I hadn’t planned on running into him again.
The wording on the whisper had been wrong. I hadn’t accounted for what would happen if he saw me first this time. Or worse... if he chose not to approach at all.
So I had no warning that slipping into Ebonheart would end with far more than I bargained for.
My day went as it always did. The fighting pit. Then the streets, giving away the coins I’d won. Then the tavern, where I drank myself just shy of stupidity. And finally, the long, trudging walk home.
I wouldn’t return. Tonight was the last time I went seeking for something that obviously doesn’t exist. I’d seen a glimpse of her once. Margot Nythorn. She didn’t look like she was missing a single thing in her life. Not the mate she abandoned, or the daughter whose grave she thought was long cold.
For the first few years of my life, I’d hovered around the shallow patch of earth meant for my funeral, waiting like a pathetic fool to see if she’d come by even once. She never did. And I couldn’t have explained why I thought going to ask her to her face was a good idea.
My footfalls are silent as I trail the path back that would lead me to my horse. The track through Velryric was longer but safer from the rogues and bandits, but I’ve never been one who ran from danger.
I’ll cut through the mountains and make it back in three days. Hopefully, father’s anger might have subsided by then.
He’s been angry about everything lately. The relocations. The new names. The bargain we made with survival itself. And the fact that I still refuse to marry.
How do I explain that no one feels right after the Lycan King? That he rewired something in me? That he’s arrogant as sin, prettier than he has any right to be, and has hair that makes me want to shove him into the dirt simply to ruin it? I liked being around him, even if it wasn’t good for me. I wanted to kiss him, even if he wasn’t mine, and it wasn’t right.
A weary sigh escapes me. I shove my hands into my stolen coat--his coat, a ridiculously soft white thing lined with fur that blocks most of the cold. I spot Penny’s rump ahead just as a presence slides in behind me.
I whirl and stop dead as cold steel kisses my throat.
Black clothing conceals everything. His build, his face, even the spill of his hair. Only a thin slit reveals eyes black as starless night. Not that it’s a unique feature. Most Lycans look like that when they’re on the edge of losing it.
But I know it’s him. Maybe it’s the arrogant tilt of his head. Maybe it’s the way he holds the blade like he already knows how I’ll die. Maybe it’s his height or the scent I should not be this familiar with. Intimate, little things I shouldn’t know.
I lift my hands in mock surrender, tapping a finger against the tip of the blade. My heart slams against my ribs at the possibility that he found me first, and judging by the irritation pouring off him in waves... could it be that he remembers?
Still, I manage a confident smile. "Didn’t peg you for a stalker, Majesty." Latest content publıshed on noveⅼfire.net
His gaze sweeps the empty woods behind me. "Where’s the rest of your hoodlum party?"
I waggle my fingers playfully. "I travel alone."
The blade lowers. He drags down the cloth covering his face and it hits me all over again how stupidly pretty he is.
And without a beat of hesitation, he slams the pommel of his sword into my skull.
Darkness swallows me.
My lashes flutter open. My hands hang from a bedpost, bound tight in rope, the knot digging into numb flesh. I note the too-large bed and the lavish bedroom. There’s a bit jammed between my teeth, stretching my jaw raw and impairing my speech.
I jolt upright, panic igniting.
"Ah," a deep voice drawls from across the room. "You’re awake. I was starting to worry I hit you too hard."
The King of Ebonheart sits relaxed, ankle over knee, a brush held delicately between two fingers. His brows are pinched tight in concentration, his eyes glancing over to me every now and then.
"I took off your clothes," he adds casually. "Hope you don’t mind. They stank."
I glance down at myself. Naked. I scream into the bit, angrily jerking at the ropes. What kind of bastard knocks out a woman and undresses her?
When I begin hitting the bedpost hard enough to crack it, he clicks his tongue. "Hold still. I want this to look perfect." The corner of his mouth quirks. "Souvenirs. You never know who might be waiting around to wipe your memories."
I stiffen, looking up at him as it really sinks in. He shouldn’t know who I am. The wordings for the whispers can be tricky. I must have made a mistake. How long has he been following me for, I start to ask, but my muffled groans fill the space.
"A couple of days," he murmurs, like he can hear what I’m thinking, bringing the edge of the brush to his lips thoughtfully. Then he lifts the sketchbook, turning it towards me. "What do you think?"
My gaze flicks down to the small painting. It’s of me and I can’t keep the surprise off my face. It’s a rough sketch, but the accuracy of it is startling. I’m lain on my side, my hair tumbling over my shoulders, my lips parted in my sleep. The arch of my waist seems more slender than I remember it and my cheeks flame when I realize he’d drawn the V between my legs without missing a single detail.
"Where have you brought me?" I groan against the gag.