Page 3 of The Wolf's Appetite
A female bent over me, her hands gentle but quick as she used a wet cloth on my forehead again, wiping away the gore that no doubt covered me.
Despite the strong as hell sedative, I forced my eyes open, my vision blurred, my thoughts fragmented. I focused on her. She moved with a quiet, practiced grace, her curves accentuated by the plain, simple servant dress she wore.
Her hair was a golden color, the strands long, loose, and wavy. I inhaled deeply and smelled sunshine and honeysuckle. She didn’t realize I was watching her, and I let myself memorize her face, her features soft but sculpted, her full lips pink and pressed into a thin, determined line.
I felt a low, guttural sound slip from my throat, a rumbling, half-choked snarl that vibrated through my chest. My teeth bared, my breath coming in sharp, ragged pants as my fingers curled into the thin, sweat-soaked sheets beneath me. It surprised me since I could not feel my wolf—and this was very much a base, animalistic reaction to the beauty taking care of me. The edges of my vision darkening again, the world tilting as the sedative wouldn't take its claws out of me.
The image of the curvy, golden-haired woman was burned into my mind, and the sweet honeysuckle scent of her was the last thing I remembered before the shadows claimed me for good.
2
AISLING
Months later
The tray was steady in my hands as I climbed the spiral staircase to Prince Lennox McGregor’s chambers, the thick runner silencing my steps.
The stories whispered about the wounded Lycan heir by the staff in secret were enough to make even the bravest servant hesitate. But I didn’t shy away from the difficult tasks and volunteered to serve him so others didn’t have to.
Since his return from the fight with the vampires and Lycans attacking the Assembly a handful of months ago, Lennox McGregor had been an unseen force of brooding anger and dark moods. His temperwas as sharp as the claws of the beast he once harbored within.
But I knew better than most that the stories only scratched the surface.
I was one of the few who had been pulled into the fray and nursed Prince Lennox back to health in the dark, makeshift hospital set up in the lower levels of the McGregor family castle in Scotland.
I’d witnessed him thrash against the bed as pain consumed him and as fever took hold. His broken, battered body strained against the cot, his teeth bared in a silent, agonized snarl as his bones tried to knit themselves back together without the guiding presence of his wolf.
I had watched the rise and fall of his chest as he slipped in and out of consciousness, his massive form reduced to a shaking, twitching shell of the fierce warrior he had once been.
And his wounds… without his wolf present, that massive, extremely powerful creature housed inside of him, his wounds were healing at a snail’s pace.
No one knew why or how his inner beast had gone silent, and not many knew that truth, either. Because it put the McGregor line in danger with their enemies if the news got out a Lycan’s beast could just disappear—lie dormant with no rhyme or reason.
I’d been tasked all those months ago–when theyfirst brought him back from the fight–to tend to him. I’d wiped the sweat from his fevered brow, pressed cool, damp cloths to the jagged, blood-soaked wounds that criss-crossed his chest, and prayed to gods that had long since disappeared for Lennox to heal. I didn't know him, but he’d been suffering. I wanted to ease his pain.
And as time passed and he healed, I wasn’t surprised to find out that he had no memory of me. Lennox had been barely aware, his mind shattered, his body broken, and his inner animal silent for the first time in his life. It was an unthinkable feeling, I was sure. I didn't know what I’d do if my own Lycan was gone.
My mind kept thinking about all that had happened these past few months and what would happen in the future.
My family had served the McGregor royal clan for generations, our small homes just outside the sprawling estate. Our lives intertwined with those of the royal family for as long as any of us could remember. I’d grown up in the shadow of this great, looming castle, its tall spires and thick stone walls a constant presence on the horizon and a silent reminder of the power and authority of the McGregors.
But now, I found myself being Prince Lennox’s personal servant, the only one he seemed to tolerate, even if he was cold and crass and intimidating.
He was no longer just a distant figure of authority, a future ruler of the Scottish Lycan clan. He was a wounded, broken beast, a male caught between the world of man and wolf, his spirit shattered, his power diminished, his rage simmering just beneath the surface.
The hallway to his chambers was darker than the rest of the house, the sconces flickering weakly against the oppressive gloom. His door loomed at the end, a heavy oak structure that seemed to absorb the light, its iron handle cold and unwelcoming. I’d been coming here several times a day for months, and I always hesitated, my pulse a chaotic drumbeat in my ears.
What mood would he be in now? Silent and distant? Or rude and distant?
I exhaled and brought my knuckles to the wood, knocking three times before hearing, “Enter.”
The voice that cut through the silence was low, gravelly, and clipped with no trace of welcome. Clenching my teeth and stealing myself for what was to come, I pushed the door open and stepped into his dimly lit chamber.
The fire I’d started last night still burned in the hearth, casting long shadows across the walls. He always refused his curtains to be drawn to let natural light in, but I still asked every morning.
“Would ye like yer curtains opened, My Lord?”
“No,” he replied stonily.
