Page 51 of The Wolf King

Trying not to show my fear, I sit down beside him, the small letter opener pressing into my thigh. Not that it will do me much good if everyone turns on me. It seems like that may be a possibility. Everyone is looking in my direction.

Can they smell that I’m a human? Or are they wondering why I’m wearing Callum’s clan colors?

Callum, however, seems perfectly at ease. His legs are spread, and his elbow rests casually on the table. When Robert looks at him, Callum meets his eye.

There’s a moment of tension. Then Robert leans back in his seat and forks up a piece of meat before going back to his conversation.

The raucous laughter and merriness resumes—even if some of the Wolves look at me with a mixture of curiosity and hostility.

I spot Fiona, the girl I thought was Callum’s wife, at one of the tables. She’s wearing a dress like mine, made of red tartan, and her brown hair hangs in waves down her shoulders—though there are a couple of strands of hay in it.

She grins and turns back to the person next to her. Isla is sitting at the same table, and she scowls when I catch her eye.

Beside me, Callum grabs a plate and starts piling it with food—potatoes, roasted turnips, venison, thick meat gravy, and blackberry sauce. He places it before me, then helps himself to a plate.

I ignore my grumbling stomach.

“Weren’t we supposed to be keeping my presence discreet?” I whisper.

“The alphas sit at this table.” His voice is the same volume as mine as he scans the Great Hall. “And I’m an alpha. It would have looked stranger if I’d not sat here.”

He stabs a chunk of meat with his fork and puts it into his mouth.

“Where’s Blake?” I ask.

“No idea. Whenever he crawls out from wherever he’s lurking right now, he’ll come sit at this table too.”

My eyebrows raise. “He’s an alpha?”

Blake looks strong, but he isn’t big and muscular like Callum or the other males sitting at this table. His accent also indicates he doesn’t originate from the Northlands.

“There’s been some debate over the matter,” says Callum, his voice low. “The last person who questioned it hasn’t been seen for a while.” He nods at the entrance to the hall. “Ah. There he is.”

Blake stands in the doorway.

Like earlier, he’s dressed in dark breeches rather than a kilt, and wears a black shirt that is perfectly fitted to his hard chest and torso. His hair is dark, and a couple of errant strands curl against his forehead.

He scans the Great Hall, a bored look on his face.

When his eyes lock onto mine, a wicked smile spreads across his face.

He heads toward us.

Chapter Nineteen

Many of the men in this Great Hall remind me of beasts. But there’s something different about the dark-haired male who prowls toward us.

It’s not just that he wears breeches instead of a kilt. It’s the calculated disinterest on his face, and the fluid way he moves.

He reminds me more of a cat than a wolf.

People much bigger than him watch him warily as he passes by.

When he stops in front of our table, Callum leans back in his seat, a look of dislike etched onto his face.

“Brought your pet to the feast, I see?” says Blake.

He’s almost as tall as Callum, though not as muscular. He looks like he’s in his early twenties like Callum, too. I catch his scent of shadows and pine—like a forest at night.

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