Page 91 of The Night Prince

No. I will not cower. I take a deep breath, smooth down my skirt, then walk between two of the long benches toward Callum. I catch whispered snippets of conversations.

“. . . she caused all of this. . .”

“. . . southern whore. . .”

“. . . did you hear. . .?”

I feel the press of attention on my skin. Blake leans against the wall. A group of men wearing green kilts surround him. There’s a strange look in Blake’s eyes as he takes in my dress and the braided crown of hair on my head.

A tall, wiry blond wolf leans closer to him and I hear them speak as I pass. “Is it true you took a bullet for the lass?”

“Yes.” The corner of his mouth tips up. “I’d hoped she would thank me for it.”

The men laugh. “Did she?”

Blake’s gaze doesn’t move from mine. “Not yet.”

The men gathered around him jeer. I felt like we had formed some sort of truce between us, but it shatters. He is blatantly trying to disrespect Callum in front of the Wolves in the clan who accept him the least. I turn my head away and keep walking. I block it all out.

Callum’s expression is dark, but it softens as I approach. He gestures at the seat next to him, and I walk around the table, passing the alphas who witnessed my humiliation in the manor house.

Do as he says.

“You look bonny, Princess,” says Callum quietly.

“Thank you.”

He frowns. “You’ve hurt your hand,”

“It’s nothing.”

Lochlan offers me a smile as I sit down, but it doesn’t quite reach his eyes.

The roast venison and potatoes that laden the table should make my mouth water, but Callum feels as if he’s far away. We’ve still not talked, not properly, and we can’t have a conversation in front of the Wolves.

We make uncomfortable small talk about the food and Brodie’s progressing music skills. I ask about the wellbeing of Kai, and whether anything else has been discovered about what happened to him when he was a prisoner.

“He’s alive,” Lochlan interjects. “Which is more than I can say for some other members of my clan who seem to have mysteriously gone missing.” He throws a dark look at Callum, who growls.

“For the last time, I have not killed Ian or any of the others. Make no mistake, if I ever see them again, they are dead. They were responsible for Rory—”

A murmur fills the hall, and there’s a clatter as people put down their crockery.

Fiona has a man in a headlock, and hauls him between the tables toward us. She throws him onto the floor in front of our table, and he lands on his hands and knees, laughing. He’s wearing a high-collared, tailored blue coat that looks expensive, breeches, and black leather gloves. His coppery red hair shines in the candlelight.

My heart hammers in my chest.

“If you wanted me on my knees, sweetheart, all you needed to do was ask.”

The Great Hall falls silent. His accent is my accent—the accent of the Southlands. What’s more, it has the musical lilt of nobility.

Fiona backhands him, and he groans and says, “If you keep treating me this way, I’m going to fall in love with you.”

Callum’s hand curls around his knife. “Who is this buffoon?”

“I found him lurking by the stables,” says Fiona.

The man raises his head. His blue-green eyes meet mine, and I clench my jaw so hard it hurts. I take in his handsome face, spattered with freckles, his chiseled jaw, and the clef in his chin. Blood dribbles from his nose.

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