Page 29 of Wolf's Prize

“I am so sorry, Kathryn.”

“Howcould you keep that from me?”

“I thought it for the best. I really did.”

“But…” Her bottom lip trembled. “I believed I was cursed. You let me think I was a monster.”

“No.” His arms reached out for her, but she shrunk away. “Never a monster. You are my daughter and I love you. All I could think about was you being discovered. That they would take you away.” He dropped his arms, deep pain shimmering in his eyes.

Kathryn pushed out of her chair and blinked back tears. One slipped out, rolling down her cheek, and she brushed it away. Her one and only ally in this world had betrayed her, had kept this knowledge from her.

“Do you know how difficult it has been for me? Do you haveanyidea of the struggle I have faced? Every. Damn. Day?” Her father shrunk before her eyes. “ThehellI have lived with when there was an answer? All along, help was nearby, and you have denied me that.” A sob escaped her throat.

“I know now I should have taken you to the d’Louncrais. That they could have helped you. I was wrong, Kathryn. I knownowI was wrong. That my decision to keep you away from them has hurt you. Can you find it in your heart to forgive me?Please?”

Kathryn turned away and pressed her hand against her chest. How could her own father have kept something so important from her? It hurt.L’enfer,it burned. How different her life would have been. How much pain, fear and self-doubt she would have avoided had her father made another choice? Forgiveness was beyond her right now.

“I cannot change what I have done, but perhaps I can make it right by you. Aimon says you need training. If that is what you wish, I will not stand in your way.”

She looked at him then, nodding her head, her tears spilling down her face. “Ineedit, father. I needed it years ago.”

“Oh, Kathryn,” he said, getting out of his chair and standing before her. “I am so sorry.”

She backed away from him, her hands out fending him off. “No.” She sobbed. “I cannot.”

He halted. “Kathryn…”

He looked at her with such heartbreaking anguish. He truly was sorry, but Kathryn could not accept it. Not now. Not yet. Maybe not ever.

“I need…I need some space.” Sobbing, she turned her back on him and made for the door. “I need the forest.”

“No, Kathryn. You cannot. It is not safe.” He strode to the door and blocked her retreat.

“Do not tell me what I cannot do. You have made enough choices for me.”

Her father stood his ground. She needed to get away, needed to be alone.

“Aimon does not want you in the forest alone. You are not safe. Please, Kathryn, stay in the keep. Do not make me confine you to your chamber.”

“Leave me be.”

“Promise me you will not leave the keep. Promise me, Kathryn.”

She eyed him through her tears. “I promise,” she whispered. She would not break a promise. Not to her father. Not even after what he had done.

Her father moved out of her way, opened the door and Kathryn fled down the hall, up the stairs, to where she did not know. Somewhere dark and somewhere quiet. Somewhere she could be alone with her pain.

Chapter Eleven

Ulrik sat in the dark, propped up against the stone wall of a small underground cell. The chill from the damp, cold floor seeped into his bones, his torn tunic doing little to keep him warm. Where the silver shackles touched his neck and wrists, his skin was blistered and raw. At least he no longer felt the effect of that damned herb, wolfsbane. Instead, trapped in human form, he was shackled to the wall.

Five days. Five long, solitary days since they had dragged him down into this godforsaken hole, and not a soul had come to see him save for the guard bringing him meager rations and water. Even in here with no light, and no sound, he could feel the passing of the days and the rising and setting of the moon. As each day came and went, his unease grew. What did Lothair wait for? Why did he not come to demand he turn his chevaliers into werewolves? Did he think to wear him down with darkened isolation and little sustenance? Ulrik had to concede such a plan had merit.

The rattle of keys, a clang and the screech of iron as the grate above opened, had him on his feet. Flickering light preceded footsteps down the steep, narrow stairs chiseled from the rock. He caught a scent on the air. Renaud. He growled low in his throat.

Archeveque Renaud stalked toward him in a swish of ecclesiastical robes, a self-satisfied smile on his face.

“Ulrik Voclain. Not exactly the man, or werewolf, that I wanted to see in here, but I have to say, I could not have planned things better myself.”

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