The Wolf King: A Fantasy Romance
The Wolf King: Chapter 18

A floorboard creaks, and my eyes jolt open.

It takes me a moment to realize I’m lying on Callum’s bed.

My body heats. Before today, I’d never even been in a man’s bedchambers before—let alone fallen asleep on their soft quilt with my hair soaking their pillows. At least I had the grace to clothe myself in the tartan dress after my bath. Even if my feet are bare, and my skirts have risen to my thighs.

I can smell him on the sheets, soft and masculine, and my cheeks flush.

The room is dark, though a fire is crackling in the hearth, emitting a soft glow. When I glance at the narrow window, I notice the crescent moon outside. It is nighttime already.

Beside the window, Callum sifts through his wardrobe. He’s wearing his kilt, but his shirt now hangs over the arm of his chair.

I bite my bottom lip.

I saw him topless when he was in the fighting ring, and his hard muscle had seemed fearsome. Now, I replace myself admiring his broad shoulders and the way that the muscles in his back shift as he pulls out a shirt.

His skin glistens, and his hair is darker, as if wet. He must have washed, too.

“Good sleep?” he asks without turning.

I shut my eyes, my breath hitching.

“I know you’re awake, Princess. Your heart is hammering.” The floorboards creak as he turns. “You’re not afraid of me, are you?” He sounds concerned—ashamed, even.

The air shifts as he approaches. My pulse quickens and I’m not sure why. I do not fear him, even though I probably should. He breathes in sharply, then places something on the bedside table beside me.

“If it makes you feel safer,” he says.

I open my eyes. The letter opener he took from me during the siege now sits beside a half-burned candle.

I push myself up onto the pillows and take it, turning it in my hand. The silver gleams in the dim light.

I frown. “You would give me this?”

“I don’t want you to fear me.”

I stare at the tiny knife, then at the size of Callum, and fight the urge to roll my eyes. “I don’t think I could do much damage with this.”

An answering grin spreads across his face, and he shrugs. “Small things can be deadly, too.”

He places his shirt onto the bed, and crouches in front of me. His face is close to mine, and I fight the urge to drop my gaze and look at his bare chest. He closes his fingers around my hand, and brings it close to his neck so that the blade is almost touching his skin.

My breathing quickens. “What are you doing?”

“Go for the throat.” His voice is rougher than usual.

I swallow, then nod. The air heats, becomes unbreathable.

He pulls away and I exhale. He releases a long breath too, and I wonder if I wasn’t the only one affected.

Turning around, he shrugs on his shirt, and buttons it up.

“I don’t fear you,” I say, quietly.

His shoulders soften.

“Good. You have no reason to.” He nods at the blade, clutched in my hand. “The other Wolves here. . . and the particular wolf we’ll be meeting with tonight. . .” His expression darkens. “Be on your guard, Princess. And stay close to me.”

I place the blade in the pocket of my dress.

Callum holds out his hand. “Ready?”

My stomach is roiling, but I allow him to pull me to my feet.

He offers me a half-smile. “You know, these feasts can actually be quite fun.”

“Apart from all the Wolves who want to kill me.”

“Aye. Apart from that.”

He leads me out of his room.

Callum said Blake was the most dangerous man here.

I suppose I’ll soon replace out whether or not that is true.

As we head down the stairwell, Callum reels off a list of all the foods we can expect to eat this evening.

I’m barely listening. I keep having to disentangle my hand from his, only for him to reach for me and enclose my fingers within his once more. I’m not even sure he realizes he’s doing it.

This kind of overfamiliar behavior would not be tolerated in the Southlands, and I wonder whether all Wolves are this physical, or whether it’s just Callum.

I don’t hate it, though, and that in itself is rather disconcerting.

I’m a betrothed woman—even if I’m supposed to marry a cruel and horrible man. My father would kill me if he saw me holding hands with the alpha of Highfell. I don’t even want to think about what he would do to Callum.

Callum’s familiarity, however, is not enough to distract me from the high-pitched screeching that hits my ears when we walk into the next corridor.

