Page 162 of The Wolf King

“What if I tell James what you’ve just told me?”

“You won’t.”

“How can you be so sure?”

“Because if something were to happen to me, what do you think would become of Callum?” He fastens the silver button on his cuff. “What will become of you?”

My soul hardens. Every bone in my body turns to ice. My muscles stiffen, and my fingers dig into the thin mattress that sits on the cot.

Blake pulls a key from the pocket of his breeches, and turns it in the lock. The door screeches open.

He holds out his arm for me to take. “Come. James is expecting us.”

My laugh sounds bitter and twisted. “Why on earth would I come with you?”

“Play along with my game, and you might survive. You may even avoid being sent back to the Southlands.”

I grit my teeth. “How does giving me to James help you to get what you want?”

He gestures with his head. “Come and find out.”

When I make no sign of movement, he exhales. His breath plumes in front of his face.

“When I present you to the king, you will be presented with a choice,” he says. “Choose correctly, and you will be safe. You have my word.”

“Your word means very little to me, Blake.”

He shrugs. “Of course, I could come in there and throw you over my shoulder. I could carry you kicking and screaming to the Wolf King. Is that truly how you wish to present yourself to him when so much is at stake?”

He holds out his hand. I glare at it, then him.

I know he is serious. If he came into this cell, I could hit him and try to run free. But I felt the strength in his body when we danced. I recall Callum telling me that Blake is stronger, more competent, than he seems. Perhaps it would give me some satisfaction, to inflict even the smallest bit of damage onto this snake. But he will win, in the end. And then what?

No. I will not fight him. Not yet. I will bide my time. I will be smart. I will find out what the Wolf King has to say.

Perhaps I can make my own bargain. Perhaps I can play my own game.

I take a deep breath and I rise. I brush some mud from my breeches, watching as it scatters across the stone floor. My legs are shaking, but I raise my head as I cross the cell, ignoring Blake’s outstretched arm.

“I hate you,” I tell him through gritted teeth as I walk past him into the gloomy corridor.

“Oh, darling, I know.” The door to the cell swings shut, and he falls into step beside me.

We walk up some stone steps. They’re damp and they glisten in the torchlight. At the top, Blake unlocks another door, then leads me down a tired walkway, the walls lined with fading portraits. There’s a murmur of voices in one of the rooms that we pass, and I wonder how many men James has brought with him. If there are not too many, perhaps I can escape them.

I shiver, wishing I had my cloak as we head up a stairway and toward a door at the end of the landing.

Blake taps his knuckles against it, and my stomach clenches when he pushes it open. He stands back to let me enter first.

I’m hit first by a wave of warmth from the fire in the hearth. We appear to be in some kind of drawing room. There is a worn rug on the floorboards, a writing desk by one wall, and a few battered leather armchairs collected around the fireplace. James sits in one of them.

His presence seems to fill the entire room.

It is not just his size, it is the power that radiates from his eyes when they land on mine.

His brown shoulder-length hair is wild, and he is dressed in his red kilt, slightly different to Callum’s. The sleeves of his cream shirt are rolled up to his elbows and I notice one of the tattoos on his forearms is a flower—a contrast to his otherwise hard demeanor.

I grit my teeth, and hold my head high. I won’t cower before him.

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