Filed to story: My Kidnapper Is the Wolf King
Blake sits straight in his chair, and his hand is curled into a fist on the table. Beside him, Jack looks at him in concern.
The full moon is tomorrow. I walked in on Blake last month, shirtless, his muscles clenched and dripping with sweat. He was trying not to shift. I know he doesn’t like being a wolf. Perhaps I’m merely feeling his anxiety, which rivals my own.
An idea takes root. The moon was shining brightly the night that Blake forged our connection. If Blake drew on the power of the moon to create the bond, then perhaps I could draw on the same power to break it.
It takes me back to my conversation with Lochlan regarding my mother, and the moonflower at Glas-Cladach.
What if the Heart of the Moon could be used to break the bond?
Chapter Twenty-Two
The evening before the full moon, I stare out of the window.
There’s a solitary figure outside. His coppery hair is being blown around by the wind as he throws stones into the loch with his head bowed. Ryan seems to be having as hard a time today as I am. Though I presume his dark mood is related to his argument with Becky.
All my life, I’ve swallowed my feelings and entombed them in stone. If it ever cracked, I’d be accused of hysteria. It always struck me as unfair. My father executed anyone who stood in his way, and my brother emerged from King’s City taverns bloody and bruised most evenings. Yet I was deemed emotional.
Now, my emotions churn like the waters of the loch that surrounds Lowfell. They howl with the gusts of wind that travel through the mountains. I try to fix my mask and act as impenetrable as I’m expected to be.
I feel the weight of Callum’s gaze against my back. I feel night’s shadows closing in on me. It’s suffocating. I suppress a whimper. I cannot do this.
There’s a rustle of fabric, and the armchair by the fire groans. Callum’s footsteps approach, slow and steady, before his mountain scent wraps around me. One of his big arms curves around my torso.
“Don’t be afraid.” His words are warm.
“I’m not afraid.”
He slides his palm over the dress I wear, up to my chest, leaving a trail of heat, and stops just beneath my breast. He lightly taps my ribs with two fingers. The pace is fast, a frenzied bird, in time with my racing heartbeat.
“Liar.” He trails his lips along my neck, and something hot blooms amid the cool darkness. “Turn around. Tell me, Princess, am I afraid?”
He turns me to face him. He doesn’t need to take my hand, callused palms rough yet gentle, and press it against his chest for me to answer. Nor do I need to feel the steady thump of his heart. Why would he be afraid? What would scare such a male?
His shirt stretches across powerful shoulders, and the sleeves are rolled up to expose thick, corded forearms. His hair is shorn close to his head at the sides-a warrior’s cut. He was built to lead armies, to lead kingdoms.
Even Blake seems to have conceded that he needs Callum in order to dispose of James and get what he wants.
He puts his finger beneath my chin. “I’ll be with you, at your side. You have nothing to fear, I swear it.” He presses his forehead against mine. “What can I do, Princess? Tell me, and I shall do it.” He sounds almost as helpless as I feel. “How can I make you feel better? Let me in.”
I wish his solidity, the hardness of his chest, and the steadiness of his breathing was enough. “I’m fine.”
“I will kill him for you.” His tone is low, almost guttural, and his hot breath brushes my lips. I know he’s talking about James. “I will claim this kingdom for you, and he will pay for what he did. In a couple of days, we’ll have an army.”
I offer him a weak smile. I know he’s trying to make me feel better, but justice doesn’t negate what has been done. I have to live with the consequences of James biting me for the rest of my life, and I can’t help but fear it.
A soft tap at the door makes both of us start.
“Come in,” says Callum.
Very slowly, the door opens. A messy mop of dark hair appears through the gap, followed by a small flushed face.
Callum’s answering smile is big and easy, and it instantly transforms his face. Warmth radiates from him. It eases some of the anxiety that coils in my chest. I can tell Callum likes children. I think he would make a good father.
“Hello, Alfie,” he says. “Can we help you?”
Alfie blushes, and shifts from one foot to the other. He is clearly nervous to be speaking to the big scary alpha of Highfell. “My mum requests the princess’s help in the kitchens.”
“Does she now?” Callum’s green eyes twinkle in the evening light. “She has obviously not tasted the princess’s cooking.”
I slap his arm, and he chuckles. Loudly.
“It’s not that bad!” I protest, though the cook at Madadh-allaidh, Mrs. McDonald, who I was tasked with helping when Callum brought me to the Northlands, might disagree. “I’ll be right down, Alfie.”
His face reddens even more, and he bows deeply to us both, which seems to further amuse Callum. Alfie turns and scampers down the corridor.
