The Wolf King (Wolf King, #1)

by Lauren Palphreyman

Dog fights are barbaric. They say the fighters in the ring revel in violence. They say the wolf inside them is always looking for a release. Even on nights like tonight when the moon is not full and they look like men.

And don’t they deserve violence for what they have done to our lands?

Thinking of what lies beyond these stone walls makes me want to rip off this dress, and escape this castle. I want to tear through the untamed grass and feel the wild dandelions between my toes. I want to smell the pine trees, and hear the wind howling through the mountains.

It doesn’t matter how many lords I have sweet-talked on his behalf, or how many balls I have attended to serve as a pretty distraction while he makes his plans for the war.

It doesn’t matter that I agreed to this marriage to strengthen his kingdom.

I try not to recoil. I will my body to be a statue, a vessel for the soul within. I allow my mind to glide across those wild mountains, even though I can never go there myself. Even though I will always be a prisoner to castle walls, and a woman’s body.

A prisoner. Or a prize. That is all I have ever been. I will be both when I am wed to the lord in exchange for his continued allegiance to my father.

“People throughout the Borderlands learn the names of the top fighters. And those who win their matches tonight will be moved to the more spacious kennels and fed a good supper. Concubines will tend to them too, to help them release their wolf in different ways.”

I

watch the muscular, shirtless forms in the ring, snarling and bloody. There is certainly cause to be wary around Wolves. And yet, as I look at the murderous eyes of the crowd, the coin passing hands, and the way my father’s lip quirks as one of the warriors is pummeled to the ground, I wonder if all men are monsters deep down.

I think I would prefer someone who looked like a monster to one who was adept at hiding it.

One of the Wolves tears out the other’s throat. He grins, and crimson spills down his chin. Nausea rises within me but Lord Sebastian merely smiles and claps as though he is watching a theatrical performance.

I’m putting my beaker back down on the table when silence falls. It is followed by an excited murmur as two more males—two more Wolves—enter the ring.

My attention is first taken by the one in front. He is young. Too young for this kind of violence, wolf or not. He must be sixteen at most—four years my junior. His coppery hair sticks up in tufts as if he’s been frantically running his hands through it. There is fear and sadness etched into his expression, yet his jaw is set.

“It took five men to bring the big one in,” Lord Sebastian tells my father. “He killed three of them. He doesn’t talk much, but we think he’s one of the alphas—possibly from the Highfell Clan. Quite a specimen, isn’t he?”

The larger male is the epitome of the wild and rugged mountains where he must have come from. He is tall, with a strong jawline, and his muscular body looks like it is carved from rock. His unkempt hair is dirty-blond, almost the color of straw, and it’s shorn closely to his head at the sides in a style I have never seen in the south.

The alpha looks at me. And those eyes. . . they’re the dark green of the forest, and they brim with hatred. No one has looked at me like that before. My mouth dries as we stare at one another. And yet, my soul stirs.

The alpha stares at me, his jawline hard. He is still as stone, but there is violence in his eyes. I will myself to be that statue again, to be that vessel for my soul, and I look right back at him even though my heartbeat skitters.

“Begin.” A muscle feathers in the alpha’s jaw.

Courage, I will him, remembering that my mother said the same to me once. Have courage, little one.

He roars—loud and wild—a war cry that ricochets off the stone walls of the hall.

The young one looks into my eyes rather than at the monster on top of him. And I cannot bear it. This is not right. “Stop!” I jump to my feet. The alpha stills. The crowd quiets. Sebastian looks at me, eyes narrowed, while a muscle tightens in my father’s jaw.

My breathing quickens. I shouldn’t have said anything. I am a woman. A statue. It is not my place.

I know these men are not human—even though they look it. I know that, being from the south, I’ve not had to face constant attacks from the Wolves like the north have.

I have played pretend all of my life. I have smiled when my heart was breaking, I have laughed when I have been disgusted. I have swallowed my rage when a lord has been handsy with me on the dancefloor at a ball.

Tomorrow I will be the lady of this castle. Yet I have no power.

I have no power to take my leave of this place—to breathe in the scent of heather and fern, to bathe in bubbling brooks, or drink in local taverns. I have no power to speak to whom I choose, or form friendships, or to fall in love.

