There is something so earnest in his eyes, so. . . lonely. . . that I fight the urge to touch his cheek.

Despite his infuriating arrogance, I can tell this is a man who feels the weight of his responsibilities and decisions. This is a man who bears that weight so others don’t have to.

Something softens inside me, and vulnerability flickers in his eyes as if he senses it.

I sigh.

I’d rather speak with Blake in different circumstances. If I was feeling rested and sharp, I’d be more confident I could gain the upper hand. But I cannot deny that I am curious about the dark-haired wolf with the Southlands accent.

I’m sure my father would be interested to know about a wolf who claims to have served in his guard, too.

“Fine.” I roll my eyes. “I’ll come to your feast. But I need to wash first.”

Callum smiles. When he steps away, the air feels lighter and I can breathe again.

He nods at the copper bathtub behind him. “Take it. It’ll make you feel better.”

“Where are you going?”

“I’ll be outside.” He leans against the doorframe. “Unless you’d like me to help you with your bath?”

I make a strangled sound at the thought of being naked in front of Callum with his hands on me. “How can you say such things?”

“What? It was a genuine offer!”

“No it wasn’t! You’re trying to annoy me.”

He grins. “Maybe a wee bit. You’re cute when you blush.”

My cheeks flame and I hate myself for it. “Brute!”

He chuckles as he steps into the corridor.

“We have a few hours until we’ll need to head to the Great Hall,” he says over his shoulder. “Wash and get some rest. You’ll need your strength. Feasts here. . .” He drags his teeth over his bottom lip, his eyes glinting. “Well, let’s just say they can get lively.”

And with those ominous words, he shuts the door behind him.

OceanofPDF.com

Chapter Eighteen

A floorboard creaks, and my eyes jolt open.

It takes me a moment to realize I’m lying on Callum’s bed.

My body heats. Before today, I’d never even been in a man’s bedchambers before—let alone fallen asleep on their soft quilt with my hair soaking their pillows. At least I had the grace to clothe myself in the tartan dress after my bath. Even if my feet are bare, and my skirts have risen to my thighs.

I can smell him on the sheets, soft and masculine, and my cheeks flush.

The room is dark, though a fire is crackling in the hearth, emitting a soft glow. When I glance at the narrow window, I notice the crescent moon outside. It is nighttime already.

Beside the window, Callum sifts through his wardrobe. He’s wearing his kilt, but his shirt now hangs over the arm of his chair.

I bite my bottom lip.

I saw him topless when he was in the fighting ring, and his hard muscle had seemed fearsome. Now, I find myself admiring his broad shoulders and the way that the muscles in his back shift as he pulls out a shirt.

His skin glistens, and his hair is darker, as if wet. He must have washed, too.

“Good sleep?” he asks without turning.

I shut my eyes, my breath hitching.

“I know you’re awake, Princess. Your heart is hammering.” The floorboards creak as he turns. “You’re not afraid of me, are you?” He sounds concerned—ashamed, even.

The air shifts as he approaches. My pulse quickens and I’m not sure why. I do not fear him, even though I probably should. He breathes in sharply, then places something on the bedside table beside me.

“If it makes you feel safer,” he says.

I open my eyes. The letter opener he took from me during the siege now sits beside a half-burned candle.

I push myself up onto the pillows and take it, turning it in my hand. The silver gleams in the dim light.

I frown. “You would give me this?”

“I don’t want you to fear me.”

I stare at the tiny knife, then at the size of Callum, and fight the urge to roll my eyes. “I don’t think I could do much damage with this.”

An answering grin spreads across his face, and he shrugs. “Small things can be deadly, too.”

He places his shirt onto the bed, and crouches in front of me. His face is close to mine, and I fight the urge to drop my gaze and look at his bare chest. He closes his fingers around my hand, and brings it close to his neck so that the blade is almost touching his skin.

My breathing quickens. “What are you doing?”

“Go for the throat.” His voice is rougher than usual.

I swallow, then nod. The air heats, becomes unbreathable.

He pulls away and I exhale. He releases a long breath too, and I wonder if I wasn’t the only one affected.

Turning around, he shrugs on his shirt, and buttons it up.

“I don’t fear you,” I say, quietly.

His shoulders soften.

“Good. You have no reason to.” He nods at the blade, clutched in my hand. “The other Wolves here. . . and the particular wolf we’ll be meeting with tonight. . .” His expression darkens. “Be on your guard, Princess. And stay close to me.”

I place the blade in the pocket of my dress.

Callum holds out his hand. “Ready?”

My stomach is roiling, but I allow him to pull me to my feet.

He offers me a half-smile. “You know, these feasts can actually be quite fun.”

“Apart from all the Wolves who want to kill me.”

“Aye. Apart from that.”

He leads me out of his room.

Callum said Blake was the most dangerous man here.

I suppose I’ll soon find out whether or not that is true.

As we head down the stairwell, Callum reels off a list of all the foods we can expect to eat this evening.

I’m barely listening. I keep having to disentangle my hand from his, only for him to reach for me and enclose my fingers within his once more. I’m not even sure he realizes he’s doing it.

This kind of overfamiliar behavior would not be tolerated in the Southlands, and I wonder whether all Wolves are this physical, or whether it’s just Callum.

I don’t hate it, though, and that in itself is rather disconcerting.

I’m a betrothed woman—even if I’m supposed to marry a cruel and horrible man. My father would kill me if he saw me holding hands with the alpha of Highfell. I don’t even want to think about what he would do to Callum.

Callum’s familiarity, however, is not enough to distract me from the high-pitched screeching that hits my ears when we walk into the next corridor.

Callum must notice my wince, because he chuckles. “You don’t have bagpipes in the south?”

He points ahead. There’s a young boy—around ten years old—standing at the entrance of the Great Hall. He has a blue tartan bag nestled beneath his arm, and his cheeks are as red as his hair as he blows into a pipe.

He looks like he’s about to pass out.

“Just be thankful you don’t have wolf hearing,” he whispers darkly. “I had to listen to the wee lad practicing.” He gives the boy a thumbs-up as we pass by. “Great job, Brodie!”

An extra shrill note rings my ears as Brodie puffs out his chest with pride.

A soft laugh escapes my lips.

Callum’s gaze snaps toward me as we enter the Great Hall, a warm smile spreading across his face.

“What?” I ask.

He shrugs. “You have a nice laugh.”

When we walk into the entrance hall, my smile fades.

In the Southlands, we thought the Wolves were too unruly to unite against us. For the centuries that we have been at war, they have fought among themselves, as well as with us. It has been our greatest advantage.

Yet here, within the walls of this castle, there must be over one hundred Wolves. They shout and laugh and insult one another as they sit along four long tables that are laden with food.