21. Dublin

Dublin

"Is this the King of Dublin, then?" an older voice with a thick Belfast accent asked when I picked up the flip phone, just a couple of days after Wild hung up on me — and then failed to answer my many calls and texts.

"Who else would it be?" I replied. "I'm the one who gave you this number — assuming I'm speaking to the Belfast Priest."

The truth was, I hadn't been in contact with the older man since the fallout from what the Irish Wolves called "that Terrible Belfast Mess" — back when I was still wearing private school knee socks. I'd just sent a quick email warning that a certain Scottish Wolf might be paying him a visit.

"That's me!"the Belfast Priest answered with a jovial chuckle. "And sorry, lad, you're on speakerphone."

I closed the laptop I'd been using to review the quarterly numbers and rose from the leather sectional to walk over to the floor-to-ceiling windows interlaced by brick beams.

Outside my penthouse, the sun was setting over the River Liffey, casting the Dublin skyline in a warm rose glow after crying buckets of rain for most of the day.

It was a beautiful view, but I had no one to share it with. I pressed my hand to the cool glass, and sudden loneliness tightened my chest, reminding me how far I was from the life I'd imagined when my father decided to retire early and pass down his CEO position and crown.

Having never taken the prophecy seriously, I'd thought I'd be mated by now with at least one pup. But my last relationship had ended like all the others, without a whiff of heat — emotional or biological.

Not for the first time, I thought about the queen Wild and Sea had kidnapped from Scotland. But I quickly pushed down that thought along with my rare instant of self-pity.

"I'm assuming you're calling to let me know Alban Scotswolf dropped by Belfast, too," I said, returning to the conversation.

"Don't think I've ever encountered a wolf that hefty. Almost mistook him for one of the Tríbéirríthe — except none of those lads would ever threaten to gut an elder."

"I wouldn't put that past the Tríbéirríthe." I scowled at the mention of the trio of billionaires who not only funded Wild's and Sea's shady kidnapping scheme but most likely planted the idea in their heads, too. Rubbing a hand over my face, I muttered, "Christ, what a mess — oh, sorry for…"

I started to apologize for taking the Lord's name in vain but stopped myself, remembering that the Belfast Priest wasn't really a priest — at least not since he was stripped of his titles along with the old Sea King. Speaking of which… "Did he get to the…? "

"Hid meself away as soon as the scouts we placed at the perimeter of our village saw them coming," the old Sea King answered before I could finish. Despite no longer holding any titles, his voice still carried the same resonant authority as Sea's. "If not for your warning, we might have fallen prey to a surprise attack. I had my doubts when your father decided to retire early. But I have to say, even if you never put in the effort you should've to learn the old language, you've done a fair job of protecting both of your kingdoms, Dublin."

"No reason to start congratulating me yet." I made a disgruntled sound in the back of my throat. "Don't think for a second the Scottish Wolves are just going to give up. It's the 21st century, and they've got a billionaire to fund a recovery mission to get back the brides the Wild and Sea Wolves stole. I doubt their next conversation with us will be nearly as polite."

I paused, letting the weight of my warning sink in, then added, "Anyway, I've been working out of my penthouse since Alban's visit, and since Belfast is harboring the only person who knows how to get to the secret kingdom, you might want to find someplace to lay low, too."

"Agreed!" both men said enthusiastically on the other side of the line.

"We've already booked a trip to Italy," the Belfast Priest informed me.

"Una and me are mighty excited. Never been outside Ireland, you know," the old Sea King added. "It's just…"

He fell quiet.

Prompting me to ask, "It's just what?"

"Don't you think you should be taking a trip, too?" The Belfast Priest's voice took on a wheedling tone .

"If you hop in the car now, I can show you the way to the secret kingdom before we head off tomorrow," the old Sea King added. "You got any hiking gear?"

"No, I don't have any hiking gear. Why would I need —" I cut myself off, realizing I probably didn't want to know the answer to that question. "Anyway, Wild refused to give me directions himself. That tells me he doesn't want me hiding out in the secret kingdom."

"Oh, Wild's just being cross," the Belfast Priest assured me. "Astrid and her mate are there as we speak. And you know, the prophecy says…"

"Yes, I know what the prophecy says, and I don't care." Much .

The moans I heard in the background of my last call to Wild echoed in my head. Had they truly found her? The fated queen?

"It doesn't matter," I told the two former rulers — and myself. "If they found their queen like they claimed, she's probably already pregnant."

"Probably," he agreed. "Sea and Wild have been waiting a long time for her, but it's possible she can't and won't go into heat until all three kings are in place…"

Was that true?

Something weird and hopeful flickered in my chest. Until I extinguished it with a ruthless dose of reality.

"I'm not like Sea and Wild," I reminded them — and myself. "I've got morals. Modern morals and values. And no offense to you two, but I'm not keen on sharing a kidnapped mate. It wouldn't be right. No matter what's carved into some old stone."

Another long silence followed. But instead of trying to convince me, the Belfast Priest said, "Then, at least let us help you hide from this Alban person, just in case he comes back. Somewhere off the record where that Scottish oak tree won't be able to find you."

I shook my head. "I don't want to leave the country. I've a company to run."

"We're aware," the Belfast Priest answered with a hearty laugh. "I believe it's always a good time for Norwolf."

"Do they have Norwolf in Italy?" The old Sea King's voice took on a worried note. "Can't do without my daily pint. It's good for you, you know!"

"It is not," I assured him, rubbing at my temple. "The UK Advertising Standards Authority made us stop claiming that back in the 1960s. But don't worry yourself. Norwolf is sold everywhere on the European continent — well, everywhere but Scotland."

"Which brings us back to your new hideout," said the Belfast Priest. "And don't you worry yourself cos' I know just the place."