Chapter 13: The Wolf King: Chapter 13

The castle courtyard is full of Wolves.

They look like men and women, but I know what lurks beneath their skin. It’s obvious in the way they dress and wear their hair wild and loose, shouting at one another across the stone yard in accents as thick as the grime that coats them.

The air is loud and smelly and wild as the wind whips my hair into my face.

Ahead, the castle waits for me, like a dangerous beast, with walls made of crumbling grey stone. It’s tall and angular in appearance, with a turret that casts a long shadow over the courtyard.

As we ride to the heavy wooden doors ahead, a couple of men who are noisily sparring drop their swords to stare at me. It’s as if they can sense what lurks beneath my skin as well. I am the daughter of their enemy king. What would they do to me if they knew?

My heart beats faster.

Callum hooks his arm around my waist and pulls me closer to him. His body is warm, and I can feel his heart beating steadily against my back. It is a stark contrast to the chaos around us.

“I was a wee lad the first time I came here.” His voice is a rough whisper that tickles my ear—and I wonder why he is telling me this now when there are clearly more important things to be concerned about. “It was the first time I’d ever been to the south.”

I swallow, focusing on Callum rather than the couple of women carrying dead rabbits, who have stopped their conversation to turn their attention toward me.

“This isn’t the south,” I say quietly.

“It is when you’re from Highfell.”

His tone is light and conversational, and I wonder if he is trying to distract me from the other Wolves that are now casting their gazes in our direction. He pulls gently on the reins of the horse and we come to a stop not far from the castle doors.

“It’s the real north up there. Harsh and wild, with nights so dark you can barely see in front of your face. When my father brought me down here, he told me all southerners were soft. But our clans were at war with one another. And that first time I came here, I was afraid.”

He shifts behind me, then dismounts the horse. I stiffen, gripping the ridge on the saddle as the cold air seeps through my furs to my nightdress.

Even though most of the Wolves are openly staring at us, his gaze doesn’t move from mine. There’s something so still in it that it eases the panic rising in my chest.

“But no harm came to me.” He smiles softly. “And no harm will come to you. Not while I’m at your side. Okay?”

He holds out a big hand. I swallow and raise my chin—pushing the fear deep down. I can’t let these people think I am weak.

I swing my leg over the horse, then, tentatively, I take his hand.

His fingers are rough and callused and they close around mine.

He helps me slide down the horse, one of his hands clasping my waist. I wince when my feet touch the stone, and his jaw tightens as that hint of shame crosses his expression once more. I expect him to scoop me off my feet again. He seems to be in the habit of doing so and a pathetic part of me wants him to. I ache and my soles hurt and I’m tired and dirty. I want to bury my face in his chest so I cannot see everyone looking at me. I want to pretend I’m not here.

He squeezes my hand before looking over my shoulder at the twenty or so Wolves who are clearly watching us.

“Don’t you have work to be doing?” His voice is light, but there’s no mistaking the authority in his tone. “If you have enough time for idle gossip in the middle of the day, I’m sure Mrs. McDonald would welcome your help peeling potatoes in the kitchens.”

The smaller man who was sparring gives an exaggerated shudder. His accent is so thick I can only pick up the words “kill” and “dragon”, but there are a few titters in the crowd and Callum grins. I get the impression that whoever Mrs. McDonald is, she’s not very popular.

Whether that’s the case or not, the tension seems to break and the people in the courtyard go back to their business—though a few eye Callum and me curiously. Some of the unfriendly looks seem to be directed at Callum as well as me, though he either doesn’t notice, or doesn’t care.

“Peeling taties?” A female voice comes from somewhere behind Callum’s large physique. “You could’ve told them I had some horse shite for them to sweep up. I wouldn’t mind the afternoon off.”

Callum’s grin widens. “Aye? Got plans, have you?”

“Oh, a nice dram of whiskey. Soak in the bath. I’ve not had chance for one in a week.”

“I can tell.”

Callum turns, revealing the girl standing behind him. She looks around my age, slightly taller than me, with long brown hair that’s tied in a loose ponytail with a red tartan ribbon. She’s pretty—even with dirt smearing her cheek, and the fact that she’s dressed like a man in breeches and a linen shirt slick with sweat.

Callum may be teasing her, but I can tell she hasn’t bathed in a while as well. She’s giving off a strong smell of horses.

