Page 151 of The Wolf King

There is need in his eyes. Hunger. His chest moves up and down deeply, his breathing as ragged as mine. I feel as if we are on the edge of a storm that is about to break.

He drags his teeth over his bottom lip.

He stands up, his large frame looming over me.

“Come,” he says, his voice gruff. “I want to show you something.”

Chapter Fifty-One

My heart is in my throat as Callum leads me across the shore. Pebbles crunch underfoot.

His hand is firm and warm around mine. I am reminded of the first time I took his hand, back in Sebastian’s castle. Like now, I was nervous. Uncertain of what was to come. I took his hand anyway.

I think I will always take his hand, if he offers it to me.

My mother once told me that we always have a choice.

I chose Callum that day—when I turned my back on my people and travelled with him to the kingdom of my enemies.

Sometimes it does not feel like a choice at all. It feels inevitable. Like the setting of the sun, and the rising of the moon.

What other choice could there be? It feels as if it has always been him. This. Everything has led to this moment.

Nerves tangle in my stomach, because I think I know what is going to happen next—what Callum might expect from me. I want to give him it, yet I cannot deny that I fear it a little too.

When Callum gently squeezes my hand, he must be able to hear the pounding of my pulse.

He leads me through the copse of trees he disappeared into earlier, nudging aside an overhanging branch with his free arm. The scent of wet pine is released into the cool night air, and a few raindrops—collected among the needles—fall on me as I follow him.

I stop, my eyes widening with surprise.

I nudge past him.

“What’s this?” I ask.

We’re on the shore of the loch, but we’re partially sheltered from the Northlands winds by the trees on one side, and steep rocky land on the other. In the center of the intimate clearing, there’s a tent.

“I remembered the last time I tried to get you to sleep on the ground.” Every sense in my body is attuned to him as he steps closer. “Do you... do you like it?”

Warmth spreads through me at the slight note of uncertainty in his tone. He seems almost nervous.

The tent is triangular in shape and it’s small. It is high enough to sit or kneel inside, but certainly not to stand. The fabric is off-white and it has seen better days.

It reminds me of a miniature, worn-out version of the tents that my father and brother stayed in when they went hunting. Teams of servants would ride ahead of the hunting party to erect them before the noblemen and women arrived. The structures would be dressed in silks and banners, some with interiors as nice as rooms in the palace itself.

This tent is nothing like that.

And yet, it is so much better. Because Callum did this. He did this for me.

An unfamiliar rush of emotion surges through my body.

“Yes,” I say softly. “I like it very much.”

“Do you... do you want to go inside?” Again, that slight note of uncertainty in his tone. As if part of him expects me to say no.

My pulse hammers against my chest. I nod, crouch down, and crawl through the opening.

Red tartan rugs, furs, and cushions cover the ground—giving it a cozy feel, despite the cool air and the breath that plumes in front of my face. A candle Callum must have lit earlier flickers at one side, filling the space with warm orange light.

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