“An omen!” Now the people are chanting, repeating my words. Fuck, this is freaking me out. Again, I glance to Hunter for help. Again, he looks away. Goddamnit.
My empathy for his extreme discomfort in this situation is being severely tested on account of myownfucking extreme discomfort in this situation.Please, help me.
A soft vibration rolls through me. Hunter is purring. He brings my hand to his mouth and presses a kiss on the back. “Mine,” he announces to the crowd. A couple villagers nudge each other with knowing smiles. A few women look like they’re going to swoon.
Hunter and I share a look, and my heart gives a little lurch of hope. Maybe wehavegot this. Together.
The naked desire mixed with admiration in his bronze-flecked eyes sends warmth through my entire body, and I turn back to face the crowd with a little more courage. His hand finds mine, his broad thumb rubbing circles in my palm.
That, combined with another heady waft of his scent, reminds me of what his thumb feels like in other places on my body, and I swallow hard, pushing the naughty thoughts away.
Concentrate, girl, I tell myself.You’ve got a kingdom to help run.
And that’s not a sentence I ever thought I’d hear myself think…
“Next petitioner?” Brokk calls out.
A group of worn-looking people in dusty clothes shuffle forward. The other better dressed villagers and courtiers give them wide berth. A soft growl rumbles deep in Hunter’s chest, too low for anyone but me to hear. He scoots to the edge of the throne, like he’s going to leap out at any moment. I’m not sure why. These people don’t look like threats. They look in need of a bath, new clothes, and a good meal.
A sour scent rises from the battered group. I swallow against my nausea.
The foremost petitioner is a white-skinned male in a grey-green tunic the color of mold. He releases the hand of a small, white-skinned child, and steps forward. “Please, your Majesty. We are refugees from the Stone Kingdom. We’ve come to beg your intervention in our country.”
Hunter’s stopped growling. He’s completely silent.
“Our country is ruined,” the refugee continues. “We are starving. There is no food, no more forest. The land is parched. It has become a desert. The king forces us to work in the mines. Even our children are enslaved—”
A Beta male in a purple robe steps forward. “Enough. We cannot intervene. The Stone Kingdom belongs to the king, to do with as he pleases.” He runs a hand down his beard. “Your kingdom is of the Stone King. His domain. To infringe upon it would be an act of war.”
“He is a usurper. We are the rightful occupants of the land. Have you forgotten how he attacked your kingdom?”
“That was never proven,” the councilor says, and turns his back on the refugee. “There must be peace between our kingdoms for ours to thrive,” he announces to us.
A new growl rumbles in Hunter's chest, like rich, rolling thunder.
Everyone in the room freezes.
I bite my lip. What am I supposed to say?
“Councilor Mikkan,” Brokk says, but the purple-robed courtier waves him off.
“Please.” The refugee ignores them both and steps closer to the throne, appealing straight to us. “The Stone King’s greed knows no bounds. Soon he will no longer be content with sucking the life out of his own country, and will come for yours. It is only a matter of time!”
The room erupts in protest. “Hear, hear,” someone shouts in the back, but several more villagers respond with cries of, “Nay!” Near the throne, rows of councilors murmur to each other. In the center of the hubbub, the grey-green garbed refugees stand quiet. The wan, deathly pale faces of the children are breaking my heart.
Someone jostles the refugee speaker, and Brokk steps in to protect him.
Hunter rises.
“My king.” Mikkan turns, his hands raised. His smooth voice carries well, and the people around him fall silent. He’s the one I heard outside the door—he summoned us to the audience. “You know that intervention is an impossibility. We cannot risk offending the Stone King.” He signals to several Alpha guards. “Remove these troublemakers from the palace.”
“No!” I want to shout, but it comes out a whisper. The noise of the crowd crashes over me. My chest seizes. I slump over, dizzy. I’m teetering on the edge of the throne when Hunter whirls, scoops me up, and strides from the audience chamber.
THIRTEEN
The Hunter King
After one dayin the palace—and the royal audience—I wish to leave and never return. Even Brokk’s voice grates on me and makes my head ache. I take my little lysia flower back to the forest for a short while.
