The Wolf King | A Fantasy Romance

Chapter Seven

I was a sickly child.

The High Priest said my weak temperament came from my mother. Bad blood, he'd said. It was thought I would die of the same illness that took her.

Before that haze of death and burning herbs and the blurry insides of the room I didn't leave for months, I remember my mother taking me to the countryside in the south. It was just her, and her lady-in-waiting, and me.

I must have only been about four, but I still remember the fields of golden crops, and the rolling hills—scattered with farms and small villages—and the cabin in the woodland by a great blue lake that we stopped at.

I suppose our early memories shape us in some ways, and I wonder if that small taste of adventure stirred something inside me all those years ago. Something I buried within me. Something that set me on a path that would one day lead me here—sitting on the back of a large grey horse, caged within the arms of the enemy, surrounded by Wolves.

My captors talk among themselves as we ride for what feels like hours. The sun rises high into the sky, and we don't stop, though I am weary and the horses are slower. I wonder if the Wolves are worried they are being pursued.

They should be.

Sebastian and my father will have sent people to retrieve me by now. Not because they care that I have been kidnapped. But because both men need me to secure their future alliance. And because both need me untouched.

I don't know how I will feel if they find us. I do know my captors will meet certain death.

If the alpha is worried, he doesn't show it. He remains silent, but he feels at ease behind me, his body pressed against my back, my thighs held within his.

It is highly inappropriate for us to be this close, for him to be this familiar with me. Every time the thought occurs to me and I stiffen, trying to put some space between us, he nudges me back again. After a while, whether it's the lull of his warmth, or the ache in my bones, or the fact I am distracted by the surrounding terrain—I stop bothering.

I find myself thinking about my memory of the southern countryside once more. The scenery back then, which filled me with such awe at the time, was so. . . soft compared to what we pass as we ride deeper into the Northlands.

The grass I played in with my mother was trimmed, the sunlight was warm and kind, and the hills were curved and gentle. Even the lake, which seemed to me like it stretched on forever, was blue and soft and still.

Here, the landscape is alive.

It is rugged, and harsh, and dangerous. The mountains jut out of the earth in stiff, jagged peaks, and the grass on the sides of the rocky road is so long it tickles my feet. Above, the sky is filled with rolling grey clouds that cast shadows on the land as the wind howls. Even the air has a harsh bite to it.

There is nothing gentle here.

Before long, it seems, the sun is setting again—and I remember my mother's lady-in-waiting telling me stories about how the gods and goddesses of the night staked their claim on the Northlands before they went to rest, making the days shorter and the nights longer so the creatures that revered them had more time for worship.

A shiver ripples through me as the shadows lengthen.

The alpha's arm momentarily tightens around my waist as if he senses it.

Soon, the sky is a dusky blue, and we're stopping at the edge of a great loch surrounded by mountains. The water is so black it looks bottomless, and it churns in the wind.

"A word," calls Fergus, gesturing to a copse of evergreens by the shore as he gets off his horse.

The alpha sighs, his breath tickling my cheek. "Aye. In a minute."