The Wolf King (Wolf King, #1)

by Lauren Palphreyman

“So you’re not going to protect me?” “Oh, I would protect you from the Wolves outside these doors. But if you’re going to do something reckless, it’s me you’ll have to contend with.”

I feel as if he’s just doused me with cold water. “You’re threatening me?” “Aye,” he says. Though I’ve seen him threaten people before—with his muscles hard, and his posture dominant—and he doesn’t look like that now. He looks relaxed, his expression soft, a playful glint in his green eyes.

Hehehe

“Is that how you became the big, strong alpha?” I demand. “Threatening women you kidnapped?” “Not quite.”

A slow smile spreads across his face. “What kind of gentleman are you?” I demand. “I’m not a gentleman, remember? I’m a wolf.”

He rises from his seat, and his body swamps mine. I have to tilt my head back to meet his gaze.

Hot

He steps forward and his chest bumps into mine. I stumble onto the bed, quickly pushing myself upright. My hands sink into the soft downy quilt. His chest is right in front of my face. One of his buttons must have torn off in the siege, and I catch a glimpse of the skin and toned muscle beneath his shirt.

“Is this how you get your way? By pushing people around?” I ask. “It’s one of my methods of persuasion, aye.” He crouches in front of me, placing one of his knees on the tartan rug. “I don’t usually have to work so hard to get someone to do something. You’re very stubborn, aren’t you?”

Ahhh hes such a flirt!!

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’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.

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!”

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.

“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.

What does that mean??

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.

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.

shut my eyes, my breath hitching. “I know you’re awake, Princess. Your heart is hammering.”

“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 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.”

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.

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

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.”

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. The air smells like ale and woodsmoke and roast venison.

Beside me, Callum grabs a plate and starts piling it with food—potatoes, roasted turnips, venison, thick meat gravy, and blackberry sauce. He places it before me, then helps himself to a plate.

“Where’s Blake?” I ask. “No idea. Whenever he crawls out from wherever he’s lurking right now, he’ll come sit at this table too.” My eyebrows raise. “He’s an alpha?”

“Ah. There he is.” Blake stands in the doorway. Like earlier, he’s dressed in dark breeches rather than a kilt, and wears a black shirt that is perfectly fitted to his hard chest and torso. His hair is dark, and a couple of errant strands curl against his forehead. He scans the Great Hall, a bored look on his face.

When his eyes lock onto mine, a wicked smile spreads across his face. He heads toward us.

Many of the men in this Great Hall remind me of beasts. But there’s something different about the dark-haired male who prowls toward us.

It’s not just that he wears breeches instead of a kilt. It’s the calculated disinterest on his face, and the fluid way he moves. He reminds me more of a cat than a wolf.

He’s almost as tall as Callum, though not as muscular. He looks like he’s in his early twenties like Callum, too. I catch his scent of shadows and pine—like a forest at night.

A slow smile spreads across Blake’s face, and dimples puncture his cheeks.

While Callum’s voice is low and rough, Blake’s is smooth like silk.

“I’m not a pet,” I say quietly. Blake meets my eyes and smirks.

While it’s difficult to imagine anyone could turn into a wolf, the people at the feast move, and shout, and dance, as though no sense of propriety binds them. A fight has broken out by the entrance, and a man and a woman are kissing against the far wall. I watch, fascinated, as I eat.

I count six different clan colors running through the hall—two different blues, a yellow, two greens, and the red that Callum wears. That means the Wolf King, whoever he is, must have united six clans. Perhaps seven. Blake, dressed all in black, is certainly set apart from the rest, and I wonder if his people are elsewhere.

When we reach the door Blake went through, Callum puts a hand flat on my stomach and I still. His warm breath tickles my ear. “Just to warn you, Wolves tend to use this room on nights such as this when they want a bit of. . . privacy.”

Blake watches our almost imperceptible struggle, his dark eyes glinting. He leans forward. “Caught yourself a little rabbit, have you, Callum?” he says.

My mouth dries. Blake’s gaze pins me to the spot, while Callum’s thick arm holds me against his chest.

Before I can decide how to react, Blake takes my hand in his and presses his lips to my knuckles. I freeze. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, little rabbit,” he says.

“If the Wolves find out who she really is, they’ll tear her apart.” I frown. Must they speak about me as if I’m not even here?

“Are you asking for my help, Callum?” “Aye,” Callum grits out. “Say please.” Callum’s thighs tense beneath me, and I can feel the restraint in his chest. If he launches himself at Blake like I sense he wants to, we’re going to be in trouble. “Please,” I say, giving him a hard look.

He turns his attention back to Callum. “And you can put your rabbit in a hutch for safekeeping. The chambers in the western tower are empty—” “She stays with me,” says Callum.

Blake puts his glass down on the table. In a sudden movement, he reaches for me. Callum grabs his wrist, stopping him. I’m jolted forward. “Look at you,” says Blake. “You’re like a dog guarding his favorite chew toy. What happens when you decide you want to play with it?” “She’s my prisoner,” says Callum.

“Fine. Prove it. Make her do something.” His lips curve into a smile. “Tell her to come and sit with me.” “That is not—” I splutter. “The day I feel the need to prove myself to you is the day I relinquish my title as alpha of Highfell,” says Callum.

“Only weak men feel the need to assert their dominance.” “For once, you and I agree on something,” says Blake. “Others do not. You need to play the game sometimes, Callum.”

“And you should take a break from the game every once in a while, Blake. There are more important things than power.” Blake’s gaze falls onto me for a moment, before a slow smile spreads across his face. “Not for me,” he says.

This morning, I’m not the king’s daughter, or Sebastian’s wife, or a princess with duties. I am just. . . me. A thrill surges through my body.

I’m pleasantly surprised by what I see. There is an array of dresses waiting for me. They’re all made from dark materials—black, greys, and navy blues. I skim my fingers along them, noting most are simple enough for me to put on without assistance, and all are well made. There’s an elegant black dress in particular that catches my eye—made

“What is this?” I ask. “It’s. . . erm . . . a necklace.” Callum rubs the back of his neck. I take it out of the box. The length is short. This is not a necklace. It’s a collar. He has the good grace to look a little sheepish.

“It’s an old tradition.” Callum clears his throat. “When an alpha is in an. . . intimate relationship. . . they can ask their partner to wear one of these. It signals to the rest of the pack that they’re spoken for.” He swallows, and his jawline hardens. His eyes smolder with intensity. “If you wear this, it signals that you’re mine.”

Ooop