Page 36 of The Wolf King

“I’m glad the rain pleases you, Princess,” he says. “There’s plenty more of that where we’re heading. Now come, we’d better be on our way.”

***

An hour later, I am no longer laughing, nor pleased.

The rain has stopped, and I am bedraggled and miserable.

“You need to find me some suitable clothes to change into when we arrive,” I say. “You can’t present me to your king like this.”

“You can change into one of my shirts and—”

“Somethingsuitable,Callum.”

He sighs. He sounds resigned. “Aye.”

“Well... good.” Some of the nerves in my stomach steady.

If I was back home, I’d spend the entire day preparing for something like this—bathing, braiding my hair, selecting the perfect dress; one that would convey whatever message my father was trying to send.

I’d be demure and sweet, or fun and flirty, or a tempting prize to be won.

I would be more confident about meeting the Wolf King if I had access to my finery and my costumes. But at least if I can change out of my nightdress, I can make myself somewhat presentable.

We fall silent for a while, and the wind beings to calm as we take an overgrown road through the grass and fern.

The sounds of bird calls that I’ve not heard before and running water surround us.

The sun is higher now. It does little to warm the Northlands air, but I close my eyes for a moment and bask in the light regardless. When I open them, I notice how it turns the vein-like streams coming down the mountains silver.

A strange sense of peace settles over me. I find myself sinking back into the man behind me.

Even if I bring my father valuable information about the Wolves and their king, he’ll still find something to punish me for when I get home. What does it matter if I relax for a while? Even if I am sitting inappropriately close to a man who is not my betrothed.

I glance down. Callum’s thighs are huge, and they rub against mine through his red tartan.

A rumor I heard the ladies-in-waiting whispering back at the palace comes back to me, about how Wolves wear no undergarments beneath their kilts.

I stiffen. If that is true, he is sittingwaytoo close to me.

“It’s going to be alright, you know?” Callum says, misreading my tension.

I can’t exactly ask him about his undergarments, so I decide to follow his track of conversation. “You don’t know that.”

“I told you, I’ll protect you. I take care of my own.”

I’m about to tell him I’m not his, and as such, that means very little to me. But an image of muscle and blood, and the sickening sound of cracking bone, flashes behind my eyelids.

“You didn’t take care of Ryan,” I say quietly.

His knuckles whiten as he clenches the reins on my lap.

I tense. It was the wrong thing to say.

Although it is a valid fear of mine. Because how can he tell me he will take care of me—the daughter of his enemy—when he was going to kill a young man from his own pack?

I don’t think he’s going to respond. I hear him swallow.

“No.” His voice is rough. “No. I didn’t. I should’ve dislocated his arm back at the castle, when I saw him loading up his horse.”

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