Page 139 of The Wolf King

He tops up his glass, then fills my beaker and pushes it toward me. His eyes glint in the torchlight—curious and watchful. And certainly more intelligent than his current demeanor suggests. I wonder if he is even drunk, or whether this is just a game.

“Oh, you’d like that, wouldn’t you? For me to drink all this and start behaving like that.”

I gesture at one of the men stumbling around on the dancefloor, who—as if knowing the point I’m trying to prove—trips over his boots and crashes into one of the tables, knocking over a chair and spilling a jug of ale.

A dimple creases one of Blake’s cheeks. “Not at all. I’m merely trying to help. You seem on edge, little rabbit. Whisky helps.”

“I’d prefer to keep my wits about me.”

I scan the Great Hall—filled with Wolves who gave me grief before they knew I was the Southlands princess. I catch sight of Isla, dancing and giggling with a group of women. I think of what Magnus tried to do to me. I cannot suppress the cold shiver that crawls up my spine despite the blazing heat in here.

“It’s a shame Magnus couldn’t make it tonight,” says Blake, as though he read my mind. “He got a nasty bout of food poisoning. As did his friends. They’re in my infirmary. Don’t worry, though. I’m taking care of them.”

His voice is as dark as the night outside the castle.

The Great Hall seems to still. The music fades. All I can hear is my heartbeat, pounding in my ears.

My gaze snaps up to Blake’s, and something in his eyes makes me shiver.

I recall the vial of poison he took from me in the kitchens; the one I was going to use on Isla. He said he had a use for it.

Did he use it on them?

The corner of his lip quirks in answer to my unasked question.

“Will they... will they survive?” I ask.

“Perhaps. Perhaps not.” He shrugs. “What do you think?”

A shadow stirs inside me—provoked by the darkness in Blake’s gaze. Everything else seems distant.

He is offering to kill them for me. I do not know how to feel about that. They deserve death, for what they were intending to do. But could my conscience bear it?

I swallow. “I... I don’t know.”

“Pity.”

“Are they in pain?”

“Very much so.”

I grab my beaker with shaking hands, clutching at the wood until my knuckles whiten.

I smile. “Good.”

Blake raises his glass. And, Goddess help me, I clink my beaker against it and drain it. I wince as the hot smoky liquid burns my throat. Coughing, I place it back down upon the table.

Blake nudges the bottle toward me before getting up and walking back into the crowd.

I pour myself another whisky.

He’s right. It does take the edge off.

***

“You’re drunk!” Callum roars.

Hundreds of candles flicker on the tabletops, and the light dances over his handsome face.

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