Chapter 2

Chapter

Two

Blackstone Castle

E vaine lay sprawled on a pile of soft velvet cushions in front of a roaring fireplace, her tail flicking lazily as she rested. There might be one square inch of her belly that wasn’t stuffed full with roasted venison and the most delicious vegetable pottage she’d ever tasted, but Blanche had left a tray with dried beef strips and a bowl of wine in the event she wished to fill that tiny gap.

Food was all that mattered right now. Not wanting the servants to go to any trouble with a hip bath, Evaine had assured them that a light scrubbing with a bristle brush and warmed bucket of water would be quite sufficient. Even though she was a horribly gaunt and rather tragic collection of fur and bones, as a blooded royal wolf, she was still much larger than most. Attempting to fold her stiff, sore form into a bath would be far too painful, and also offer a frustrating reminder of her continued inability to shift to human form and heal faster.

How she hated feeling so weak!

But she was safe. No, not just safe, cocooned in a well-fortified yet sumptuous castle. Blackstone might look stark and threatening from the outside, but inside it was spotlessly clean with elegant linens, elaborate tapestries, fresh rushes, and an astonishing amount of gold. Plates and goblets, spoons and eating knives, even trays and ladles.

Every female she’d seen had a gold girdle, and their hair was plaited, twisted into a circle, and secured by pretty gold combs. Each male’s hose was fastened to their breech belt with a gold buckle, and all their swords had golden hilts. It had made her jaw drop, how casually such a precious and expensive metal was used, but Blanche had explained that the Beaumonts owned many goldmines, far, far more than the humans knew of, and the supply was plentiful. Now Evaine thought about it, King Cyrus and Queen Sian had brought gifts of gold when they’d visited Ashcross Castle. Mother had shaken her head and muttered about spoiled cubs when she’d found her young playfully kicking and batting around palm-sized nuggets.

Yet here at Blackstone, aside from the delicious food, skilled servants, and outrageous amount of gold…there was a specific scent she couldn’t stay away from. Somehow it rose above the usual castle smells like meat roasting, wood burning, crushed herbs in the apothecary, beeswax candles, and damp mud from the moat outside. If asked to describe the scent she would sound quite mad, because it was all her favorites blended together: summer rain, green leaves, salt air, fresh lemon, warm leather and a full-bodied red wine. But it didn’t matter how often Evaine prowled the castle, she couldn’t seem to find the source…although it did seem strongest in the king’s library.

To her great shame she had turned a little feral in there, rubbing her head against shelves of leather-bound books, rolling around on a woven rug, and actually curling up on a huge carved oak chair. Leto forgive her, she’d practically licked the soft leather armrests. It was so strange. She knew how to behave like a princess, yet the scent made her feel…wild. Hot and tingly inside.

“Princess? Are you awake?”

Evaine jerked her head up at the elder wolf’s words. “Come in, Blanche. I was just woolgathering.”

Blanche smiled. “I won’t tarry, but Queen Sian has returned from her hunt and wishes to visit. Oh, and we’ve received word that King Alaric has departed London and will be here by dawn.”

“I’m at the queen’s command,” replied Evaine, gulping. “Whenever she is ready.”

“I’ll let her know,” said Blanche, bobbing a quick curtsy before hurrying away.

Evaine stared at the fire, her belly churning. How would the queen receive her? Sian and Mother had trod warily around each other; while they were similar in temperament, they had very different backgrounds. The Queen of the Western Lands hailed from an ancient line of Welsh aristocratic wolves and met her king at a joust, while Mother had been an outcast and met Father in a tavern. But Sian had suffered greatly; she’d endured a long and difficult travail to birth her only cub. And now she was a widow after the loss of her beloved mate.

Miserably, Evaine examined her ragged gray fur, and only slightly less gaunt frame. In no way did she resemble a princess, the blooded daughter of King Hugo. If only she could change!

“Good afternoon. I trust you are enjoying your stay at Blackstone Castle.”

The accent was low and musical, but the words were exceedingly cool. Evaine scrambled inelegantly off the cushions, then turned and knelt on her front legs, a show of submission to Sian Dafydd Beaumont, Queen of the Western Lands. Even in human form the queen was magnificent, tall and plump and beautiful. As wolves abhorred headdresses, her silver-laced black hair was plaited, coiled about her ears, and covered with a sheer gold veil. But her golden eyes glowed with fierce intelligence, her creamy skin boasted few lines, and although she wore a simple blue velvet gown with slashed sleeves and square neckline, Queen Sian looked noble.

