Page 3 of Wolf's Prize

Kathryn had to do something. But what? Her father would know what to do. He would put a stop to this. Scrambling down the rock, no longer concerned about keeping quiet or being caught, she raced for the trail.

At her aunt’s scream, she skidded to a halt, her heart thudding in her chest. What should she do? Run to her father as fast as she could, or race to the pond to help her aunt?

A vicious snarl from the man, and another scream from her aunt, turned Kathryn toward the clearing. She flew down the trail toward them. Fear for her aunt overriding her instinct to flee, she launched herself at the unknown man, her fists flying as she threatened him with the wrath of her father, her uncle, le Comte de Anjou and anyone else she could think of.

Startled, the man shoved her aunt to the ground and turned on her. Kathryn’s breath whooshed from her lungs.

His head! Mon Dieu! His head!

Large, furry, with an elongated snout and lethal canines, it bore down on her. She raised her arm to fend off the slavering jaw and sharp teeth. It latched on to her arm. Pain flared. Kathryn screamed.

Her aunt launched herself at the beast, and it let go.

“Run, Kathryn. Run!”

Kathryn fled, bleeding, pain burning along her arm, not knowing it would be the last time she would see her aunt alive.

Chapter One

Eleven years later…

If the scuff of her boots on the road matched the pace of her thundering heart, Kathryn would complete the short walk to Langeais Keep in record time. Instead, she dragged her feet, her father beside her, his arm slipped through hers. Summoned by the Comte de Anjou! Nothing good could come of that.

“Are you tired, Kathryn? Did you not sleep well?” Her father’s concerned gaze focused on her.

She smiled, patting him on the arm. “Just the usual nightmare, Father.”

“Again? They seem to be increasing. You have not had so many in a row for several years now. Not since…” His jaw clenched. “Was it the same one?”

Kathryn avoided her father’s eyes. “Always.”

The scar on her arm burned, and she resisted the urge to rub it. It remained a constant reminder of the attack, of the darkness that now resided within her, finding release only in her sleep. For eleven years, the same nightmare had plagued her—a clearing, a pond, a woman with red hair and a man, but not a man. A man with no face, who morphed into a terrifying combination of man and wolf, fangs and fur. Snarling, snapping, it came for her, again and again and, without fail, her body would refuse to move.

Eleven years and it had never deviated. Not once. Until last night. With eyes the color of blue flame, chevalier Aimon Proulx, looking like one of God’s warrior angels, had invaded her nightmare. Long, white-blond hair loose about his shoulders, his blue surcoat with its white dove insignia rustling in the breeze and his hand on the pommel of his sword—he’d drawn her to him, made her heart race and her body quiver.

She had awoken this morning feverish, with a desperate longing for Aimon Proulx. Her body thrummed with remembered heat. She blew out a breath. Aimon had occupied her waking thoughts a lot of late. She could only presume that to be the reason for his presence in her nightmare, but it unnerved her all the same. Most likely, she was one of many young women who dreamed of Aimon Proulx, but onlyherdreams contained monsters.

“Do you know why Comte Lothair has summoned us, Father?”

Farren Beauchene shrugged his shoulders. “I do not. They gave me no indication as to the nature of the comte’s request. It is most likely a minor matter.” His frown betrayed his true thoughts. Her father was worried.

“Perhaps it has something to do with Mademoiselle Erin Richardson.”

They passed through the gate into the outer bailey, dodging a chevalier on horseback as they joined the crowd of people making their way to the keep hall. The comte would hear all public matters today, and the outer bailey had begun to fill with people—peasants, merchants, farmers, chevaliers and noblemen. Most would wait in line to petition the comte. Some, like Kathryn and her father, were responding to his summons. She spied Manette Chapet with her two friends, Odila and Lisette. She scowled. They had come for the spectacle, the chance to gossip and the opportunity to forge connections above their current station.

“Mademoiselle who?” Her father guided her around a group of farmers who had paused to discuss the likelihood of rain.

“Oh, Father, you must stay abreast of things. Mademoiselle Erin Richardson is all the talk in the keep.”

He grunted. “I do not hold much for gossip. Too much trouble can come of it.”

“I agree. You are lucky you do not have to endure hours of it like I must, but Erin Richardson is not gossip, Father. She is Gaharet d’Louncrais’ newly betrothed.”

“What? You say Gaharet d’Louncrais is taking a wife?”

They stepped aside for a Baron and his wife to pass.

“Yes, and a woman no one has ever heard of. Rumor has it, and it is purely rumor,” she said, as they trudged up the hill toward the keep, “Comte Lothair is unimpressed. Gaharet did not consult him when choosing his bride to be.”

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