Filed to story: My Kidnapper Is the Wolf King
It looks the same way it did the last time I was here. It’s simply furnished. Books cover almost every surface-the shelves, the writing desk by the small window, the bedside table. A candle burns low on the bedside table. Rain hammers against the window, and the sky is grey outside-a reflection of my mood.
Testing the Lore of Wolves is written in gold lettering across the front of the book. Golden stars dust the spine. The book is familiar to me, and it comes to me quickly. Blake slid this book from one of the shelves in this room, in front of me. He was secretive about it, and took it the morning when Callum rode out to help James.
As James said, it’s one of Blake’s books of experiments. The handwriting is neater than the scrawled notebooks I’ve read, and when I stumble on some experiments I’ve read before-
the melting of an eyeball to see if it grows back, the testing of different metals on a wolf’s skin, and the order in which bones break on the night of a full moon-I realize it’s a write-up of the most interesting experiments. This book, I think, was meant for wider distribution.
I flick through, and hope that something will jump out at me. I’m alert for the word connection or life force or bond among the dusty pages. I’m tired, though, and the ink starts to blur.
When I jolt awake, the sky outside the window is dark. My dreams were restless. I found myself in dark corridors, passing barred cells, and being pursued by someone whistling in the shadows.
I’m dreaming of Night’s prison, and I try to tell myself it’s because of my encounter with Alexander, and the chapel in which I tended to Blake’s shoulder, and all the talk of the dark god, of late. Yet my mother’s stories have taken root in my mind and started to spread their vines. She told me Night would tempt desperate mortals, and offer them what they wanted the most in exchange for their souls.
I’m the daughter of one king, and the consort of another. Does Night covet my soul?
Someone taps on my door. I slide the book under my pillow, then pad across the room. I open it, and peer through the gap. Some of my tension dissipates.
“Fiona, what are you doing here?” I ask.
“They’re throwing a feast for Callum downstairs. It’s tradition when there’s a new alpha or king. Put on a bonny dress and hurry!”
I frown. “Callum didn’t tell me.”
“He’s been with the alphas all day. He told me to bring you down.”
Her enthusiasm provokes a smile, even if I wish Callum had come for me himself. “Just a moment.” I hurry over to the armoire, throw it open, and pick a dress.
I prepare myself for the feast.
***
The skirt of my long-sleeved crimson dress brushes against the stone steps as I follow Fiona down the spiral staircase. I wish I’d had longer to prepare. Fiona burst into my room as I was doing my hair, and I only just had time to braid it and weave it into a messy crown. I haven’t even bathed since I arrived here.
Fiona tells me how she spent the afternoon trying to help Callum keep the peace among the clans. “He’s trying to prepare them for battle, given Alexander’s threat, but it’s proving difficult when some of the alphas keep trying to undermine him. Rob’s the worst.”
“He’s the huge bald man who wears green?”
“Aye. His clan have always been trouble.” She frowns at my bandaged hand as we spill into the corridor at the foot of the tower. “Are you hurt?”
“It’s nothing.”
Fiona and I part ways when we reach the entrance hall. She tells me she hasn’t had chance to check her horses yet. I make the rest of the journey to the Great Hall alone. Brodie, the young freckled boy from Madadh-allaidh, is playing his bagpipes outside the double doors.
“You’ve improved greatly, Brodie,” I say.
He plays a shrill note as I pass, and his cheeks flush as red as his hair. I recall how his chest had puffed up with pride when Callum complimented him the first time I came here. Like then, my amusement dies as soon as I step through the doors.
The Great Hall is loud, hot, and more packed than I’ve ever seen it. Fires roar in the hearths, and Lochlan’s men stand guard in the shadows. The four long tables are packed with Wolves. They shout across the space to one another. A man in blue tartan pinches Kayleigh’s behind as she hurries across the hall carrying a tray of meat, causing Mrs. McDonald to grab him by the ear, and shout at him until his face turns purple. When a brawl breaks out between two of the benches, and blood sprays across the flagstones, two of Lochlan’s men stride over and break it up.