“I thank you, Queen Sian of the Western Lands, for your generous hospitality. Please forgive my current state, I am unable to change at present—”

“You claim to be Princess Evaine of the Eastern Lands,” said the queen sharply as she moved closer and gripped Evaine’s muzzle. “Others might be fooled by a tale of woe in winter, but not I. There shall be no more imposters in this royal court. Look at me.”

Slowly, Evaine raised her head and met the older wolf’s steely gaze.

Queen Sian sucked in a harsh breath. “A familiar green, but I’ll hear more proof. Tell me something only a de Wynter would know.”

This was the occasion to ignore her sire’s counsel and be bold. Her very future depended on it. “Mother and Father sent me away with two ladies and two warriors before Guy Saville attacked Ashcross Castle. I’ve been in hiding for ten long years, the last two entirely alone, and I don’t know where my sisters and brother are. I miss them more than words can describe. As for something only a de Wynter would know…the last time I saw you and King Cyrus, he gifted us cubs with a black velvet sack of large gold nuggets, twice the size of our paws, to play with.”

The silence was so prolonged that the crackle and hiss of the fire sounded louder than a gunpowder explosion. Then the hand gripping Evaine’s muzzle slid further up to gently scratch behind her ears, the motherly touch unleashing a broken howl from the very depths of Evaine’s soul.

“Come here, sweet one,” said Queen Sian softly, sinking onto the pile of cushions and holding out her arms.

Evaine was far too big to curl up on the other wolf’s lap, but that didn’t stop her trying; she nearly knocked the queen over in her yearning to be petted and soothed like a cub. “I lost everyone I loved,” she choked out.

“I know,” said the queen, as she stroked Evaine’s fur and began carefully removing the stubborn burrs. “Such loss is an unendurable pain that does not lessen with time, no matter what the poets say. But you must get up when knocked down, or that monster Guy Saville wins. You are alive, Evaine, and that is a most wondrous victory, a ray of light in the darkness. I know Alaric, my son and king, will proclaim that as long as the usurper holds the Book of Lore and the Eastern throne, you may remain as our most honored guest. If it pleases you, of course.”

“It does,” sniffled Evaine, shamelessly bunting the queen’s hand for more ear-scratching. Being starved of food was one thing, but in many ways, being starved of touch and affection was equally terrible. Now was not the time for a full-grown wolf’s pride. “I adore Blackstone Castle. I swear it welcomed me when I arrived. Everything is lovely and it smells so divine.”

Queen Sian laughed. “You mean the kitchens? I will confess I am easily lured from my bed by the aroma of freshly prepared meat—our cook has a skilled hand.”

“No, the other scent. I get faint wafts of it everywhere, in the Great Hall and the solar and the shrine to Leto and her divine twins. However, I cannot find the source. It is strongest in the king’s library and I just want to roll around in it all the time…oh, forgive me, that was crass,” finished Evaine awkwardly, as the other wolf’s hand actually stilled.

“Is it one scent, like a flower?” asked the queen quietly. “Or perhaps many scents together, all of them pleasing?”

Evaine turned her head, her eyes widening. “Many. How did you know that? I thought I was losing my wits.”

The strangest expression crossed Queen Sian’s face, as though she felt great joy and great pain at the same time. But how could that be? And why would such emotions be provoked over talk of a mystery scent?

“You are not losing your wits, my dear,” said the queen eventually. “But we shall see how the ribbon unfolds. In the meantime, you need to rest. And eat. The sooner you are stronger, the sooner you’ll be able to change. I shall join you here for supper later, and we can talk some more.”

“Of course,” said Evaine eagerly.

After one more affectionate head scratch, the queen departed, and Evaine settled once again in front of the fire. It was disconcerting how swiftly she’d felt at home here, although…

Evaine glanced longingly in the direction of the library.

Would one more visit really be so bad?

“Nearly home, Your G…er…my king.”

