Filed to story: My Kidnapper Is the Wolf King
I approach him, and he slings his arm over my shoulder. My hand around his waist, I nudge open the door and lead him inside. It closes behind us.
Inside, a few rows of pews lead to a stone altar. Above it, a stained-glass window depicts a key with crescent moons in the bow. Silver moonlight shines through it and creates a puddle of faint light on the flagstones. The air is thick with must.
“Wash your hands.” Blake nods at a stone font by the entrance. I wash my hands thoroughly in the cold water while he makes his way down the aisle. I shake off the water, then hurry after him and hook an arm around his waist as he starts to stumble.
“Here.” I put my hands on his hips, and turn him so he’s facing me. I nudge him back against the altar. My knuckles brush against his chest, then torso, as I unfasten his buttons. His chin dips, and I feel his gaze on my face.
“How did you know where I was?” I ask.
“I have a source in Madadh-allaidh.”
“Magnus?” I can’t stop my mouth from pinching in disapproval.
The corner of his lip lifts slightly. “You’ve been talking to Elsie.”
I undo the last button, and his shirt hangs open. Pale lines mark his chest, and there’s a long curved scar near the sharp V of his right hip. A line of dark hair leads down into his breeches.
“Whenever you’re done admiring me. . .” mumbles Blake.
I fight my flush as I help him slide his good arm out of his sleeve. I peel the blood-soaked fabric off his injured shoulder, then drop it onto the altar. He peers down at the two holes in his upper arm, both pumping out hot blood.
“Exit wounds. The bullets aren’t inside me, at least. There’s a tourniquet and syringe with the antidote in it in my pack,” he says, and I nod.
I shuffle past him, and unfasten his case. It folds out and there are a range of scalpels, small vials, and a syringe arranged on one side. A leather strap, a roll of gauze, and a needle and thread are stored in the other. I pull out the strap, the gauze, and the syringe. It’s filled with transparent liquid.
“Good,” he says. “Find a vein.”
He offers me his good arm. I wrap the strip of fabric around his bicep, and try not to think about how hard it is as my fingers brush against the muscle. As I tighten the tourniquet, veins bulge down the length of his forearm. I grab the syringe and slide the needle into one of them. I push the plunger, and Blake makes a low noise and tips back his head as the antidote enters his system. I pull it out, and place it on the altar beside him.
“There,” I say. “I’ll bandage-“
A low, feral growl vibrates in his chest. It echoes around the darkness and stirs the shadows. His face transforms and becomes cold. The wolf blazes in his eyes.
My left arm drops, useless, to my side. White-hot phantom pain spreads from my shoulder, and I feel blood that is not there pumping out of invisible wounds. A soft breath escapes my lips. As he loses his grip on the bond, his senses flood me. His emotions no longer make sense; they’re pure animal. A word vibrates along the thread between us like a growl.
Hunt.
I stagger back. It’s the antidote that is working, provoking his wolf, but I hadn’t expected him to react like this. Callum didn’t when he took the antidote. I feel as if I’m facing a wounded animal, not a man.
“Blake, don’t.”
He clenches one of his fists, and his knuckles whiten. He closes his eyes. When he opens them again, the wolf is stronger than ever. A slow, feral grin spreads across his lips. “Run.
“
Adrenaline surges through me. “No.” I fight the tremble in my legs. I step closer and he straightens. “I’m not doing that with you again. Get a hold of yourself.”
His breathing deepens. His essence floods me, dark and primal. That shadow of him wraps around my soul. It’s all-consuming. Suffocating. Sweat beads on my brow. Dots dance across my vision. He growls.
Hunt.
“Blake.
Stop it.
“
Every muscle in his body is taut. My skin is clammy. The feeling. . . It almost feels like when he used the Àithne on me, but stronger. It provokes the wildness inside me.
Hunt. Claim. Bite.
I push back the fever that rises. I stand on tiptoes and grab his face with both hands. He snarls, and his breath mingles with mine.
Hunt.
“Get a hold of yourself!”
A scream builds inside me. A need to be free. I feel like the moment before a storm breaks.
I shove him through the bond. I can’t explain how I do it, but I take that shadowy part of him and push it back. His eyes flicker. The shadow inside me loosens its grip. A crease forms between his eyebrows. I feel his emotions start to settle. A low, rough noise escapes him as he turns away from me. He bites his arm.
“Blake! What are you. . .?”
His relief crashes through me with such ferocity that I barely notice the sensation of teeth sinking into my flesh. He releases a soft moan that courses through me.
Wolves like to bite,
Callum had told me. He takes a couple of deep breaths. He raises his head. His own blood stains his lips. He blinks, and his eyes shift back to normal.
We’re both breathing hard. He glances at the open case on the altar. He nods at the roll of gauze. “Would you mind?” His voice is rougher than usual.
Shaken, I head to the case and take the roll of gauze. I stand on my tiptoes, and brush the tops of his shoulders. “I. . .I won’t be able to do it properly unless you kneel down. You’re too tall.”
Slowly, he lowers himself to his knees. Covered in blood, and breathing hard in front of the altar, he looks like a fallen god begging for repentance.
I touch one of his shoulders, and feel his muscle knotted beneath. I wind the fabric around his upper arm and shoulder. A heavy, smothering silence falls upon us. It’s weighted. Uncomfortable. His breathing is still fast. Blood spreads across the gauze, though it’s already slowing. It’s as black as ink in the darkness.
Finally, I tuck in the end of the gauze. “Done.”
“Thank you.” He clears his throat, then stands.
The door bursts open. Blake’s hand moves to his stolen dagger, and I spin around.
Duncan stands in the doorway, breathless. His cheeks are flushed, and his shirt is stained with blood. “I’ve come with a message from the king.” Blake unsheathes his weapon, and walks toward him. Duncan raises his arms, eyes widening. “The new king.”
I grab Blake’s bicep, and he halts beside me. “Callum?” I breathe.
“Yes, Callum.” He looks between Blake and me warily. “Callum is king. He’s on his way to Madadh-allaidh to join Lochlan and his army. He says you’re to come. Immediately.”
Chapter Thirty-Three
Duncan stands in the doorway. The wind blows his blue kilt against his thighs, and the night spills onto the flagstones before him. His shirt is bloody, and some of his blond hair has escaped its knot. There’s a bruise forming over his eye, and I wonder if Blake gave it to him, or one of Alexander’s men.
Callum is king.
Relief bursts in my chest, but it’s quickly stifled. Duncan was my prison warden when I was kept in a cell. He held a blade to my throat. He could be lying. It’s hard to believe Callum would send Duncan to find me, rather than come and get me himself.
Do as he says.
I push back Callum’s voice, and the feelings those words provoke.
Beside me, Blake’s hand is curled around the hilt of his dagger. His arm is pressed against mine. He’s still shirtless, his skin is pale and clammy, and we’re both covered in blood. Duncan looks between us warily.
“I’m not lying,” he says. “Callum sent me.”
“The Borderlands men?” asks Blake.