The Wolf King: A Fantasy Romance

Many of the men in this Great Hall remind me of beasts. But there’s something different about the dark-haired male who prowls toward us.

It’s not just that he wears breeches instead of a kilt. It’s the calculated disinterest on his face, and the fluid way he moves.

He reminds me more of a cat than a wolf.

People much bigger than him watch him warily as he passes by.

When he stops in front of our table, Callum leans back in his seat, a look of dislike etched onto his face.

“Brought your pet to the feast, I see?” says Blake.

He’s almost as tall as Callum, though not as muscular. He looks like he’s in his early twenties like Callum, too. I catch his scent of shadows and pine—like a forest at night.

“We need to talk,” says Callum.

A slow smile spreads across Blake’s face, and dimples puncture his cheeks. “So we do.” While Callum’s voice is low and rough, Blake’s is smooth like silk. “After we eat.”

He looks at the door on the left-hand side of the hall and Callum inclines his head.

Blake drops into a seat by Robert and starts a conversation.

“I’m not a pet,” I say quietly.

Blake meets my eyes and smirks.

Again, I feel that small tug of recognition. I wonder if I saw him at my father’s palace. If I did, what on earth is he doing here?

“No. Course not,” Callum says absently, stabbing a potato.

“What if he says something about me to Robert?”

“He won’t. He’s a self-interested prick. He’ll want to find out what you’re doing here in case there’s a way for him to exploit it,” continues Callum, lowering his voice. “There are too many ears in this hall. We’ll speak with him later.” He nods at my plate. “Enjoy your food. It’s good, I promise.”

***

The Great Hall gets louder with bagpipes, shouting, and slurred song as the night progresses. I’m starting to enjoy the music, although that could be because a small troop of musicians have taken over from ten-year-old Brodie.

While it’s difficult to imagine anyone could turn into a wolf, the people at the feast move, and shout, and dance, as though no sense of propriety binds them. A fight has broken out by the entrance, and a man and a woman are kissing against the far wall.

I watch, fascinated, as I eat.

I count six different clan colors running through the hall—two different blues, a yellow, two greens, and the red that Callum wears. That means the Wolf King, whoever he is, must have united six clans. Perhaps seven. Blake, dressed all in black, is certainly set apart from the rest, and I wonder if his people are elsewhere.

People approach Callum throughout the evening—speaking to him deferentially and dipping their heads when addressing him. Some ask about the siege and the whereabouts of the other Wolves who still haven’t returned. Callum tells them he’s sent someone out to look for them, his jaw tensing as he relays this information.

He must be worried about Ryan. I am, too. I’ve no doubt Sebastian will have sent men after me. What if they caught up with the group Callum and I left behind?

A couple of hours into the feast, Blake finally gets up. He weaves through the crowd and exits the Great Hall through the door he nodded at earlier.

Callum waits a couple of minutes before rising. “Ready?”

My limbs are stiff, either from the horse-riding or from sitting down for so long, but I let Callum steer me through the boisterous crowd. His huge body creates a protective bubble around me.

When we reach the door Blake went through, Callum puts a hand flat on my stomach and I still. His warm breath tickles my ear.

“Just to warn you, Wolves tend to use this room on nights such as this when they want a bit of. . . privacy.”

“That’s good, isn’t it? That’s what we want.”

“Aye,” he says carefully. “But others may want privacy for a different reason. If you catch my drift?”

I don’t, but I nod anyway.

“When we get in there, I’ll need to tell Blake I’ve taken you prisoner,” he says. “That’s not the way that I see you, okay?”

He opens the door and hustles me inside.

The room is warm and dark, full of nooks and alcoves and small round tables where candles flicker. It smells like woodsmoke and spice, and it takes my eyes a moment to adjust.

There’s a woman straddling a man on the leather armchair to our right. The top of her dress is pulled down, exposing her breasts, and the male has his mouth around one of her nipples. She rocks against him, moaning softly.

I gasp, jerking my head in the opposite direction.

Callum nudges me forward. “It’s okay. Keep walking.”

We head toward the hearth at the end of the room. There are two armchairs facing it, and Blake sits back in one of them, his long legs stretched out in front of him toward the crackling flames.

When we reach him, I look for a third space to sit down, but Callum hooks his arm around my waist and drops down into the vacant armchair—pulling me down onto his lap. When I try to get back up, his arm tightens around me.

Blake watches our almost imperceptible struggle, his dark eyes glinting.

He leans forward.

“Caught yourself a little rabbit, have you, Callum?” he says.