Alaric glanced sideways at Wesley as they loped along the snow-covered countryside, entirely unamused at the gleeful twinkle in his squire’s eyes. The wolfling always behaved when they were beyond pack lands. However, the closer they were to Blackstone Castle and his mother Blanche’s fierce protection, the bolder he became. But right now, when Alaric was freezing his balls off in the frigid dawn air and his stomach still churned from lackluster fare at the two human inns they’d stopped at, he was in no mood for jests about his wretched “gift” from Henry. “Blackstone is still several miles away, boyo. Far enough that your mother couldn’t save you if you fell down a well.”

Wesley huffed out a breath. “Diplomats never say what they mean. King Darius would simply lift me by the throat and growl I’m going to kill you . But you very nicely, very calmly, utter things like ‘if you fell down a well’. Doesn’t it ever get weary, playing word games?”

Yes.

In human form, Alaric might have sighed and rubbed the bridge of his nose for it was too damned cold and too damned early for such a probing question. Wesley did that sometimes, amongst his mischievous antics and undoubted squire skills: asked a question that was startlingly insightful. One day he might well be an excellent advisor.

Today was definitely not that day.

Besides, even on his own lands and with excellent wolf vision, Alaric didn’t like to linger outside in this unholy brew of fresh snow, blustery wind, and pitch-black darkness. It was the kind of weather only mercenaries and brigands enjoyed, not to mention that his guards, carts and luggage, and horses were far behind them. Usually, he and Wesley remained with the procession, especially when transporting important documents or gifts. But for some unknown reason, his senses were urging him to return to the castle with all haste.

Was there a threat nearby? Had his mother been injured during her planned hunt?

Anything was possible with so many mercenaries lurking. Although Alaric ruthlessly crushed the violent packs whenever they emerged, there were always more. Also, the risk would only grow now the bounty on the de Wynter heirs had increased again, and he’d been made a bloody duke by the human king. Wolves would deem that a weakness to be exploited.

“Forget word games, think only on being a squire, wolfling,” growled Alaric eventually. “Perhaps one day you’ll master that.”

“Come now,” said Wesley, his pale eyes glinting in the darkness. “Even the great King of the Western Lands could admit I am most adequate. Praise me. I dare you.”

In truth, he was most adequate.

The wolfling might try Alaric’s patience daily, but Wesley had become rather accomplished with bow and arrow, had a skilled touch with horses, and took great care with Alaric’s belongings. As a young wolf, he was also much smaller and leaner, so created no spectacle in a human crowd—a rather useful information-gathering tool within palaces. It would be a sad day indeed when Wesley fully matured and ventured away to find his mate, for the wolfling provided a great deal of mood-easing entertainment at Blackstone Castle. Much as Alaric loved and respected his mother the elder queen, they did quarrel on occasion. She had never accepted Theda, actually daring to claim his mate was an imposter who had etched a mark on her neck and his wrist.

Alaric cursed under his breath. No. Theda had been his mate, she had passed without experiencing a breeding heat, and now he would be alone until his own death. He just had to accept that fact. As did his mother.

“I don’t puff smoke on demand,” he replied. “If you receive praise from me, you’ll have earned it. Besides, Blanche commends you enough for everyone.”

Wesley groaned theatrically then threw himself onto a mound of snow, rolled onto his back and twitched his tail in the air. “Mother praise and king praise are two very different things. If you refuse, I shall hurl myself down, hmmm, at least two feet. Do you truly want no injury whatsoever weighing heavily on your soul?”

Somehow, Alaric quelled both his irritation and reluctant amusement. Was this what it felt like to be a father? A constant inner war of pride and exasperation as they were provoked by wolflings? “Very well. At the Eltham armory, Henry complimented me on my sword and horse. Said I must have a competent squire.”

Wesley sprang up, shook the snow from his fur and preened before marching once more. “I would tell Henry he seems adequate for a human king, even if his line is completely unexceptional. I mean he’s hardly following an ancient line of legends…like the Beaumonts.”

Alaric’s lips twitched. “Perhaps you’ll succeed as a courtier after all. But first you must master the skill of silence.”

“Yes, my king. From now until we reach the castle, not a single word shall pass my lips. Even if you beg me to speak. Even if I fall down a well. Nothing. I am mute.”

Leto, give me strength .

However, as Blackstone Castle’s imposing towers finally came into view, Alaric found himself bounding down the road, so swiftly that Wesley made a low whine of protest as he struggled to keep up.

