Chapter 5

Chapter

Five

W ith all the preparation required for a royal mating ceremony and queen-crowning, Alaric had been certain that a week would pass faster than a tail twitch.

Ha. How utterly wrong.

Scowling darkly, Alaric stared into the flickering flames warming his library. It seemed like a thousand years since he and Evaine had pleasured each other in this very room, but it had only been three days. Three endless days of making lists, sending invitations, approving menus and cloth and other expenditure, and being measured for the traditional and exceedingly elaborate crowning ceremony garments. Oliver had also hired more wolves to sew and cook and hunt so Blackstone Castle would be ready for an onslaught of honored guests, including his brother kings Ranulf and Darius.

Apart from the birth of an heir, nothing was more important in wolf society than a royal mating ceremony. It announced the beginning of a new cycle, at times, the rise of a new pack, and set the stage for future stability and peace in the land—or disorder and strife. It was an occasion where significant diplomacy took place; bargains were struck, disputes resolved, the state of the realm discussed in libraries, solars, and great halls alike. Of course, some wished to attend only because such a large gathering offered a stronger chance of meeting a fated mate. Others merely wanted to enjoy the entertainment and indulge in endless food and drink.

While only a select few witnessed the official mating ceremony, Evaine would be crowned in front of his pack on a specially constructed dais in the large castle courtyard. They would sit for a formal portrait sketch, which would later become an oil painting to be hung in the gallery. After their guests had been farewelled and returned home, he and Evaine would then lead a royal procession from the castle and spend a full month traveling around the Western Lands. This was an opportunity for all his subjects to kneel to their new anointed queen, and receive gifts of gold buckles or hair combs to commemorate the occasion.

Alaric sighed. Really, in this matter, they weren’t so different to humans. Except royal wolves were infinitely harder to kill.

Just briefly, his fangs and claws elongated. Only yesterday, one of his guards had brought word of a bloody tussle between villagers and a pack of outcasts on the road from Bewdley. While no one had been killed, two aspects had greatly concerned him: the ever-increasing size of the roaming pack…and how close they had ventured to Blackstone Castle. Within five miles!

Were the outcasts just hot-tempered, looking to fight anyone? Foreign wolves looking to establish a new territory? Or most concerning: were they actually mercenaries with one purpose, to collect the substantial bounty on Evaine’s head?

Alaric curled a fist and thumped it against the carved stone mantel. If anyone so much as looked upon his queen without reverence, there would be no leniency. No mercy. He would execute without regret.

“My king? Might I have a word?”

Alaric turned his head and beckoned Oliver into the library. His steward looked ready to heave everyone over the ramparts; entirely understandable given the circumstances. Planning and preparing for such an important event, one that would be spoken of for many years to come, and involve the presence of England’s royal packs, would turn any steward’s fur white. Not to mention this was the second time he’d had to do it. “What troubles you? Are you concerned about the outcasts?”

Oliver huffed out a breath. “I’m sure everyone is concerned about them, but I have decided to leave that particular burden to Captain Bardolf. He sent out another hunting party this morning; if the outcasts have come to the Western Lands with evil intent, Leto willing, our guards will return with a bulging satchel of fresh hearts to be burned.”

“Indeed,” said Alaric grimly. “I will tolerate no disturbance around my future queen. Not even a playful fight. Evaine is mine . She is…well, you understand.”

The steward actually smiled a little. “We all understand, my king. While it was certainly shocking to learn Lady Theda wasn’t your true mate, everyone is joyful beyond words about Princess Evaine. What it means for you. What it means for the Western Lands. Poor Larkin can barely move his fingers, he’s written so many letters. But, er, well…fated mates is why I am here. It is now January, and the start of rutting season. I don’t believe we’ve ever had a royal mating ceremony within this month. Have we, er…procedures to follow if our new queen, or perhaps other mated she-wolves, go into their breeding heat early while the castle is overflowing with guests? I know the risk is low, but…well, you never know.”

Alaric nodded slowly. It was an excellent and pertinent question. As he’d mentioned to Evaine, rutting season could turn even the most sensible wolves into feral beasts. It only took one mated she-wolf in the vicinity to go into breeding heat, and everyone in or near the castle would absorb that lust and run mad with it. His own pack would be enough for the guards and himself to manage. But with hundreds of guests…or if it were Evaine pouncing on him, demanding his cock, his tongue, his seed, all day and all night…

Goddess .