Callum must notice my wince, because he chuckles. “You don’t have bagpipes in the south?”

He points ahead. There’s a young boy—around ten years old—standing at the entrance of the Great Hall. He has a blue tartan bag nestled beneath his arm, and his cheeks are as red as his hair as he blows into a pipe.

He looks like he’s about to pass out.

“Just be thankful you don’t have wolf hearing,” he whispers darkly. “I had to listen to the wee lad practicing.” He gives the boy a thumbs-up as we pass by. “Great job, Brodie!”

An extra shrill note rings my ears as Brodie puffs out his chest with pride.

A soft laugh escapes my lips.

Callum’s gaze snaps toward me as we enter the Great Hall, a warm smile spreading across his face.

“What?” I ask.

He shrugs. “You have a nice laugh.”

When we walk into the entrance hall, my smile fades.

In the Southlands, we thought the Wolves were too unruly to unite against us. For the centuries that we have been at war, they have fought among themselves, as well as with us. It has been our greatest advantage.

Yet here, within the walls of this castle, there must be over one hundred Wolves. They shout and laugh and insult one another as they sit along four long tables that are laden with food.

The air smells like ale and woodsmoke and roast venison.

At the end of the hall, beneath a coat of arms that depicts a wolf and a moon, there’s a raised dais. At the table atop it sits Robert, the acting Wolf King.

Callum takes my hand and leads me toward him and the four equally menacing men that sit with him. There’s a lull in the crowd as we pass by.

I’m not sure why he’s taking me toward Robert’s table. The Wolves sitting there look like the scariest in the hall—each donning a different tartan. Callum drops into one of the vacant seats at the end of the table, and gestures that I do the same.

Trying not to show my fear, I sit down beside him, the small letter opener pressing into my thigh. Not that it will do me much good if everyone turns on me. It seems like that may be a possibility. Everyone is looking in my direction.

Can they smell that I’m a human? Or are they wondering why I’m wearing Callum’s clan colors?

Callum, however, seems perfectly at ease. His legs are spread, and his elbow rests casually on the table. When Robert looks at him, Callum meets his eye.

There’s a moment of tension. Then Robert leans back in his seat and forks up a piece of meat before going back to his conversation.

The raucous laughter and merriness resumes—even if some of the Wolves look at me with a mixture of curiosity and hostility.

I spot Fiona, the girl I thought was Callum’s wife, at one of the tables. She’s wearing a dress like mine, made of red tartan, and her brown hair hangs in waves down her shoulders—though there are a couple of strands of hay in it.

She grins and turns back to the person next to her. Isla is sitting at the same table, and she scowls when I catch her eye.

Beside me, Callum grabs a plate and starts piling it with food—potatoes, roasted turnips, venison, thick meat gravy, and blackberry sauce. He places it before me, then helps himself to a plate.

I ignore my grumbling stomach.

“Weren’t we supposed to be keeping my presence discreet?” I whisper.

“The alphas sit at this table.” His voice is the same volume as mine as he scans the Great Hall. “And I’m an alpha. It would have looked stranger if I’d not sat here.”

He stabs a chunk of meat with his fork and puts it into his mouth.

“Where’s Blake?” I ask.

“No idea. Whenever he crawls out from wherever he’s lurking right now, he’ll come sit at this table too.”

My eyebrows raise. “He’s an alpha?”

Blake looks strong, but he isn’t big and muscular like Callum or the other males sitting at this table. His accent also indicates he doesn’t originate from the Northlands.

“There’s been some debate over the matter,” says Callum, his voice low. “The last person who questioned it hasn’t been seen for a while.” He nods at the entrance to the hall. “Ah. There he is.”

Blake stands in the doorway.

Like earlier, he’s dressed in dark breeches rather than a kilt, and wears a black shirt that is perfectly fitted to his hard chest and torso. His hair is dark, and a couple of errant strands curl against his forehead.

He scans the Great Hall, a bored look on his face.

When his eyes lock onto mine, a wicked smile spreads across his face.

He heads toward us.