A muscle feathers in his jaw, though his posture remains relaxed against the barred wall of the cell. “He will not harm you.”

“Like he didn’t harm me upstairs, just hours ago?”

Blake’s eyes move to my cheek. “I didn’t relish that, believe it or not.”

“I don’t believe a word you say. Has anything you’ve told me actually been true?”

“I deceive, often. But I rarely lie. I can recall being untruthful to you only once.”

“When?”

He shifts, crossing his ankles as he leans further back. The torchlight on the wall outside the cell flickers across his features. He seems pensive.

“When we first met, I said I recognized you from the palace. I didn’t. I hadn’t seen you before in my life. I was only in the King’s Guard for a couple of years, and I didn’t spend much time in the palace. Though I knew from stories that your mother had red hair.” He shrugs. “Your identity was an educated guess.”

My eyebrows lift. Of all the things he’d said to me that could have been lies, this was the least expected. Partially because I thought he looked familiar when I first set eyes upon him.

“Accept James’s offer,” he says. “You may not believe me, but I would rather you survive this.”

“I will find my own way to survive.”

“Very well.” He looks at me curiously. “I really wasn’t sure which way this would go, you know? I didn’t know whether you’d accept his proposal or not. Usually I can figure people out, but not you. On the one hand, you’re smart. You’ve endured a lot, and you know how to survive. Yet you’re also mind-numbingly stubborn, proud, and ill-tempered. It has made the outcome of all this harder to predict.”

I narrow my eyes. “I’m so sorry to disappoint.”

“Oh, darling, I’m not disappointed.” He removes the stopped of his flask, and takes another sip. I swallow, my throat aching. “Thirsty?”

“No.”

He walks toward me, and my muscles harden as he stops inches away from me.

“Don’t be stubborn.” He brings the flask to my lips. “Here.”

I jerk my head away, wobbling on my tiptoes. I try to get purchase on the chains above my handcuffs, regaining my balance.

“Come, now, what are you—”

I grab the chains and lift my body. I kick wildly at Blake. A surprised laugh escapes his lips as he grabs my legs. I swing and grapple with him. Ice-cold water from his flask spills down both of our chests.

“Stop it!” Blake dodges my foot. “What are you doing? I’m trying to help you!”

The muscles in my arms are taut and screaming. My fingers curl around the chains, even as the handcuffs bite into my skin. I jerk against him, determined to land a kick on him at least once. Preferably between his legs.

He drops the flask as I rear up again, and he grabs me. His fingers tighten beneath my thighs, and he jerks me toward him. My core slams against his hard torso, and my legs wrap around his waist. The laughter dies from his expression.

His face is inches from mine. We’re breathing fast. His muscles are taut.

The air in the cell is thick and silent.

And an emotion stronger and uglier than hate surges through my body. It is consuming. Unbearable. Dark and powerful and unfamiliar. I want to tear inside of myself and rip it out.

Blake’s jaw hardens. There is no humor, no amusement, in his eyes. Only darkness.

He smells like night, like the most dangerous part of the forest, like dark forbidden places. His warm breath mingles with mine.

His gaze dips to my mouth and he swallows.

“If you kiss me, I will bite off your tongue,” I whisper.

He staggers back, dropping my legs, and I grip onto the chains to keep my balance. Something like horror or disgust twists across his face.

Without another word, he turns on his heel. He locks the cell door, then disappears out of the dungeons. He doesn’t give me a backward glance.

My shirt is now soaking and I shiver violently. My heartbeat rages. The memory of his grip lingers on my thighs.

I hate him.

I hate him. I hate him. I hate him.

It’s all I can think about for hours. My hatred is so strong that it dulls the pain. It stops my body from completely sagging, and keeps me from freezing. And it urges me to survive this, to beat him. I start to form a plan that might get me out of this mess.

When one of the men who brought me down here earlier walks to the cell door, I lift my head to meet his cold stare.

I will not die tonight.

“It’s sundown,” he says. “I’m to take you to the Wolf King. He awaits your decision.”

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Chapter Fifty-Five

I am taken to a room on the ground floor of the manor.

It is dark and sparsely furnished. In one corner, there is a bucket filled with water. A white dress is draped over one of the tattered armchairs.

The hearth is unlit and the air is stale and bitingly cold.

“You’re to bathe, then dress,” says my guard. His voice is gruff and devoid of warmth.

He has a dark beard, severe eyes, and wears the same green kilt that Robert and Magnus wear.

I swallow, calming my racing pulse.

I will get out of this. I will survive.

I survived my mother’s illness, and the beatings from the High Priest. I came with Callum to the Northlands in search of my freedom.

I will find it.

But I must pick my moment. I must play this game, and accept my role in it. Until the opportune moment comes for me to make a move.

I nod. “Very well. Wait outside, please.”

“Bathe. Now.”

Does he really expect me to undress in front of him?

“Are you aware of the choice your king has presented to me?” I ask.

“Aye.”

I remember what Blake said to his friend when I awoke in the cell.

He’s territorial. It works in our favor. Was he talking about James?

“Then you know he has offered me a betrothal.” I raise my chin. “Do you think he will be pleased to find out you have watched his potential future wife undress?”

He clenches his jaw and glares at me. “You have five minutes. And if I can smell the Highfell Wolf on you when I come back, I’ll bathe you again myself.”

He turns on his heel and walks out of the room, slamming the door behind him.

I release a breath and it plumes in front of me in the darkness.

I rub my sore and aching wrists. The skin is red and raw from the handcuffs.

Untangling the ball of nerves in the pit of my stomach, I scour my surroundings for anything that might be of use. The room is decaying and barren. There is no poker by the fire, no weapons in sight. One of the armchairs is covered with a tattered sheet. There’s a layer of dust on the floorboards.

I walk to the window.

Even if it were not fastened shut with bars across it, I would not be able to escape through it.

Outside, against a backdrop of shadowy mountains, Wolves are gathering with their horses. There must be about one hundred of them. Their voices seep through the thin glass, low and excitable. Men preparing for war.

The night sky above them is lit by the moon. Although not full, it is brighter than usual. It is as if the Moon Goddess herself has come forth to watch the events of this evening unfold. It is a good job she is locked away in Night’s prison, because surely her favor would fall upon the Wolf King—not the princess of a kingdom that worships the Sun.

I turn away from the freedom that taunts me, and walk to the bucket in the corner. I strip off my damp shirt and breeches.

The water is ice-cold, but the anger burning in my soul keeps me from shuddering as I lather up the soap and wash myself. As I do, I’m aware that I’m washing away all trace of Callum’s touch. It fills me with a profound sadness.