Page 38 of The Night Prince

Despite the bad weather, he’s in high spirits. Flynn, the alpha he went to visit, has promised to support him when he goes head-to-head with James.

“I knew he would have my back,” says Callum. “I’ve known him for years. He was my first friend when I moved to the south.”

I don’t bother telling him Madadh-allaidh is hardly “the south”. I know he thinks anywhere below Highfell is southern. I tell him about my day, too. He frowns when I tell him what I overheard about the chapel.

That night, Callum makes love to me softly and slowly before we fall asleep in each other’s arms. The next morning, I wake up restless.

The sun has not yet risen, but I can’t get back to sleep. My dreams were agitated. I found myself stalking long endlesscorridors, past barred cells shrouded in darkness, with the ominous feeling that something bad was following me.

I have tasted freedom here, in the Northlands. But my dreams make me wonder if I still feel trapped—caught in a game between alphas I have little control over. The fact that the new Borderlands lord seems to have resumed the search for me makes me feel even worse.

I wonder if, when I slid the blade across Sebastian’s throat, some vengeful seed was planted in my soul. It longs to be watered, fed, to grow and spread its vicious thorns. I wish to coil my hateful vines around James and my father. I want Blake on his knees, defeated and gasping at my feet.

I glance at Callum. He’s lying on his front, covers pulled down to his waist as if he got too hot in the night—despite the chilly air. He looks gentle now. His dark-sand colored hair is mussed, his lips plump and soft, his body rising and falling with each breath. When James had threatened me, though, those relaxed muscles had tensed and he had become a hard, angry force. When Blake bit me, I thought he was going to kill him.

I know he won’t let me put myself at risk. He will do anything to protect me, even if I want to be able to protect myself.

There is a childish part of me that wishes to incur Callum’s wrath, his full strength, in the way my enemies probably will. I want to see his sizeable biceps clench, and his jaw to harden, and that low growl to build in his chest because I have angered him. I want his eyes to flash with his wolf, enraged, and to meet him with my own wildness, which I always swallow. I want him to take his pleasure from me roughly, as if he’s not afraid that I’ll shatter or break.

If he did, I would know he thought me equal to him. Someone unafraid of the parts he keeps hidden. Someone capable of looking after herself. Without thinking, I bite the edge of my fingernail, and the tang of blood creeps into my mouth.

Lochlan said Callum enjoys damsels. I don’t wish to be a damsel.

I noticed yesterday that Ian and some of the other members of Lochlan’s clan seemed hostile. I want to make sure I can protect myself.

I slide out of bed. Callum stirs beside me, a soft growl scraping against his throat, but he doesn’t wake. The floor is bitingly cold on my bare feet and my legs, and I hurry over to the armoire—quietly opening it to pull on breeches and a tunic. I put on my boots and pad out of the room.

Lowfell Castle is dark and quiet as I navigate the narrow corridors. There are a couple of servants stirring pots in the kitchens when I pass. They must have been brought here from the village to accommodate Lochlan’s clan. I keep my head down, turn down a long corridor, then hurry down the stairs to the infirmary.

I listen to make sure Blake is not inside, then open the door.

The underground room is smaller than the infirmary at Castle Madadh-allaidh. There’s only space for one cot in the center, and a workbench and chair in the corner. The walls feel close together, partially due to the amount of pots and vials that are set upon the shelves. The air is thick with a musty damp scent, and a hint of blood. My stomach turns when I remember that Blake killed Bruce, the former Lowfell alpha, in here.

The log in the stone hearth against the far wall has not yet been lit, and I rub my arms as the cold seeps through my sleeves.

I head to one of the shelves, scanning the labels on the glass jars—Milk of the Poppy,Mint,Moonflower,Motherwort.They’re organized alphabetically. I stroll to the other side of the infirmary, and smile when I readWhite Poppy,Willow Bark,thenWolfsbane.

The bottle of poison is too high for me to reach. I have drag the wooden chair from the corner, and stand on it, so I can pull it from the shelf.

I step back onto the ground, almost knocking over a jar on the lower shelf, and inspect the bottle. It’s not the herb itself within, but a clear liquid version of the poison. About half has been used already, and I wonder who Blake has been poisoning.

There are some empty vials on the workbench, and I grab one and uncork the bottle. The pungent herby scent stirs bad memories of my mother’s bedchambers, and my throat tightens. My father poisoned her with this. He then poisoned me with it for years after, small doses every day to try and suppress the wolf he suspected lived inside me.

I tip some of the liquid into the empty vial, cork it, and put it in my pocket. I pick up the next vial and start filling it.

“That’s not for me, is it?” Blake’s drawl comes from behind me.

Wolfsbane sloshes onto my hand and I curse under my breath before spinning around. Blake is leaning against the opposite wall, arms folded across his chest and an amused look on his face. With his dark hair and clothing, he seems to seep into the infirmary shadows.

His gaze takes in my wet hand. I drop the second vial into my pocket. I won’t dignify his question with a response.

A dimple punctures his cheek. “If you’re looking to murder someone...”

I raise my chin and stalk past him. He grabs my wrist, his fingers like a vice around the bone. I spin around, and bring my face close to his.

“Get your hands off me,” I snarl.

His scent floods me. “Don’t you want to know why I did it?”

---