What if Evie was chosen? If she went into heat and conceived, there might be cubs in May, that most sacred of months, for it heralded an increasingly rare miracle in Wolfdom: new life. Leto had fought so hard to birth Apollo and Artemis, and this Hera-driven difficulty had continued on over the centuries. Between all the wars, mercenaries, and ancient restrictions around conceiving, the English wolf shifter population was steadily dwindling. But he and Evaine still had a chance to experience something very special. The birth of a cub. Perhaps even more than one. A litter!

Alaric swayed, actually having to reach out to the mantel to steady himself.

“My king?” said Oliver anxiously. “Forgive the impertinent question.”

“It wasn’t impertinent, but important,” replied Alaric carefully. “I just…it just hit me fully that this year it might be me caring for my mate in her heat.”

Oliver’s whole expression changed into one of warmth and humor. “Leto willing, you’ll know that blessed exhaustion, my king. Your sire generously gave me several days to recover both times with Blanche. She was…er…fierce.”

Now Alaric laughed. “I can only imagine.”

“I believe your sire required a week—”

“Stop! I beg you,” said Alaric, his shoulders shaking. Goddess, laughter felt good. It seemed he’d laughed and smiled more since meeting Evaine than all his years before that.

The difference of a fated mate.

Oliver beamed. “Do you have instructions, though? Naturally you will care for Her Highness should it be required, but what of a guest or pack member? One just never knows once the season begins.”

“A truth. Prepare two of the old hunting lodges, the ones down by the river. Fresh linens and firewood, the kitchens can easily supply food and drink if necessary. But if any female goes into her breeding heat, she and her mate must be escorted straight there. I cannot risk an entire castle losing their wits.”

“Very good,” said the steward, inclining his head. “Now, I—”

“Beg pardon, my king,” said a guard, as he rushed into the room without knocking, his face flushed pink from the frigid cold outside.

Both Alaric and Oliver went still.

“Yes?” said Alaric brusquely, his heart beginning to pound. What now? Another fight with outcasts? A mercenary attack? Some sort of written threat?

The guard mopped his brow with a sleeve. “A carriage pulled up at the bridge with a couple and their attendants, requesting lodging for the night. But they are… humans , my king. The Earl and Countess of Oxford.”

Alaric pressed his lips together, lest he unleash a roar of frustration. Poor Oliver just looked horrified. Naturally, when the entire castle was in a flurry of preparation for the impending ceremonies, bloody humans would arrive. And he couldn’t refuse them lodging, not these two at least. John de Vere, Earl of Oxford, had fought valiantly for the Lancastrians at Bosworth Field and been richly rewarded with several important roles in Henry Tudor’s court, including Lord Admiral, Constable of the Tower of London, a seat at the Privy Council, and Lord Great Chamberlain of England. His wife was no less illustrious; Margaret Neville had been sister to the Earl of Warwick, known to humans as the Kingmaker, and aunt to the previous Queen of England, Anne Neville.

“Tell Larkin to prepare a chamber,” said Alaric, unable to suppress a sigh. “A fine one. Everyone must behave—these are important humans, great favorites of Henry Tudor, and I need no added tensions right now. Also, ensure Princess Evaine and Queen Sian are aware.”

Oliver bowed. “At once, my king. Interesting, is it not, that the earl and countess should travel so far out of their way to call upon you, and so soon after your pledge at Eltham.”

“Very, very interesting. Oh, and Oliver…”

“Put away the gold?” said the steward, his lips twitching.

“Yes. Also the best tapestries and anything jewel-encrusted,” confirmed Alaric. “Lock the door to Leto’s shrine, tell the armorers to conceal their wares, and warn the guards to make themselves scarce for the evening. Anything that makes Blackstone Castle appear more than the remote fortress of a prosperous human knight. Er…new duke . And everyone must stay in human form.”

After Oliver had dashed away to alert the household and the guard was dispatched to open the portcullis and admit the humans, Alaric marched over to the library window to watch the proceedings below. Not for a moment did he believe the earl and countess were here on a friendly or impromptu visit. With all Lord Oxford’s new appointments, he had no reason whatsoever to pass through the Welsh Marches, especially to a remote castle in winter. No, these lofty humans certainly had a purpose.

It was just a matter of discovering what that purpose was; and hoping that no one inadvertently revealed that every other soul at Blackstone Castle was a wolf.

Leto help them all.