When Alaric approached the drawbridge, he paused and howled, a long, low guttural sound to let all and sundry know their king had returned. Moments later, guards with torches appeared, and the sound of clinking chains echoed in the chilly air as the portcullis was raised.

Once inside the safety of the castle courtyard, he and Wesley entered a small gatehouse filled with a variety of warm clothing and changed into human form. These days Alaric rarely even considered the process; for him it happened quickly and relatively painlessly, a brief stretching and crunching as his limbs elongated, his fangs became teeth, claws became fingers and toes, fur became a dusting of body hair, and his tail disappeared. Poor Wesley took much longer; it could be rather miserable for wolflings, but still better than a cub’s first change, which was pure agony. However, no matter how old or experienced the wolf, every change resulted in a naked human form, hence the clothing to wear.

“Ready?” asked Alaric, now fully dressed in linen shirt, woolen hose, and fur-lined doublet.

“Ready,” said Wesley, nodding as he hastily fastened his hose.

Surprisingly, Alaric’s mother waited outside the gatehouse. While he was relieved to see her hale and hearty, it was highly unusual for her to greet him at such an early hour. Queen Sian loathed mornings.

“My son and king,” she said, curtsying deeply.

“Lady Mother,” Alaric replied carefully. “Is something amiss?”

The elder queen pulled her fur-lined robe closer. “Perhaps we could move to the privacy of your library?”

“You don’t wish to sup in the Great Hall?”

“No. It must be your library.”

Alaric frowned, every instinct near-bellowing a warning. But after dismissing Wesley to Blanche’s care, Alaric followed his mother across the courtyard and into the castle proper. As soon as he stepped through the huge double doors, a faint scent wafted around him.

A new delicious scent. Like wildflowers and fresh herbs and sunshine.

“Did Blanche source new rushes?” he asked. “Or a different candle recipe, perhaps? I like it.”

His mother made an odd sound that almost seemed like…laughter? “Hurry, my son. The library,” she repeated, gathering her robe hem and near-running up the spiral steps to the second floor.

Utterly baffled at her behavior, Alaric continued to his favorite room in the castle, the one he spent most of his time and had furnished accordingly. Yet the moment he stepped into the library, he froze as the scent from below hit him like an anvil, overwhelming his senses, and wrapping around him like a cloak.

Goddess .

He sucked in a breath, his entire body craving it like a parched wolf craves water. The heady aroma was everywhere, yet how could that be? The room was empty. And he couldn’t even describe it, for what had seemed so innocently pleasing downstairs had a far different element up here. Something raw and carnal, like the hottest, wettest cunt, begging to be filled.

In the blink of an eye, his cock was harder than stone.

What is this madness? Have I been poisoned? Enchanted?

“Alaric? Are you well?”

Embarrassment scorched across his cheekbones, and he stumbled across the room to sit behind his desk and hide his affliction. Then he groaned softly.

Goddess.

How could it be even stronger here? Soon he’d be grinding himself against his damned desk!

“Quite well,” he bit out, his fists clenching as his cock ached and he fought the urge to rip off his hose and spend all over his chair. The scent made him want to rut until he couldn’t move. It urged him to.

“You don’t look well, my son,” chirped his mother gaily.

Why is she so damned cheerful? Has she lost her wits?

“If you have something to say, Mother, then by all means say it,” Alaric growled.

The elder queen drew herself up to her full height and inclined her head. “Very well. While you were in London with the human king, Blanche rescued a gaunt, starving waif who was hiding in an abandoned fox’s den. In a great turn of fortune’s wheel, that waif is…Princess Evaine de Wynter.”

His jaw dropped. Then the warmth of pure relief kindled inside him, flowing everywhere like molten gold. “Are you sure?”

“I’m absolutely certain.”

Alaric couldn’t help smiling at something so momentous. A de Wynter heir, alive! “I could not be more pleased. That is glorious news.”

“Oh, that is only half the tale, my son. The other half is even more important.”

“What could possibly be more noteworthy than Princess Evaine, safe in my castle?”

“She is your fated mate.”

How had she not known that Blackstone Castle was enchanted?

Evaine padded back and forth across her chamber, blinking wearily, her body craving sleep but her mind racing faster than a hungry wolf chasing a deer.

