Page 12 of The Wolf King

People wander around me, commenting on my shape, my form.

Her eyes look almost alive,they say,when the light hits them.

And all the while, I’m trapped inside myself. Screaming. But my lungs are stone and my lips are hard and my mouth tastes like old cemeteries. So no one hears me, no one cares.

Other times, I’m back in that church and I’m so scared I think I’m going to pass out.

I don’t cry, though. Father doesn’t like it when I cry. And the priest is in front of me with his crop.

I didn’t sin,I protest.

Oh, child. All women sin. Your mother was a sinner, and you are a sinner too. Do you want the Sun Goddess to be angry? No? Good. Turn around.

Other times, I’m running. I’m running through the forest as fast as I can. The wind is in my hair, and twigs snap beneath my bare feet. I am free, but I am afraid. Because something is chasing me and I fear what will happen if it catches me.

My mother’s voice ricochets off the trees as I burst into the moonlight.

Wake up, Aurora.

Wake up!

***

My eyes jolt open.

Rain hammers against the walls, and the fire in the grate is completely out. As my vision adjusts to the darkness, I realize what woke me. There is faint shouting coming from somewhere within the castle.

I frown, my breath misting in front of my face.

Outside, something howls. The wind?

The door to my chambers bursts open and I sit upright, grasping the bedsheets.

“What is the meaning–?” The words die in my throat.

The horrible dark-haired male from the kennels prowls into the room. He’s still wearing the green kilt from earlier, but now he wears a linen shirt and boots as well. He smells acrid, like sweat mixed with something else unpleasant.

His gaze hones in on me and there’s something predatory in it. “Hello, sweetheart.”

Visions of his face, twisted and red, as he mounted the woman in the cells, flash before my eyes.

Two other men flank him, wearing the same green tartan. The bald one is tall and muscular with a dark beard and a serious expression. The other has ratlike features and mousy-brown hair that hangs to his chin.

Blood drips from their daggers onto the flagstones.

My heart stills. Time slows down.

One of them—the muscular one—closes the door behind him.

“You were right about her, Magnus,” says the ratlike one. “She’s quite a beauty.” He sniffs the air and grins. “Mm. So sweet and innocent too.”

“Aye.” Magnus’s thin lips curl into a twisted smile. “Not for long, though.”

I scramble from the four-poster bed and almost trip over my covers. I grab the letter opener from my bedside table and brandish it before me. Even though it is made of silver, it is a pathetic means to defend myself against three bloodthirsty Wolves.

They know it too.

The ratlike one snickers as Magnus stalks closer.

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