‘In that case …’ He sighed, lifting the cub, and inspecting him at great length. ‘How about Slasher?’
She pulled a face. ‘Slasher?’
‘Well,Skull-crusheris too long. It doesn’t quite roll off the tongue the same way.’
‘Skull-crusher is even worse!’ she cried. ‘It’s soviolent.’
He levelled her with a hard look. ‘What is it that you think we do here?’
‘We are not naming him Slasher,’ she said, sternly. ‘I refuse to call him that.’
‘Fine.’ He scrubbed a hand across his jaw. ‘How about Hatchet?’
‘Give me back the cub.’
‘No.’ He curled his body around the creature, burying his jaw in its scruff. She reached for the cub, and he lightly swatted her away, sending a delicious jolt up her arm. ‘I am the king.’
‘Well, I’m the wrangler, and I get final say.’
When he didn’t budge, she pretended to snatch at him, and this time, he caught her hand. His grip was warm and tight, and she felt it thrumming in every part of her.
‘You are very bossy,’ he said.
‘Thank you.’
She knew it wasn’t a compliment, but he was still holding her hand and staring at her just a little too long. He blinked, as if remembering himself, and let her hand fall.
He gestured to the cub on her lap. ‘What have you named that one? Enlighten me as to your creative genius.’
Greta beamed. ‘Boo.’
‘Boo?’ He nearly choked on the name. ‘Why?’
‘Because he’sbootiful,’ she said, earning an elaborate eye-roll. ‘Oh, come on, he’s adorable!’
‘He won’t always be adorable.’
‘Allbeasts are adorable in their own way,’ said Greta, in a tone that dared him to argue with her.
‘You’re very strange,’ he relented.
‘Thank you.’
That one felt like a compliment.
He hummed as he returned his attention to the cub. ‘Dash,’ he said, after a moment of intense consideration. ‘Will that do?’
Greta turned the name over. ‘Is it because he’s dashing?’
‘Just like his king.’
She snorted but gave no argument. He was right. Even in his filthy frock coat, with messy hair and scuffed boots, he was the most handsome man she had ever laid eyes on. She preferred him here in the dirt with a beast on his lap than in that opulent ballroom with all the noblefolk of Halgard eating out of his palm. There was something unrestrained about Alarik Felsing out here, something that felt truer than all the pomp and glamour that came with his title. ‘All right,’ she said. ‘Dash, it is.’
‘Very well.’
He fell silent then, a furrow appearing between his brows. Greta got the sense that he was working up to something. She could feel his stress, taut as a bowstring between them, and she wondered if it had been there all along, simmering underneath their conversation.
‘The weaver elk are dead.’