Callum sits on the wooden throne in the center of the alpha table. A tapestry of the Moon giving the Elderwolf her heart adorns the wall behind him. He looks like a king. His hair is brushed back from his face, emphasizing his strong jaw and his bright eyes. He wears a brown coat across his broad shoulders, with a red tartan sash across it. It must have belonged to James, because it has all the clan colors in it except for the yellow of Lochlan’s clan. I imagine that will soon be weaved into the pattern.
Lochlan sits beside Callum, but his body is slightly turned away. I wonder if he’s upset about earlier, with Kai, or whether they’ve been arguing about something else.
Callum’s eyes lock onto mine, so intense that my mouth dries.
The noise in the hall dims, as if the Wolves can sense where their king’s attention lies. Some of the faces that turn toward me are hostile. I’m clearly viewed as an enemy-not only because of my father, but for my role in this war between brothers.
Perhaps I should have stayed in my chambers.
No. I will not cower. I take a deep breath, smooth down my skirt, then walk between two of the long benches toward Callum. I catch whispered snippets of conversations.
“. . . she caused all of this. . .”
“. . . southern whore. . .”
“. . . did you hear. . .?”
I feel the press of attention on my skin. Blake leans against the wall. A group of men wearing green kilts surround him. There’s a strange look in Blake’s eyes as he takes in my dress and the braided crown of hair on my head.
A tall, wiry blond wolf leans closer to him and I hear them speak as I pass. “Is it true you took a bullet for the lass?”
“Yes.” The corner of his mouth tips up. “I’d hoped she would thank me for it.”
The men laugh. “Did she?”
Blake’s gaze doesn’t move from mine. “Not yet.”
The men gathered around him jeer. I felt like we had formed some sort of truce between us, but it shatters. He is blatantly trying to disrespect Callum in front of the Wolves in the clan who accept him the least. I turn my head away and keep walking. I block it all out.
Callum’s expression is dark, but it softens as I approach. He gestures at the seat next to him, and I walk around the table, passing the alphas who witnessed my humiliation in the manor house.
Do as he says.
“You look bonny, Princess,” says Callum quietly.
“Thank you.”
He frowns. “You’ve hurt your hand,”
“It’s nothing.”
Lochlan offers me a smile as I sit down, but it doesn’t quite reach his eyes.
The roast venison and potatoes that laden the table should make my mouth water, but Callum feels as if he’s far away. We’ve still not talked, not properly, and we can’t have a conversation in front of the Wolves.
We make uncomfortable small talk about the food and Brodie’s progressing music skills. I ask about the wellbeing of Kai, and whether anything else has been discovered about what happened to him when he was a prisoner.
“He’s alive,” Lochlan interjects. “Which is more than I can say for some other members of my clan who seem to have mysteriously gone missing.” He throws a dark look at Callum, who growls.
“For the last time, I have not killed Ian or any of the others. Make no mistake, if I ever see them again, they are dead. They were responsible for Rory-“
A murmur fills the hall, and there’s a clatter as people put down their crockery.
Fiona has a man in a headlock, and hauls him between the tables toward us. She throws him onto the floor in front of our table, and he lands on his hands and knees, laughing. He’s wearing a high-collared, tailored blue coat that looks expensive, breeches, and black leather gloves. His coppery red hair shines in the candlelight.
My heart hammers in my chest.
“If you wanted me on my knees, sweetheart, all you needed to do was ask.”
The Great Hall falls silent. His accent is my accent-the accent of the Southlands. What’s more, it has the musical lilt of nobility.
Fiona backhands him, and he groans and says, “If you keep treating me this way, I’m going to fall in love with you.”
Callum’s hand curls around his knife. “Who is this buffoon?”
“I found him lurking by the stables,” says Fiona.