Filed to story: My Kidnapper Is the Wolf King
Sebastian. We have three weeks until the full moon. I want us to make our move just after. We’ll need an army to get into the castle, and the support of at least four alphas to join us if we are to hold it. Lochlan can provide us with an army.”
Callum grits his teeth.
“You don’t like Lochlan?” I ask.
“I’ve nothing personal against the man,” says Callum, “but while it’s true that he and James don’t get along, he has as much reason to dislike me.”
“He thinks inviting Lochlan could put you in danger,” says Jack. “Particularly after-“
Callum makes a low sound, a little like a growl, and Jack shuts his mouth.
“Why would it put me in danger?” I ask.
“Do you remember when I rode out to aid my brother while we were at Madadh-allaidh?” says Callum. “We lost the battle against Sebastian and I was shot with wolfsbane.”
Fear had clenched my heart when Callum fell to his knees in his chambers, covered in sweat and gore. Blood ran down his arm from the bullet wound in his shoulder. A lick of shame flickers through me. I’d told Callum that morning that Blake was not as bad he seemed. How wrong I was.
I nod.
“The fort Sebastian took used to be a part of Lochlan’s territory,” says Blake. “The alpha who took over in his stead was someone Lochlan was fond of. He’s likely dead, now, or worse.”
“Sebastian was only there because he was looking for me,” I say. “Lochlan may blame me for what happened.” My voice is dull as I realize why I may have an enemy in Lochlan, despite never meeting him.
“Aye,” says Callum. “We cannot trust his loyalties.”
Blake sighs. “Lochlan will find Aurora delightful. Trust me.” I don’t bother pointing out that we can’t trust Blake. “I’ve already invited him, anyway. This conversation is fruitless.”
Callum’s jaw hardens. “What?
“
“Come on, Callum. You and I can handle him, and you know it. Why don’t you tell your little pet the real reason why you’re being so overprotective?” A dimple punctures Blake’s cheek and my head snaps toward Callum.
“Blake.” Callum’s voice is laced with warning. Jack smirks.
“What is it?” My tone is sharp.
He pinches the bridge of his nose, then pulls a piece of parchment from the pocket of his kilt. I take it.
“Ryan and his lass, Becky, arrived yesterday,” says Callum. Relief courses through me. The sixteen-year-old boy I spared in the Borderlands fighting ring is alright. “James let them go, but he sent them with this letter.”
Callum McKennan is scrawled in ink across one side.
The wax seal is broken, and I flick it open. I turn the parchment over, and read.
You have something of mine. I have something of yours. Want to swap?
My brow furrows. “What does he have of yours?”
“Fiona.” Callum’s tone lacks intonation, and he stares blankly at the parchment in my hand.
Panic and anger twist in my gut. Callum’s bloodshot eyes are not just the consequence of worrying about my fever and the bite that throbs in my side. James has taken Callum’s oldest friend prisoner. She’s my friend, too, though I don’t know her well. Fiona was one of the only people at Madadh-allaidh who treated me with kindness, and she did so knowing I was from her enemy kingdom.
My fear hardens to resolve. I touch Callum’s arm. His bicep is clenched beneath his sleeve. “We’ll get her back. He thinks you have something of his?”
Callum swallows. “Technically, I do.”
“Then we should negotiate a trade.”
“That’s where it gets complicated.”
“Why? What does he want?” I frown. “What do you have that belongs to him?”
He runs a hand over his mouth. His gaze darkens when he looks at my waist, where James’s bite marks my skin. His eyes swim with regret when they meet mine. “You.”
Chapter Fifty-Seven
The hours bleed together.
I bring my knees to my chin and clutch my legs in an attempt to keep warm. The torches flicker on and off. I’ve never been this cold before. My head throbs as blood trickles from the wound Philip gave me, then dries on my cheek. No one speaks. Despair hangs in the air, acrid and heavy. James mumbles something every so often. Ryan whimpers. I just want to sleep.
I fall between the nightmare I’m trapped within and the terrors that haunt my dreams. Both are dark and restless, filled with prison cells and darkness. They plague me until I can no longer differentiate between the two. All I can feel is the cold, oily terror that curls like a snake in my chest. It suffocates whatever wolf I have within me. It whispers that I will die. That no one will care. That my life will have amounted to nothing.
All of this has something to do with the God of Night.
Callum told me that his acolytes used to sacrifice Wolves to gain his favor. Does Alexander intend to sacrifice me? Will he kill my brother too?
Alexander must have guards. Perhaps I can persuade one of them that killing the heirs to the Southlands throne would be ill-advised. I don’t want to use the name and title of my father-the man who killed my mother-to save myself, but I don’t want to die, either. I need to save Ryan, too.
My mind frantically whirs through every possibility until dots dance before my eyes and I slump against the wall.
Hopelessness crashes over me.
I hear my mother’s voice echo in the darkness.
Have courage, little one.
I don’t know how much time passes before footsteps approach the door. Hooded guards enter the kennels and open all the doors except mine. Wolves are dragged into the corridor. They’re too weak to fight and they’re shackled, and collars are placed around their necks.
James grabs the bars of my cell before he’s led away. “Does he know you’re here?” he asks hurriedly.
“Callum?”
James looks at me pointedly as the guard shoves him forward. “No. Not Callum.”
Darling, I will always find you.
Cold darkness spreads through my veins. “Yes.”
He nods. “I’ll try and buy you some time.”
“What are we going to do?” Ryan asks behind him.
“You’re going to do nothing, lad.”
Chained together, they’re led away.
**
A key turns in the lock, and I jerk my head upright as finally, someone comes for me.
I spring to my feet. “Listen, I don’t know what Alexander has told you, but I’m the Southlands princess. My father would reward you greatly if-“
The man who walks into my cell looks like a phantom in dark robes with a hood that conceals his face. He grabs my arm, and his fingers tighten painfully around it. I catch a glimpse of a tattoo-a key with crescent moons in the bow-on his wrist. Night’s symbol. My hope flickers out. Alexander’s guards are zealots, like him.
“We don’t answer to your father,” he says.