She narrows her eyes at Callum, though the corner of her lip twitches. “Cheeky bastard. You survived?”

“Sorry to disappoint.”

They embrace. He pulls her close, and her arm grips the back of his neck as she burrows her head into his shoulder.

“I was worried about you, Callum,” she mumbles. “So worried.”

And I feel like someone has just punched me in the gut. My blood pumps cold and it is stupid for my body to be reacting this way. Because he is a wolf and an enemy.

And of course he has a woman back home. Because despite all his faults, he is strong and brave and kind.

I swallow and try to calm my racing pulse.

Callum stiffens, then turns to look at me as they release one another—his expression confused—as though he senses the raw emotion surging through me. The girl’s eyebrows knit together as well. Her eyes narrow on my bare feet, on the damp fur cloak, and the dirty nightdress beneath.

She gives Callum a hard look, and his jaw tightens almost imperceptibly.

“Who’s this, then?” she asks, putting her hands on her hips.

“This is Rory,” says Callum—and there’s a shift in his tone. It’s almost as if he’s daring her to challenge him. “She was one of Sebastian’s prisoners.”

I frown, wondering why he isn’t being truthful to his wife, or lover, or whoever she is to him. Even though I suppose it is not quite a lie.

“She’s not one of us,” says the girl.

Callum’s eyebrows raise. “Does that matter?”

“I suppose it depends on who exactly she is. And what you hope to achieve by bringing her here.” She gives him another appraising look, then brushes him aside. “Are you okay, lass?”

Surprise blooms in my chest at the question. “I. . . yes. Yes. I’m fine.”

She arches an eyebrow as if she doesn’t believe me. “Aye? Well, if any of these louts give you any trouble, you come find me. I work in the stables.” She gestures to an archway leading out from the courtyard.

“I’m sure I’ll be fine.” I stand straighter.

I don’t want to come across as weak and powerless. I chose to come here—however ill-advised that may be. I don’t want to be a victim. I am a princess.

“Hm,” she says, taking the reins of Callum’s horse. “For the love of Ghealach, get her something decent to wear.”

“You realize I’m your alpha, right?” he says, eyes glinting playfully.

“Aye.” She sighs dramatically. “And that’s why I spend my days sweeping up after you.” She pats the horse’s neck, gives Callum a fond look, then leads the horse away. “Come on, Dawn.”

“Fi,” he calls after her.

“Aye?”

“Are the others back yet?”

Her brow furrows. “No. I thought they’d be arriving with you.”

He frowns as she leaves, clearly troubled. He offers me a half-smile. “Probably hungover.”

He puts his hand on my lower back to nudge me toward the castle. I stiffen at the inappropriateness of it. His woman friend is still in sight. His eyebrows knit together, but he drops his hand.

“Come on,” he says. “Let’s get you into some fresh clothes before we meet with the king.”

I straighten my back, hold my head high, and walk toward the castle—trying my hardest not to limp when my muscles are screaming and stones dig into my feet. Callum doesn’t say anything. And thank the Goddess he doesn’t pick me up either.

He leans over me to push open the heavy oak doors, and we step into an echoey entrance hall.

I catch a glimpse of a dark mezzanine, draped with green tartan, and a large oil painting of a great black wolf, before Callum nudges me through a door into a long corridor.

Out of sight of the other Wolves, my body sags.

“Why did you tell your wife I was a prisoner?” I ask.

Callum’s brow furrows.

“My wife? What are you—?” Suddenly, he throws his head back and roars with laughter. It makes me jump as the sound echoes around the cold space.

“Fiona? She’s not my wife! Ghealach! Don’t let her hear you saying that. She’d not be best pleased with you!”

Something that feels traitorously like relief blooms in my chest. I swallow, pushing it down. “Oh. You’re inappropriate with all women then?”

He laughs. “I gave her a hug, Princess. She’s my oldest friend. But wife? No. Whatever gave you—”

He halts and looks at me searchingly, his head tilting to the side. His smile broadens.

“What?” I fold my arms across my chest.

“So that’s what that was all about.”

“What are you talking about?”

“You know, Princess, that as a wolf, I have exceptionally good senses.” His eyes glint in the torchlight. Then he starts moving again. “You were jealous,” he says.