Human guests. Blackstone Castle had human guests.

Evaine exchanged an uneasy glance with Sian as the queen’s ladies bustled around them, lacing gown sleeves, brushing and plaiting hair, and fastening jewelry in preparation for the impromptu banquet.

Each wolf king’s castle was deliberately remote, well away from main roads and constructed to look bleak and uninviting from the outside, so any stray humans weren’t tempted to approach. Yet now they had guests, not lost travelers, but aristocrats expecting food and shelter, as they would from their human acquaintances.

Something about this just felt wholly wrong. Wholly suspicious .

Then again, perhaps her mind was just playing tricks, seeing shadows and darkness when there were none. In truth, she had no personal experience with aristocratic humans. Back in the Eastern Lands, her father had some dealings with them, but her mother always declined, stating she’d seen and heard quite enough working in a tavern. While Evaine had been in hiding, she’d only ever dared contact with peasants; some had been kind, others awful, but all had lived in fear of those with a title. Unlike wolf kings, who protected their pack and lands and considered ample food, well-made clothing, and sturdy housing the bare minimum, it seemed human lords barely cared if their tenants lived or died. Sian had ruled for the best part of two centuries, though, visiting several human royal courts to pledge fealty. She would know more.

As soon as the ladies finished their work and departed the elder wolf queen’s large and lavishly-appointed bedchamber, Evaine cleared her throat. “Do you know anything of these, ah, Oxfords? Are they good people?”

Sian’s lips twisted. “I know of the earl and his wife. It is true he has shown bravery and talent as a commander on the battlefield, but his many appointments came only because he happened to be on the winning side at Bosworth Field. In the recent past Lord Oxford has not been so fortunate: attainted for treason, fleeing abroad several times, even imprisonment. He has also engaged in privateering. In my eyes, a true measure of character is how someone treats those who depend on him, not merely his equals or superiors. Oxford’s wife and mother suffered greatly for his acts. That is one significant difference between wolf and human: females are respected as leaders and warriors, healers and scholars, not merely tolerated because they birth cubs. Wolves always seek counsel from their mate, and would never, ever leave them to starve or be abused. We stand together until the end.”

“Like Mother and Father,” whispered Evaine.

“ Exactly like Hugo and Magdalena,” replied Sian, briefly reaching out to cup Evaine’s cheek.

“Why do you think the Oxfords have come here? It seems very odd,” said Evaine, as she nervously smoothed the square bodice of her favored emerald-green velvet gown and ensured her simple gold girdle lay flat. “I mean, it’s winter. The weather is foul, the roads are awful, and most humans are busy celebrating the Twelve Days of Christmas at their estates.”

“Precisely. It is very odd. And the Welsh Marches are hardly a direct route anywhere. Let me warn you, my dear, tonight will be an exceedingly strange experience. I know Lord Oxford thinks himself very high and mighty and will behave accordingly. And we’ll all have to sit there, knowing we could end his life with a single bite or claw swipe.”

Evaine giggled then sobered. “How do you bear it? How does Alaric bear it? I can’t even imagine having to pledge sword and service to a human king when they change so often and are so weak .”

“It is tedious beyond belief,” admitted Sian, as she adjusted the veil covering her hair then shook out her silver-embroidered cream velvet skirts. “But the other choice is Hera’s wrath. And I’ve seen the terrible things that can happen…oh dear, listen to me ramble on.”

Frowning inwardly, Evaine hesitated. Why did it appear the queen had been about to say something and then changed her mind? How odd. “Have you ever met a good titled human?” she asked instead.

Sian brightened. “I have. Edward IV’s queen, Elizabeth Woodville, and her mother, Jacquetta of Luxembourg. Those two have certain otherworldly gifts and we had some very interesting discussions. Be wary of the new King Henry’s mother, though. In truth, be wary of anyone blindly enamored of the crucifix. They despise anyone who speaks, thinks, or acts differently to them. On many occasions in London I was tempted beyond measure to cull the human herd, but Cyrus usually stayed my hand.”

Evaine nodded solemnly. More than once she’d overheard Father saying the same thing about culling. Most wolves refrained; fortunately, there were countless ways for fragile humans to perish, and accidents or rash deeds could easily be concealed. “I will certainly need Alaric’s steady hand to stay me. Evaine the Bold sometimes doesn’t look before she leaps. On that note, we must go and rescue my poor mate. I believe he was entertaining the Oxfords in the library with mulled wine while we dressed?”