He stands up and leans against the bars between the two cells, dangling his big arms through the gaps. It’s cold in here, and even though he is dressed in nothing but a kilt, his body heat washes over me.

“You’re brave to come here,” he says. On my knees and in my nightgown, he seems even more imposing than he did when he was causing havoc in the ring. Even with the bars between us. My jaw sets. “I’ve faced worse monsters than you.”

I’m not sure if it’s a trick of the torchlight flickering across his face, but I think the corner of his lip twitches.

“My people say those with red hair have fire in their souls,” says the alpha. I glare over my shoulder. My mouth dries at the intensity in his gaze, and I swallow. “I don’t.”

At my full height, my eyes align with his shoulders and I have to tilt back my head to glare up at him.

“Look at him. He’s just a boy. . . and you. . . you did that to him. You’re a bully. And a monster. And a bloody horrible brute.” This time, I’m sure the corner of his lip quirks. “No fire in your soul, huh?”

“So! You destroy our lands, steal from us, do your experiments on us, kill us, imprison us, and still you don’t know a damn thing about us.” He shakes his head, and sighs. “We’re from the same clan. He’s one of mine. The wee shite’s called Ryan.” He glares at the boy. “And if he doesn’t get his arse over here, then he won’t be coming with me when I leave.”

“I hardly think you’re going anywhere anytime soon.” He shifts, folding his corded forearms through the bars. “No?”

My blood turns cold and the alpha smiles wickedly.

I look into his eyes, almost evergreen in the darkness. Again, I feel that strange tug on my soul. And for some strange reason I believe him.

“Good lass,” says the alpha. Something heats inside me. Who does he think he is, speaking to me like that? He is a prisoner, someone from the wolf clans no less, and I’m daughter of the king.

“You don’t like being told what to do,” observes the alpha. “No one likes to be told what to do.” “Some people like it.” I can hear the smirk in his tone and I look up at him, confused. He shakes his head.

The shadows tighten around me, bind me. I can’t move. I can’t breathe. I am trapped. A prisoner. I’m always a prisoner. I cannot escape this.

“Princess,” the alpha barks. “Look at me.”

“That’s it. Keep your eyes on me.” He’s crouching down so he’s almost at my level, big hands curling around the bars between us. I don’t know when he moved. “Deep breaths.” I do as he says, and some of the tightening of my chest loosens.

He studies my face, and I study his. He is younger than I first thought. Beyond the warrior physique, the layers of grime, and unkempt hair, there is brightness in his eyes and a youthful glow to his skin. I think he may be in his mid-twenties at most.

The alpha stalks across his cell as I pass, his eyes dark. I’m only a few paces away when he says something. I halt. “What?” For a moment, all I can hear is the horrible panting sound from the next cell. “He won’t touch you,” says the alpha—his voice barely audible. “Who?” “Sebastian. He won’t touch you.” His tone is so dark, so certain. I turn to face him—raising my head to meet his gaze. “He is to be my husband,” I say softly. Again, I am reminded of the rugged mountains when I look at him. His stance is dominant, powerful, and his face could be carved from rock. His eyes, though. . . those eyes. . . something that looks like remorse, or regret, passes over them. “No,” he says, his voice equally quiet. “No, he isn’t.”

Oooop

And yet. . . as the alpha stares at me, something stirs

I was trained to be beautiful and silent and obedient. I forged a prison for my wild and angry soul and I waited for the day to come when I was to be wed.

Tomorrow I will wed a man who makes Wolves fight as if they are dogs. Who threatened to take me like a mutt. Whose leery eyes make my skin crawl. A man who I do not know, I do not love.

He won’t touch you. The alpha’s promise resounds in my mind. I should tell someone what he said.

And all the while, I’m trapped inside myself. Screaming. But my lungs are stone and my lips are hard and my mouth tastes like old cemeteries. So no one hears me, no one cares.

“Get. Out,” I hiss. Magnus chuckles. “Come on, sweetheart. There’s no need to be like—” The door to my room swings open. “Out.” A low growl comes from the doorway. The three males stiffen.