That howl .

Until the day she rose to the stars, she would never forget the low, guttural, powerful sound. It had jolted her awake, and she’d scrambled up off the cushions so fast her paws skidded on the cold stone surface as she made for the door, her throat actually hurting as she tried to howl a reply and only coughed and spluttered. Until her mind caught up to her instincts and asked a most pertinent question: what are you doing?

Since then, Evaine had swung between pacing and staring out the chamber window as new guards took their posts along the ramparts and around the gatehouse, and various castle servants began their daily tasks of preparing food, tending animals, doing laundry, and hammering weapons in the armory.

A princess waiting. Watching.

Who am I waiting and watching for?

Evaine shook her whole body, trying to clear the lethargy, the fogginess of her thoughts. Several times the previous day she’d tried to change to human form, but no matter how much she urged herself on, shutting her eyes and imagining arms and legs and long fair hair…nothing. Queen Sian had tried to comfort her, counseling that time and rest and food would resolve the issue, but Evaine wanted to change now .

A brief knock at the door made her tail twitch, then Blanche bustled in carrying a bucket of steaming water, a cloth, and a large platter of thickly sliced pork.

Evaine’s mouth watered. “Good morning, Blanche.”

The elder wolf beamed. “Good morning! Forgive me for being a little late—my youngest cub Wesley returned in the early hours and had many tales to tell about Eltham Palace. Naturally, I had to prepare his favorite breakfast. Cook never puts enough pork slices on a platter, wolflings can’t survive on a quarter loin! Especially not a wolfling who is the king’s squire .”

“Was it, er, Wesley who howled?” Evaine asked, her heart beginning to pound.

Blanche chortled. “Ha! My sweet babe would adore above all things to have a howl so low and strong and constant. Alas, his range hits much higher notes. No, the howl you heard was King Alaric, who is finally home from London. And he wishes to meet you! So eat your breakfast, then I’ll give your fur a nice, gentle scrub.”

An audience with the King of the Western Lands!

For a brief moment, Evaine forgot decorum and her shoulders dipped in despair. Usually, all formal occasions took place in human form, as it was an opportunity for great pomp and ceremony. They would sit at long trestle tables near-groaning with food, drink wine from silver goblets, and wear magnificent clothes and jewels to demonstrate the ruling pack’s wealth and power. How a royal bestowed and received hospitality was a matter of fierce pride and even fiercer judgment; bad enough she’d met the elder queen as a wolf, but to greet the king like this would be a mark of shame on the de Wynter name.

“Right now?” she asked softly.

Blanche’s gaze turned sympathetic. “I know it’s not ideal, Your Highness, but King Alaric insisted. He’ll not be offended in any way; Queen Sian explained the situation. My master is eager to make the acquaintance of King Hugo’s daughter—your sire and his were such great friends. It’s a shame you are not acquainted already, but then-Prince Alaric was beginning his knightly training when his parents visited the Eastern Lands.”

Evaine glared at the floor, her claws extending and retracting several times as she fought an inner war. Half of her yearned to meet the owner of that most glorious alpha howl with all haste. The other half wanted to wait until she could stroll on two legs into his presence and gracefully curtsy, wearing an elegant gown with a long train, gems winking on her fingers, and her neatly plaited blond hair shimmering under the warm glow of beeswax candles.

Eventually, she sighed. “Very well.”

Far too soon for her peace of mind, Evaine finished the pork, succumbed to Blanche’s careful yet brisk sponge bath, and was making her way to the king’s library. Thankfully, he had courteously left the door ajar so she didn’t have to demean herself further and scratch at it to be let in.

She almost paused and declared herself. Instead, Evaine moaned as she was struck by a wave of the delectable library scent, a scent that seemed to pull her inside, and she charged into the room.

Goddess .

Whatever she’d been expecting of King Alaric, it certainly wasn’t the most gloriously handsome male she’d ever seen in her life. He wasn’t an elder wolf at all…and he was huge . Much taller and broader than her own sire, and rather than fair hair, this king’s shoulder-length locks were as black as his castle. She’d heard chatter of the king’s Spanish grandmother, and the warm, sun-kissed hue of his skin certainly offered proof of that. But most startling of all, under stern black brows, his eyes were pure gold.