“Yes,” said Sian with a sigh. “Even diplomats can have their patience worn cobweb thin.”

Arm in arm, Evaine and Sian walked in companionable silence to Alaric’s library, the trains of their gowns swishing against the smooth stone floor. It was a little eerie how bare the hallway looked; all the gold and gilt that she barely glanced at now had been removed, along with most of the queen’s truly exquisite tapestries depicting wolves at play, hunting, or posing with their cubs.

Gah. Wretched humans.

Just before entering the room, Evaine paused and inhaled deeply of the delectable scent lingering around the door. While she wanted no part in entertaining human aristocrats, the chance to spend time with Alaric was most welcome. Especially in here, the place where they had already created so many lusty and truly magical memories; where their mating marks had risen, confirming their fate and future together. These past three days, where she had seen so little of her king, had been a great trial indeed.

“Alaric,” she said joyfully as she burst into the library, hurrying over to where he stood beside his desk. However, before she could throw her arms around his waist or go up on her toes to kiss him thoroughly, her mate very stiffly took her hand and placed a brief kiss upon it.

Twice wretched humans!

“My lady,” he replied formally, then looked past her and bowed at Sian. “Lady Mother. May I present the Earl and Countess of Oxford. Lord and Lady Oxford, you might remember my mother, the Lady Sian Beaumont, from court.”

Both humans inclined their heads. They were disappointingly unremarkable; of a similar average height, each with dark hair. The earl had the lean build of a soldier, with a scar across his cheek that looked like an old arrow wound. The countess was equally slender, with arched eyebrows that made her look perpetually surprised. However, both were richly dressed: him in a black velvet doublet and hose with a heavy chain of office about his neck and a badge with a blue boar on his chest, and her in a costly gown of deep blue velvet with silver underskirt and sleeves.

“Lady Sian,” said the earl crisply. “A pleasure to see you again. How grateful you must be that our generous and esteemed King Henry bestowed such an honor on your son. Duke of Blackstone! Quite the elevation for your family.”

The queen exchanged a glance with Evaine before tapping her fingernails together. Somehow Evaine swallowed a belly laugh. No. There would be no claws out this evening.

“Such a shock,” Sian demurred.

“And this eager creature is your betrothed?” said Lady Oxford coolly. “I suppose any young lady dreams of being a duchess; no wonder she forgets decorum and runs to greet you, Blackstone. Perhaps you’ll teach her restraint and courtly ways. One does not address one’s husband so informally, child. Especially a duke. Are you from a small village, perhaps?”

Evaine nearly hissed. “Forgive me,” she ground out eventually, as Alaric discreetly rubbed his thumb against her palm, a soothing motion. “I was overcome by tender feelings for my ma…my betrothed.”

“Something I shall never grow weary of,” said Alaric, his voice caressing her even if his tongue could not. “I am fortunate beyond measure to have found a match surely written in the stars. Allow me to present the Lady Evaine de Wynter.”

Lady Oxford tilted her head, her expression warming slightly. “I have heard the name de Wynter! Are your people from over Norfolk way?”

“Yes, my lady.”

“Wait,” said Lord Oxford, his brows furrowing. “Not kin to Sir Hugo de Wynter? Now he was a decent soldier. Damned decent indeed. Well, until he wed the tavern wench. God’s blood, scandal of the year, that was! She must have been a witch, no idea how they were received by anyone of standing. People were laughing behind their backs at court, then her cousin of all people kills them both! Such a tale belongs on stage. Or preached from the pulpits as a warning. The perils of marrying far beneath one’s own rank.”

Scalding, blinding rage surged through Evaine. This pathetic sewer rat dared to speak ill of her beloved parents? One swipe. One claw swipe was all it would take to spill the innards of both these humans on the library floor. Yes, it would create a terrible mess, but Blanche’s lye soap had yet to be defeated by anything.

A low snarl rumbled in her chest, and she actually felt her fingers curl and canines sharpen. Lord Oxford might have enjoyed good fortune in battle until this point, but his luck had just run out. Tonight, this human sack of excrement who thought himself noble would die most horribly at the hand of his sworn enemy…

Princess Evaine de Wynter.

Did the Earl of Oxford understand how close he was to having his throat ripped out?