“He’s a spirited wee thing, isn’t he?” says Callum.
“He is.” I glance at the bedside table, where the new love story Elsie lent me,
The Alpha’s Secret, now sits. I smile. “I wonder what Elsie needs.”
“Wolves fast on the day of the full moon, so often we have a big meal the night before. I’d not expected Blake to organize anything. Perhaps Elsie has taken it upon herself. You should go. It’ll help take your mind off things. I’ll go and have a word with Ryan in the meantime.” He nods to the figure outside as he hurls another rock into the water. “The lad seems like he’s wallowing.”
“Goodness, he does, doesn’t he? I saw him arguing with Becky earlier. I think she’s getting fed up of him talking about Fiona all the time.”
“That’s the problem with us Wolves. We’re very territorial. And very fixated on getting what we want.” He brushes his lips against my forehead.
I stand on my tiptoes and plant a kiss on his lips. The wolf flickers in his eyes and he grins, then taps me on my behind. “Go on. Before I get any other ideas on how to pass the time.”
***
When I arrive in the Lowfell kitchens, the last thing I expect to see is Elsie chasing a lobster across the flagstones of the small shadowy room, while Alfie races around shrieking.
Her face is bright red, and strands of her dark hair have escaped her braid and stick to her rosy cheeks. I jump to the side as she swoops down, wrestles with the creature, and shoves it into a huge wicker basket-just as another crustacean emerges from the other side of the room and clambers onto the work surface.
“Oh, bloody bollocks!” she cries.
“Bollocks!” roars Alfie. He leaps back, hits the table, and knocks over a bowl of potatoes.
“Quiet, you! Don’t use bad words!”
She grabs the escaped lobster, shoves it into the basket, and commands Alfie to pick up all the potatoes he’s spilled. I crouch down, pick one of them up, and toss it to him. He catches it with a squeal, and I stand up and rub my now-muddy hands against my brown skirt.
“What on earth have I walked into?” I ask.
“Thank
Ghealach you’re here.” Elsie leans against the counter and blows a strand of hair out of her face. Despite the searing heat in here, coming from the fire in the stone hearth and the large pot of water heating up atop it, she wears a long-sleeved grey dress that covers the Night tattoo on her wrist. “Blake wanted to organize a nice meal for tonight. I don’t know whose bloody brilliant idea it was to bring six live lobsters back from the market. Arran’s, probably. His idea of a joke. Still, they’ll taste nice when they’re done.” My smile falters, and Elsie’s eyebrows pinch together. “What is it? Don’t tell me you don’t like lobster.”
I bite my cheek, then walk over to the hearth to peer into the big pot. “I used to. . . I just. . . my brother told me how they were cooked, once.”
I was ten years old, and sitting at the family dining room in the palace-my mother and father at either end of the long table. It was her birthday-one of the last ones she would have-and she had dark circles beneath her eyes, but was trying to muster up the energy to act happy. My father didn’t bother to make conversation, and soon, the silence was broken only by the snap and crack as he tore off the claws of the creature on his plate and bashed its shell with the small hammer.
I found pleasure in pulling apart the lobster myself-using the nutcracker to tear off its legs and the small fork to pick out its sweet flesh, rather than having the kitchen staff prepare everything like usual. Until my brother, Philip, leaned close with the acidic scent of wine on his breath.
“He said they were put in a pot of cold water while they were alive, then heated up slowly. By the time they realized it was boiling, it was too late. They would clamber over one another, screaming, trying to get out. They could not escape, try as they might. He said it to upset me-he could never bear me having a moment of joy-but the story always stuck with me.” My throat tightens. “I’ve thought about it a lot since I came to the Northlands. Those lobsters. Their ignorance as their lives were taken from them, so slowly they didn’t even realize they were trapped. How they didn’t fight until it was too late. How they let themselves be killed.”
I turn, and Elsie is staring at me. My cheeks heat, and I instantly regret speaking. I turn my gaze to the narrow window and catch a glimpse of an overgrown walled garden outside.
“You got out, Aurora,” she says softly. “You escaped.”
“My mother didn’t.” I glance at Alfie. He sits at the table and plays with a couple of potatoes. “Your friend didn’t. Sometimes I wonder if I’ll ever truly escape.” I think about
James, and the bite, and the fact that one day, Blake will try to kill Callum in order to be king. “Other times I wonder if, when I clambered out of that pot, I ended up falling straight into the open flames.”
Elsie exhales. Loudly. She clucks her tongue, then slams her hand down on the counter. “Oh, bollocks!”