimes I wondered if he was keeping me sharp or keeping me safe. I never knew which was worse.

A blade is only good when it strikes at the vital spot. That’s what my mentor used to say.

Don’t waste your edge on dull problems. He was right, but it didn’t make it any easier.

That’s how I comforted myself, but deep down, I knew Julian didn’t fully trust me. That knowledge sat heavy in my gut.

Trust is a currency, and I was always broke.

I couldn’t blame him. I had a name and a crew; I wasn’t one of his own. The outsider, always.

Outsiders never really belong, no matter how long they stay. I knew that better than anyone.

Even though I worked at his side, it was only to repay a debt. I wouldn’t even call him "Alpha." Rarely did I say "Julian"—most of the time, I just spoke plainly, no titles. Kept my distance, just enough.

He never seemed to mind, but I knew he noticed. He noticed everything. That was the problem.

Julian was cautious, always planning several steps ahead—not indecisive, just cold and resolute. The gentler his smile, the harsher his actions. That’s what made him dangerous.

People said his kindness was a warning. I learned that the hard way.

My attitude wasn’t exactly sincere; I still had my own backbone. No wonder he didn’t trust me. Maybe I didn’t trust myself.

I couldn’t help it. Some things are just built in. Old habits die hard.

Fine. If he doesn’t trust me, so be it.

I’d rather be doubted than owned.

He only sent me out once in a while. The rest of the time, I could relax, wander the farmers market, listen to music, read romance novels. Sometimes, it almost felt normal.

The market was my favorite—fresh apples, old records, strangers who didn’t know my name. For a while, I could pretend I was just another face in the crowd.

Even with a massive, ill-fitting hunting knife strapped across my back, my tastes weren’t much different from other girls. That contrast always made me smile.

I liked bubblegum and cheap perfume, sang along to love songs on the radio when no one was listening.

I loved the drama in those paperbacks, always sighing over the misunderstandings between the main characters. It was my escape.

It was easier to root for fictional people. Their pain always ended in a kiss. Mine never did.

More than once, Julian caught me red-handed. I wished the floor would swallow me whole.

He’d raise an eyebrow, smirk, and I’d want to disappear into the floor. I hated how easily he could fluster me.

Faced with his teasing gaze, I was embarrassed. My cheeks burned, my words stuck in my throat.

But secretly, I thought, if Julian were in one of those stories, he’d definitely be the male lead. Dangerous, magnetic, impossible to forget.

Tall, dark, and dangerous—every girl’s bad decision wrapped in a perfect suit.

But what about the heroine? That was the part I never figured out.

Thinking back, I realized the main characters in those stories always complemented each other. Maybe that’s what made them work.

Opposites attract, or so the books say.

Someone as deep and unpredictable as Julian, who straddled the line between right and wrong, would need a kind-hearted, resilient heroine—someone who could bounce back from rock bottom, someone bright and strong. Someone I’d never be.

The kind of girl who makes you want to be better, just by being around. I wondered if I’d ever meet someone like that.

If she had a tragic background, all the better.

Readers love a good sob story.

As I thought about it, I slipped myself into the story.

I couldn’t help it. Daydreaming is a bad habit. One I never could break.

So what was I? The villain? The sidekick? Or something in between?

I came from the Blackthorn Crew, abandoned as a baby, but that was so long ago I’d long since forgotten the pain. Sometimes I wondered if it was ever really mine.

Some scars fade, even if the memory lingers. You learn to live with it.

Since I could remember, my brother and mentor had always been by my side. I wasn’t lonely; I was carefree and happy—nothing like those tragic heroines. My story wasn’t meant for tears.

We made our own family, patchwork but strong. I never wanted for anything but peace.

And at fourteen, I’d already stained my hands with blood. That’s the kind of line you never cross back from.

The first time is always the hardest. After that, it gets easier—too easy.

I hunted down the people who wiped out my family. Revenge is a dish best served cold, but it never fills you up.

My mentor said people in our world didn’t sweat the small stuff. You learned quick, or you died quicker.

"Blood for blood," he’d say, as if it were a prayer. I used to think it was wisdom.

He even praised me for being bold and capable. I never knew if that was a compliment or a curse.

Either way, it felt like a curse. The line between pride and regret blurred fast.

After that, killing became numbingly easy.

It was just a job. Just survival.

I hated to admit it, but in those stories, people like me—who killed without blinking—were always the villains.

That realization left me silent. I didn’t like the answer, but I couldn’t argue with it.

I’d always wanted to be the hero. Turns out, the world had other plans.

I’m usually blunt and talkative, so when I suddenly went quiet, Julian noticed. The silence between us grew heavy.

He noticed everything. Sometimes I wished he didn’t. I hated being seen.

He asked, "Did something happen lately?" The question hung in the air.

His voice was softer than usual, almost concerned. It threw me off.

I was dazed for a moment, then shook my head. The world felt far away.

I couldn’t trust myself to speak. Words felt dangerous.

He didn’t buy it. He leaned in, pressing his forehead to mine. The closeness made me shiver.

The gesture was so intimate, I forgot how to breathe.

Then he muttered, "No fever." Relief flickered in his eyes.

He smelled faintly of pine and wild grass, like the woods after a rain—soothing and peaceful.

It made me want to close my eyes and forget everything. Just for a moment.

I licked my lips, suddenly parched. Nerves prickled under my skin.

Could the hero in a story ever treat the villain like this?

If you think about it, isn’t that a huge taboo?

Or maybe…

Maybe stories are just lies we tell ourselves to make sense of pain.

Before I could think further, a sharp pain hit my forehead. I blinked, startled.

Julian had flicked me.

He always did that when he thought I was lost in thought. It annoyed me more than I’d admit.

"What are you thinking about?" The pressure in his voice was subtle, but it was there.

His touch felt intimate, but it carried weight; his voice stayed calm, more effective than any threat. I felt small under his gaze.

Julian was angry.

I was used to his shifting moods, so I came up with a half-convincing excuse: "I was thinking about your romantic disaster. If you waver one day, should I draw my blade or not?" My sarcasm was my only shield.

I tried to sound flippant, but the words felt heavy. Regret crept in.

"Why worry about that now?" Julian’s eyes warmed. The shift caught me off guard.

He looked at me like I was a puzzle he almost enjoyed solving. I hated being so easy to read.

"Just preparing for the worst." Cynicism was easier than hope.

I shrugged, trying to play it cool. Inside, I was anything but.

"I’ll handle it." I tried to sound confident, but my heart wasn’t in it.

His confidence was infuriating—and comforting. Sometimes I wished I could borrow it.

Finally, Julian turned to look at me. He stared so long, my palms started to sweat. I tried not to fidget.

His gaze could pin you to the wall. I tried not to flinch. My jaw clenched, stubborn as ever.

He said quietly, "Autumn, here, all you have to do is listen to me." The command was clear.

That was his way of saying, "Stay in your lane."

Right then, I knew he was blaming me for meddling. Guilt settled in my gut.

He didn’t like surprises—not from anyone, least of all me. I knew that all too well.

Whether giving or taking, he always did as he pleased—coming and going as he liked. I never knew where I stood.

He was a storm—sudden, unpredictable, gone before you could blink.

Just like his warmth—intense when it came, gone in a flash when it left. I missed it even as I cursed it.

I lowered my eyes, looking at the thick calluses my blade had given me. The scars of a life spent fighting.

My hands didn’t look like a girl’s anymore. They looked like they belonged to a fighter. Hard, unyielding.

After a couple of glances, I curled my hand into a fist. Determined not to let him see me break.