Page 50 of The Wolf King

Callum holds out his hand. “Ready?”

My stomach is roiling, but I allow him to pull me to my feet.

He offers me a half-smile. “You know, these feasts can actually be quite fun.”

“Apart from all the Wolves who want to kill me.”

“Aye. Apart from that.”

He leads me out of his room.

Callum said Blake was the most dangerous man here.

I suppose I’ll soon find out whether or not that is true.

As we head down the stairwell, Callum reels off a list of all the foods we can expect to eat this evening.

I’m barely listening. I keep having to disentangle my hand from his, only for him to reach for me and enclose my fingers within his once more. I’m not even sure he realizes he’s doing it.

This kind of overfamiliar behavior would not be tolerated in the Southlands, and I wonder whether all Wolves are this physical, or whether it’s just Callum.

I don’t hate it, though, and that in itself is rather disconcerting.

I’m a betrothed woman—even if I’m supposed to marry a cruel and horrible man. My father would kill me if he saw me holding hands with the alpha of Highfell. I don’t even want to think about what he would do to Callum.

Callum’s familiarity, however, is not enough to distract me from the high-pitched screeching that hits my ears when we walk into the next corridor.

Callum must notice my wince, because he chuckles. “You don’t have bagpipes in the south?”

He points ahead. There’s a young boy—around ten years old—standing at the entrance of the Great Hall. He has a blue tartan bag nestled beneath his arm, and his cheeks are as red as his hair as he blows into a pipe.

He looks like he’s about to pass out.

“Just be thankful you don’t have wolf hearing,” he whispers darkly. “I had to listen to the wee lad practicing.” He gives the boy a thumbs-up as we pass by. “Great job, Brodie!”

An extra shrill note rings my ears as Brodie puffs out his chest with pride.

A soft laugh escapes my lips.

Callum’s gaze snaps toward me as we enter the Great Hall, a warm smile spreading across his face.

“What?” I ask.

He shrugs. “You have a nice laugh.”

When we walk into the entrance hall, my smile fades.

In the Southlands, we thought the Wolves were too unruly to unite against us. For the centuries that we have been at war, they have fought among themselves, as well as with us. It has been our greatest advantage.

Yet here, within the walls of this castle, there must be over one hundred Wolves. They shout and laugh and insult one another as they sit along four long tables that are laden with food.

The air smells like ale and woodsmoke and roast venison.

At the end of the hall, beneath a coat of arms that depicts a wolf and a moon, there’s a raised dais. At the table atop it sits Robert, the acting Wolf King.

Callum takes my hand and leads me toward him and the four equally menacing men that sit with him. There’s a lull in the crowd as we pass by.

I’m not sure why he’s taking me toward Robert’s table. The Wolves sitting there look like the scariest in the hall—each donning a different tartan. Callum drops into one of the vacant seats at the end of the table, and gestures that I do the same.

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