Page 57 of The Wolf King

He walks out of the room and closes the door behind him.

The thought of being pulled onto his lap, his hard thighs beneath mine, flashes through my mind. I push it away.

“Good night,” I reply quietly.

Though he doesn’t respond, I am sure that with his wolf hearing, he heard me.

Chapter Twenty-Two

Ihave been alone since my mother died.

The loneliness has always spread through my body like rot. Even though I am continuously surrounded by people, it has lurked beneath my skin and threatened to consume me.

This morning, when I wake up alone, it feels different.

It’s an alone where I can hear my own thoughts; they mingle with the gentle patter of rain against the thin window.

For once, I don’t have to perform to anyone, because there are no ladies-in-waiting ushering me out of bed. Instead, I can lie bundled up in the soft quilt in a room filled with intriguing piles of books and sweet-scented herbs.

This morning, I’m not the king’s daughter, or Sebastian’s wife, or a princess with duties.

I am just. . . me.

A thrill surges through my body.

There are so many things I should be worrying about—the Wolves, the inevitability of Sebastian’s army finding me, Blake telling the acting Wolf King who I am.

And Callum.

Callum, and whatever condition he wants me to agree to in order for me to keep my own room.

Callum is so unlike anyone I have met before. He is lacking in decorum, and he continually behaves in a manner I am not used to. He teases me, and asks me questions, andtouchesme.

And the worst thing is, I’m not sure I dislike it.

Right now, I feel at peace. Content.

Free.

I lie here for around twenty minutes, savoring the feeling.

My eyes catch on the wardrobe. I was too tired to investigate last night, but I’m curious about what clothes are in there.

Today, I intend to learn as much about the Wolves as I can, and I’m hoping I’ll have a little more control over how I present myself than I did yesterday.

I stretch, my limbs aching from being on horseback for two days. I limp across the room and throw open the wardrobe.

I’m pleasantly surprised by what I see.

There is an array of dresses waiting for me. They’re all made from dark materials—black, greys, and navy blues. I skim my fingers along them, noting most are simple enough for me to put on without assistance, and all are well made.

There’s an elegant black dress in particular that catches my eye—made with silk and intricate lace. It emits power. I run my fingers over it.

It is not appropriate for today, though. I want to fit in, not draw attention.

I notice a couple of pairs of breeches in here, too.

In the Southlands, women do not dress in such garments. My father would probably disown me if he saw me wearing clothes like these.

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