Page 38 of The Wolf King

As we ride to the heavy wooden doors ahead, a couple of men who are noisily sparring drop their swords to stare at me. It’s as if they can sense what lurks beneath my skin as well. I am the daughter of their enemy king. What would they do to me if they knew?

My heart beats faster.

Callum hooks his arm around my waist and pulls me closer to him. His body is warm, and I can feel his heart beating steadily against my back. It is a stark contrast to the chaos around us.

“I was a wee lad the first time I came here.” His voice is a rough whisper that tickles my ear—and I wonder why he is telling me this now when there are clearly more important things to be concerned about. “It was the first time I’d ever been to the south.”

I swallow, focusing on Callum rather than the couple of women carrying dead rabbits, who have stopped their conversation to turn their attention toward me.

“This isn’t the south,” I say quietly.

“It is when you’re from Highfell.”

His tone is light and conversational, and I wonder if he is trying to distract me from the other Wolves that are now casting their gazes in our direction. He pulls gently on the reins of the horse and we come to a stop not far from the castle doors.

“It’s the real north up there. Harsh and wild, with nights so dark you can barely see in front of your face. When my father brought me down here, he told me all southerners were soft. But our clans were at war with one another. And that first time I came here, I was afraid.”

He shifts behind me, then dismounts the horse. I stiffen, gripping the ridge on the saddle as the cold air seeps through my furs to my nightdress.

Even though most of the Wolves are openly staring at us, his gaze doesn’t move from mine. There’s something so still in it that it eases the panic rising in my chest.

“But no harm came to me.” He smiles softly. “And no harm will come to you. Not while I’m at your side. Okay?”

He holds out a big hand. I swallow and raise my chin—pushing the fear deep down. I can’t let these people think I am weak.

I swing my leg over the horse, then, tentatively, I take his hand.

His fingers are rough and callused and they close around mine.

He helps me slide down the horse, one of his hands clasping my waist. I wince when my feet touch the stone, and his jaw tightens as that hint of shame crosses his expression once more. I expect him to scoop me off my feet again. He seems to be in the habit of doing so and a pathetic part of me wants him to. I ache and my soles hurt and I’m tired and dirty. I want to bury my face in his chest so I cannot see everyone looking at me. I want to pretend I’m not here.

He squeezes my hand before looking over my shoulder at the twenty or so Wolves who are clearly watching us.

“Don’t you have work to be doing?” His voice is light, but there’s no mistaking the authority in his tone. “If you have enough time for idle gossip in the middle of the day, I’m sure Mrs. McDonald would welcome your help peeling potatoes in the kitchens.”

The smaller man who was sparring gives an exaggerated shudder. His accent is so thick I can only pick up the words “kill” and “dragon”, but there are a few titters in the crowd and Callum grins. I get the impression that whoever Mrs. McDonald is, she’s not very popular.

Whether that’s the case or not, the tension seems to break and the people in the courtyard go back to their business—though a few eye Callum and me curiously. Some of the unfriendly looks seem to be directed at Callum as well as me, though he either doesn’t notice, or doesn’t care.

“Peeling taties?” A female voice comes from somewhere behind Callum’s large physique. “You could’ve told them I had some horse shite for them to sweep up. I wouldn’t mind the afternoon off.”

Callum’s grin widens. “Aye? Got plans, have you?”

“Oh, a nice dram of whiskey. Soak in the bath. I’ve not had chance for one in a week.”

“I can tell.”

Callum turns, revealing the girl standing behind him. She looks around my age, slightly taller than me, with long brown hair that’s tied in a loose ponytail with a red tartan ribbon. She’s pretty—even with dirt smearing her cheek, and the fact that she’s dressed like a man in breeches and a linen shirt slick with sweat.

Callum may be teasing her, but I can tell she hasn’t bathed in a while as well. She’s giving off a strong smell of horses.

She narrows her eyes at Callum, though the corner of her lip twitches. “Cheeky bastard. You survived?”

“Sorry to disappoint.”

They embrace. He pulls her close, and her arm grips the back of his neck as she burrows her head into his shoulder.

“I was worried about you, Callum,” she mumbles. “So worried.”

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