Alaric studied the unwanted visitor like he might study a rat cornered by a barn cat. No, Oxford was still twittering like a foolish little squirrel about Hugo and Magdalena. It was laughable. As though the revered and star-risen King and Queen of the Eastern Lands would have cared one whit what a passel of completely unimportant humans thought of their union. Leto, all-powerful and all-knowing, matched hearts and souls. A mate’s position or employment, their past lovers, the heaviness of their purse…none of that mattered.

A heartbeat before Evaine slaughtered the most important human noble in the land, Alaric curled his arm around her waist, yanking her to his side. Then, ignoring the shocked gasps of the humans, he leaned down and kissed her deeply, tangling his tongue with hers until she moaned softly. When he’d had his fill of Evaine’s sweet lips, he nuzzled her cheek. “No, sweetheart,” he murmured. “You may not decorate my library with the earl’s entrails. Not this night, anyway. The guests must leave as they arrived, hale and hearty.”

Evaine hissed, but eventually took a deep breath and relaxed against him. Alaric knew a moment of relief. If she’d killed the earl, the entire party including the countess and attendants would require culling, and so many bodies would be a nuisance to dispose of. Besides, many humans would be aware of the Oxford’s destination; with the new dukedom and rumors of goldmines already swirling, Blackstone Castle didn’t need any further attention.

His mother smiled brightly, although there was clear disappointment in her eyes at his intervention. Bloodthirsty she-wolf.

“Shall we proceed to the Great Hall, my son?” asked Sian archly. “I find I’m quite famished, and crave a side of rare beef. Fresh, juicy and red.”

“That sounds delicious,” said Evaine, shooting another deadly glare at the earl. “Although aged meat can also be very tasty.”

Lord Oxford bowed, his expression revealing both irritation and disdain before it smoothed away into a polite mask. “It is still Christmastide, the season of goodwill and forgiveness to fellow man. Unseemly behavior is easily forgotten, and my countess and I welcome generous hospitality. Lead on, Your Grace .”

Alaric gritted his teeth. Between fellow man and the condescending reminder of the dukedom, Evie might have to wait her turn with the Oxfords. He had no doubt that Lord Oxford was jealous, but that tone, as though the earl was humoring small children in the nursery, was beyond provoking. Their visitor truly thought himself in the position of power.

Forcibly suppressing his irritation, Alaric linked arms with both Evaine and his mother, and they walked toward the Great Hall, the two humans in tow. Shortly afterward the Oxfords began whispering to each other, and Alaric rolled his eyes at the comments regarding a lack of furniture, liking or disliking carpets and artwork, and coveting certain trinkets. These two were actually assessing his holdings; no doubt Alaric would receive further tribute requests from King Henry in due course. Removing so many valuables had indeed been the correct path.

Evaine wrinkled her nose. “Do you think,” she said softly, “we should offer quill and parchment for their list-making?”

He grinned. “Better that than their own innards to swallow.”

His mate deliberately bumped her hip against him, and Alaric nearly laughed at the unspoken reprimand. He certainly understood the warning, though: if Lord Oxford insulted Hugo and Magdalena again, she wouldn’t be stayed by a kiss. In truth, he wouldn’t attempt it. If the visitors were that foolish, they deserved whatever happened next, diplomacy be damned.

Evaine leaned closer. “The Oxfords certainly require stronger herbs in their bathing water. I know wagon travel makes it more difficult, but surely human inns could offer much better service.”

“Don’t remind me,” muttered Alaric. “My stomach hurt for days thanks to the fare provided. No wonder humans are often ill.”

When they entered the Great Hall, he gazed about with pure pride. Despite the burden of ceremony preparation and no warning of the humans’ arrival, the cavernous room looked cozy and welcoming. All four fireplaces were lit, fresh rushes had been scattered about so the hall smelled pleasantly of dried mint and lemon, and a trestle table sat in the center with carpets underfoot and five cushioned chairs. Servants waited to pour ale or wine in the pewter goblets provided, while others were already carrying in trays laden with roasted meat, vegetables, a wheel of cheese, loaf of bread with a pat of butter, honey cakes, and even some almond sweetmeats. Alaric sat at the head of the table, with Evaine to his left, and his mother sitting next to her. The Oxfords would sit to his right.

Lady Oxford glanced around as servants pulled out their chairs, her gaze still assessing. “Well, this looks most adequate. Let’s eat.”

