He likes bold women.

I need him to like me if I am to escape execution, and to avoid going back to Sebastian.

Be bold, I tell myself, though my insides are twisting and a storm is billowing in my chest. Be bold.

I raise my chin as all gazes turn to the back of the Great Hall.

The Wolf King steps through the wooden doors.

He looks like no king I have encountered before. Tall and muscular, he wears no crown or fancy jewels, and dresses simply in a cream shirt and kilt. His sleeves are rolled to his elbows, revealing tattoos inked on his corded forearms. His tangled hair is brown, and it brushes his powerful shoulders. I cannot quite tell his age, but I’d wager he is around thirty.

He commands all the attention in the room, and as he strides toward us, the Wolves drop to one knee.

As he gets closer, and my pulse races faster, I notice that his kilt is predominantly red, like Callum’s, but it’s a different pattern. It seems to contain the colors of all the clans.

He walks up the steps of the platform, his boots thudding and shaking the wood. The alphas all dip their heads deferentially, Callum included.

I, however, cannot stop staring.

The Wolf King’s eyes land on mine, and he frowns. Slowly, he walks toward me. Callum tenses, and my insides clench.

Be bold.

He seems to appraise me for a moment.

“It’s customary to kneel in the presence of a king,” he says. His voice is low and powerful, thick with the accent of the Northlands.

I always thought my wedding day was the moment my whole life was building toward, but now, I think perhaps it was this one.

I have one moment to make an impression. One moment to show I am not a useless doll. Nor a pawn to be played in a game between men. Nor a statue, made of stone, with nothing inside.

I spared Ryan in that fighting ring. I chose to come with Callum to this Kingdom of Wolves. I bartered with him for my freedom.

Be bold, my pounding heartbeat demands. Be bold.

I swallow and raise my chin.

“A real princess does not kneel to a false king,” I say.

There’s a collective intake of breath within the Great Hall. A few of the alphas step forward. Shouts ring through the room. Robert’s hand curls around his sword.

I can barely focus on the disruption I have created. The hall is blurring around me. The adrenaline that pumps through my veins makes everything seem faraway.

I brace myself. I wait for the Wolf King to strike me down, to push me to my knees, or throw me into the dungeons.

As my pulse calms, I notice his displeasure is focused on Callum—who has stepped forward, his arm in front of mine. His head is no longer dipped, and his hard gaze is locked on the Wolf King in direct challenge.

My insides twist. Goddess, what have I done?

Across the platform, Blake’s lips curve into a wicked smile.

I try to think of something, anything, I can do to make this right, to make it look like Callum is not challenging his king.

Then the Wolf King’s jaw tightens as he stares at Callum.

“A word, please, Brother,” he says.

My eyebrows lift as James walks past us both, heads down the steps leading down from the platform, and through a door behind the throne.

Callum scans the Great Hall as a mixture of hostile and intrigued faces stare up at us. When he doesn’t find what, or who, he is looking for, he turns to Blake.

He gives me a hard look before turning on his heel and following the Wolf King through the door—leaving me alone with the Wolves.

Blake saunters over with his hands in his pockets. He stares out at the room.

“Well, it was bold, I’ll give you that,” he says.

OceanofPDF.com

Chapter Forty-Seven

“You said be bold,” I hiss.

“Yes, look him in the eye, answer his questions, don’t cower before him. I didn’t expect you to challenge his claim to the throne!” Blake laughs, and it’s a real laugh, too. Not contrived, like usual. “That was excellent. Not for you, obviously. But for me, that was truly entertaining.”

“Shut up, Blake.”

The Great Hall is filled with agitated voices. Someone shouts, “Death to the Southlands king!”

I chew my bottom lip. “Callum is the Wolf King’s brother?”

I am standing on the precipice of a storm that could break at any moment. All it will take is one wolf to charge onto this platform, one alpha to draw his sword. Robert certainly looks like he wants to as he mutters darkly to the large red-haired male beside him.

I glance at the door behind the throne. If the worst happens, that is where I will run. I would rather take my chances against the Wolf King with Callum at my side, than this unruly mob with only Blake for company.

Blake is completely at ease beside me, his hands in the pockets of his breeches. It is as if he is looking out onto one of the Northlands lochs on a peaceful morning.

His eyebrow cocks up. “He didn’t tell you?”

There’s an irritating smugness to his tone. He knows damn well that Callum didn’t tell me, and he is clearly trying to get a rise out of me.

An ugly feeling of betrayal twists with the anxiety building in my stomach. Why would Callum have kept something so important from me?

I want to voice my concern, but I do not want Blake to see my weakness. I swallow. I focus on one of the tapestries that shows the Elderwolf howling at the moon so I don’t have to look at the sea of hostile faces.

“They have a. . . complicated relationship.” Blake’s voice drops to a whisper—answering my unasked question anyway.

I try not to take the bait, yet I cannot fight the curiosity that flares within. “How so?”

Blake’s lips curve into a smile as if he’s pleased I’m willing to play his game with him.

“Their father started all this.” He inclines his head at the crowd of Wolves in the hall. “Bringing all the clans together. He was the first Wolf King. When he. . . died—”

Blake puts a strange weight on the word, and his eyes glint in the morning light that seeps through the narrow windows.

“—it left the position open. It was assumed one of his sons would take the title, though things do not work the same way here as they do in the Southlands. No one is entitled to the position based on the blood that runs in their veins. Rather, it is based on the blood that they spill. Any wolf can win the throne.”

“By challenging the current king?”

Blake inclines his head. “The appointment is more political than they will admit, though. Without the backing of at least half of the clans, the title means nothing.”

“There would be continuous civil war, I suppose.”

A half-smile plays on Blake’s lips. “Indeed.”

“What has that got to do with Callum and James?”

“James had more backing with the clans here. He is. . . more similar to his father. But Callum had support from some of the outlying clans.” He drops his voice lower, and I have to strain to hear him over the rabble. “It tipped the scale in his favor.”

“So he should have won?”

Blake shrugs a shoulder. “If he’d beaten James.”

“He lost the challenge?”

“He forfeited.”

My brow furrows. “Why?”

“That’s the question, isn’t it?” says Blake, his eyes glinting with intrigue. “A question many Wolves are still asking. And by asking the question—”

“It weakens James’s claim to the throne.” I lower my voice because I do not want anyone to hear me. Surely this is a treasonous thing to say. “You don’t know who would have won if they’d actually fought. By walking away, Callum made his brother look weak.”

“Which James is not particularly thankful for.”