That gaze was like being seared by the sun.

Without warning, the back of her neck began to tingle, and Evaine whimpered in confusion as heat coursed through her veins. Then she cried out in pain as her wolf form twisted and cracked and lengthened, making her writhe as she changed.

Oh no. Oh no. Oh no .

As she lay naked on a rug wincing at the cramping and stiffness of her human limbs, the king growled, a rough, raw sound that caressed her flesh. Abruptly all discomfort was forgotten, and Evaine gasped as her nipples hardened to jewel-like points and a shocking wetness gathered between her legs.

What on earth was happening?

Her mind, still so enmeshed in human customs, bellowed that she was behaving like a harlot and should cover herself or turn onto her side and curl into a ball. But her body refused, reveling in the way the king stared at her with such blatant hunger. Such need. When Father had gazed at Mother like that, they kissed. Sometimes they’d dashed away saying they were late for an important meeting.

Does King Alaric wish to kiss me?

The unruly thought made Evaine burn, and she pressed her thighs together to try and ease the ache. Why wasn’t the king doing something? Why wasn’t he making it stop?

“P-please,” Evaine choked out. “Help me.”

King Alaric closed his eyes briefly, then strode forward, his big hands tearing at the buttons fastening his doublet. After shaking the garment out, he draped it around her shoulders, cocooning her in fur-lined warmth and his heady scent. “Here.”

With a happy sigh, Evaine pulled it closer around her, rubbing her cheek against the soft collar. The doublet was far too big, reaching below her knees, but it was so comforting to wear that she might never take it off. “It’s lovely. Thank you.”

“Your hair is caught, princess. Do not move,” he growled, before deftly freeing a heavy lock snagged on the embroidery just under the collar.

But as his fingers grazed her shoulder, Evaine gasped at the jolt of sensation.

Yes. Touch me. Touch me everywhere .

“Your Grace,” she said beseechingly, moving restlessly up onto her knees.

He flinched. “Don’t call me that.”

Evaine’s brow furrowed. “Your Grace” was how a dignitary correctly addressed the ruler of another kingdom; it was only “My King” or “My Queen” in their own realm. “Forgive me. What do you prefer? Sire? Master?”

His golden eyes glittered, and that strange ache between her legs became an unbearable pulsing throb. Goddess, she wanted to touch herself. Lie on her soft cushions in front of the fireplace and just stroke that wet, sensitive place until…

Until what?

King Alaric rubbed his bearded jaw, then marched over to the library window and rested his hands on the stone wall before pressing his forehead to the glass, putting at least ten feet between them. Unaccountably, the sudden distance felt like a physical blow, and a soft whine of unhappiness escaped her throat before she could halt it.

“Damn it,” he snarled, slapping his palm against the stone. “She’s wrong. My mother is wrong . ’Tis no more than wishful thinking. Perhaps you don’t know this, princess, but I was mated. Queen Theda died in a fall last summer. She tripped on her gown hem, tumbled awkwardly down some stairs, and broke her neck. I was mated . Do you understand? My chance at love and passion, at being happy, at fathering cubs is gone .”

Evaine could only stare. While she knew the information to be true—Blanche had mentioned the late queen—every part of her rejected it. “I mourn your loss.”

“Do not pity me,” said the king grimly. “I failed to keep my mate safe. To keep her content in my bed. Far worse, I was unbroken by her passing. So if you think I am some sort of noble hero, you are very much mistaken. I will remain a lone wolf, as Leto decrees, for being naught but ice.”

“ Ice ?” The incredulous word burst from her lips, far beyond the realm of caution or courtesy. “How can you think you are ice, Alaric, when all I see in your eyes is fire?”

Oh no .

Evaine groaned inwardly. For the first time in many, many years, she had allowed her boldness free rein, and instead of following protocol, she had called the King of the Western Lands by his given name. And said something highly inappropriate.

“Forgive me,” she said contritely. “I spoke out of turn.”

Oddly, the king did not turn to face her. “Go now.”

“But—”

“ Leave .”

Every instinct she possessed insisted the command be ignored. Yet clearly she’d tried the king’s patience enough this day, so Evaine hastily bobbed a curtsy, gathered his doublet tightly around her body, and hurried from the library.

She would make this right. Somehow.