Page 44 of The Wolf King

I inhale sharply. He doesn’t move for a moment and his heat burns me. He puts a finger to his lips, and I nod.

He steps back, takes my hand, and pulls me back the way that we came.

Whatever he has heard, or smelt, has obviously rattled him. Danger lies ahead.

We’re almost at the end of the corridor when the doors open behind us.

“Callum!” says a man behind us. “Where are you going?”

“Shit,”Callum curses under his breath. He takes a breath, composing himself, then turns around. “Duncan, I need to speak with James.”

The man in the doorway is shorter than Callum, and has blond hair scraped into a bun. He’s wearing a blue tartan kilt—so he’s not one of Callum’s clan. He grins, then gestures behind him.

“Come inside,” he says.

Callum pauses for a beat before he sighs. He heads back toward the door, his hand still clasped around mine.

I push down my panic.

When I first met Callum, I told him I had faced worse monsters than him.

I survived my father, who treats me like cattle to be traded to the highest bidder. My brother, who gained pleasure from demeaning me and humiliating me. Even the High Priest, who would beat me for my alleged sins.

I can face the Wolf King. Even if he is so fearsome that males like Callum have submitted to him.

Callum and I walk into a room that reminds me of a darker version of the council chambers back at the palace. There are fiery sconces on the stone walls, interspersed with carvings of lovers and Wolves and wars and moons. They might depict the story Callum told me about the Elderwolf and the Moon Goddess. A large green patterned rug is lying across the flagstones, faded where feet have walked across it. The air smells like woodsmoke, even though there is no fire lit in the grate. A thread of cold daylight comes in through the narrow window.

My attention is taken by the long table at the back of the room. And the four men sitting behind it.

The man—the wolf—in the center is obviously the king.

He is huge, with a shaved head, broad shoulders, and a thick neck.

On one side of him, there’s a male with an unruly beard, and on the other sits a short male with long brown hair.

My gaze snags on another male sitting further away from them at the end of the table—the only one who is not looking at me. He’s sitting with one arm over the back of his chair as he peels an apple with a small knife. He is strikingly handsome, with a sharp jawline and dark hair. Unlike the others, he is wearing breeches, not a kilt.

A strange feeling jolts through me. Recognition, perhaps, though I am sure we’ve never met.

Callum stiffens.

Duncan sits down at the empty seat at the left hand side of the table, and my attention flicks back to where it should be right now.

The Wolf King.

There’s something predatory in his gaze as he looks me up and down. His kilt is the same color green as Magnus’s. Callum implied that Magnus’s whole clan was horrible. Yet when Callum spoke of the king, his voice softened.

It doesn’t make sense.

I want to run away from this man, but I must play along.

I bow my head and curtsey. “Your Majesty.”

There’s a beat of silence, then all the men behind the table roar with laughter. All except the male with the apple who sits at the end.

“He’s not the king,” says Callum darkly. “Where’s James?”

“He had business to attend to,” says the male I mistook for the Wolf King. “Did he not tell you? He left me in charge in his stead.”

---