For the next hour or so, the humans were almost amiable as they ate their fill of roasted beef and mutton, a pottage of carrots, turnips, and leeks thickened with barley, and the bread and cheese. The countess even declared she simply must have the honey cake recipe to give to her own cook.

Then the earl dabbed his mouth with a linen napkin, and sat back in his chair. “Excellent meal, Blackstone, just what is required on a cold winter’s night. Even the wine was a surprisingly good vintage. However, now we must discuss business. Normally, I would ask the ladies to retire to the solar, but I don’t think their minds too simple for this.”

Alaric raised a brow. “I don’t think their minds too simple for anything, my lord, but pray continue.”

Lord Oxford smiled thinly. “Ah, you prefer plain speaking. I much prefer that myself. Very well, so we have no misunderstanding, there is an issue with your betrothal.”

Considering how long Alaric had been a judge and emissary, then King of the Western Lands, it was rather startling that a few words from a human could make him forget all his calm, considered dealings. He’d been wrong to stay Evaine’s claws; Lord Oxford’s head would look much better displayed on a spike.

“An issue?” he said slowly, lest he snarl the reply. “How so, my lord? Who could possibly take issue with my betrothal?”

Lady Oxford coughed delicately, but her eyes glinted with malice. “Why, His Grace the King.”

Sian tilted her head, her gaze chilly. “People in this realm are betrothed every day. Why should my son’s ma…er, his choice of bride trouble King Henry?”

“I thought you would understand,” said Lord Oxford sourly, “but it seems both I, and your son, overestimated your intellect. Blackstone is a duke, his marriage is a matter of state. All betrothals must be approved by King Henry to further his vision for a secure and prosperous realm. Appropriate matches, such as a union between de Vere and Neville. We were shocked, so soon after Blackstone received his honor, that he could so blatantly insult his new king.”

Alaric took Evaine’s hand, not to halt any action, but to gather his own composure. How many times had he already cursed Henry for this dukedom foolishness? A “gift” he neither wanted nor needed, a “gift” he’d already paid for, yet now came another demand? A human in London thinking he could decide who Alaric Dafydd Beaumont, King of the Western Lands’s mate would be?

No. Not in a thousand years.

“Lady Evaine is my betrothed,” said Alaric, his voice steely. “And next week, she will be my wife.”

“Next week ?” bellowed the earl. “God’s blood, no. If you cease and desist this at once, write letters to the king begging his forgiveness with appropriate compensation, I am certain he would accept it. No one need know of your misstep; His Grace might even offer a far more appropriate match. But a duke cannot wed someone with a tavern wench in the family, even if the rest are unexceptional. You’ll start a war!”

“Just so I understand,” said Evaine crisply, her fingernails tapping on the table, “is wedding the wrong person similar in misstep to being attainted for treason? For that hasn’t held you back.”

Lord Oxford’s eyes bulged and his countess gasped.

“Bold girl!” said Lady Oxford furiously. “I can guess why a swift wedding is required, all that wicked peasant blood had you lifting your gown, and now there’s a babe, yes? You’re as foul as Magdalena. But unlike her, you’ll not trap a husband of means and position. Noblemen marry at the pleasure of the king .”

Alaric wasn’t entirely sure how it happened, but in the blink of an eye the entire table flew across the Great Hall, scattering food and drink, goblets and spoons and plates in all directions. And he stood, one human’s neck gripped in each fist, as they dangled helplessly.

“You dare insult me and my mate in our own castle?” he roared, shaking them both like rag dolls, their little feet kicking, their cheeks bulging, the air alive with choking, gurgling sounds. “The ceremony is next week, as I command. And I care not what title you have or chains you hold, if you slander Evaine or Magdalena again, I’ll burn your hearts and return your heads to London in baskets! You’re not welcome on Beaumont lands. Nor are any other of Henry’s advisors. Do you understand, my lord?”

“Y-yes,” wheezed Lord Oxford, his face a delightful shade of purple.

Alaric dropped them both to the floor. “Leave. Tonight. If you are here in the morning, you’ll be hunted for sport.”

Stepping over their shaking, coughing, cringing forms, Alaric offered his arm to Evaine and his mother. They both looked surprised yet amused at his most uncharacteristic show of violence toward humans. In truth, he could scarcely believe it.

By the time the trio departed the hall, Alaric’s rage was cooling, but with that came a troubling realization: after telling everyone else to behave, he had just escalated the war. He’d not acted as a king or a diplomat…but a mate.

Would he live to regret the choice?