“Me,” he replied simply as he turned us onto a narrow path. Barely visible beneath thick roots and fallen leaves.
“Why on earth would I be a danger to you?” I asked. I wanted to turn my head and see his expression, but his arms caged me in, keeping me in place.
“Your thoughts usually end with you doing things you shouldn’t,” the faint humour in his dry tone was the only sig he was joking.
“You make me sound like a feral animal,” I mused.
“A feral animal would be easier to manage,” he laughed. The sound filled the space between us. I had never heard him laugh so openly. I considered elbowing him, twitching my arm. Rhael shifted slightly, just enough to make it clear he was ready for it.
It was infuriating how easily he seemed to read me.
Eventually the forest began to thin. The land sloped upward, revealing a valley carved deep into the heart of their territory. The air changed, filling my nose with the smell of iron mixing with the pine of the forest.
The change in smell caused my pulse to quicken as a strange urge stirred in my blood. An almost overwhelming desire to leap from the horse and run into the forest.
“Do not move,” Rhael whispered, his voice brushing against my ear as he leant forward. “This is an enchantment to lure prey. Stay with me.”
His breath brushing against my neck did absolutely nothing to calm the strange pull flooding me. If anything, it made it worse.
“I’m fine,” I whispered, trying to force my mind to focus. Continually reminding myself that it was not real, it was magic twisting my instincts. Trying to make me follow my deepest urges instead of reason.
“Focus on me, it will make it easier for them to believe in the bond.” Rhael instructed, shifting forward until his back was pressed against my chest. Grounding me, kind of. I noticed how he kept his voice low, as if he was wary of someone listening.
My only response was to nod, unable to make my mind or mouth form words. Every inch of my body fighting against the urge to let go and give in.
The Lycanthyr pack house rose from the forest like a fortress carved from timber. Wolveswaited in front of the structure. Dozens of them. Some half shifted, their glowing eyes locked on our every movement. All of them were massive creatures. Some curled their lips into harsh snarls, whilst others just tilted their head as if considering their next move.
As we reached the stone spanning the front of the home, growls rippled through the crowd like thunder.
“Do not flinch,” Rhael instructed. His hand settled against my hip in a calculated display of affection. The performance had begun, so I played my part. I leant back into him, allowing my braid to fall over his shoulder, as though the gesture were natural.
The werewolves of Lycanthyr were not the same as told in children's stories. They did not shift into full wolves, losing their humanity to something entirely more animalistic.
Instead, they stood on two legs, their bodies more monstrous than a normal wolf would appear. Taking on shapes of muscle and fur, claws curling from their hands like blades. The hardest part was looking at their faces, long snouts grew outwards, brows became more defined and teeth lengthened as if they wanted to break free from their gums.
I could only hope their human forms did not look as terrifying. Although, it was said their human nature fuelled their wolf forms, so I was sure to be in for a warm welcome... Or not.
A man stepped forward as we reached the front of the pack house. Man was a polite way to describe him, he was a mountain wearing a human shape. Taller than anycreature I had ever seen, built like the war gods of myths. Broad shoulders, so thick with muscle that they could block out the sun.
His skin was tanned deeply, not the golden warmth of the fae courts but the rough weathered warmth of a man who spent his time beneath the sky.
Norse looking features carved his face, a straight proud nose, high cheekbones, paired with a strong jaw. A large, long beard tapered into a tie just below his chin. His hair was long and dark, shaved at the sides with the remainder braided back from his face, decorated with different clasps and cuffs.
It was the tattoos that marked him as a King. Dark runes spiralled over his forearms and shoulders. Inked into his skin like ancient magic stitched beneath flesh. Old, powerful and wild. Even without him shifting I could feel the command rolling off him.
“Rhael Sorenthis, what a surprise to see you crawling back to my home.” Magnus growled. The sound slid down my spine, Magnus was not King because he was clever at politics or secrets. He was King because no one alive could unseat him.
“Magnus, thank you for your welcome,” Rhael replied calmly without an ounce of discomfort.
I could feel him sit up straighter behind me. Even from the saddle I could feel the clash of power between them. Two kings, neither of them willing to bend, with my sorry arse stuck in the middle.
“I assume you have something you require. I would be foolish to expect this to be a social call.” Magnus asked with a slow, cruel smirk. His armscrossed over his chest. Large hands gripping his elbows, making his muscles bulge out of his shirt.
“I came to discuss threats which impact us both,” Rhael said as he dismounted the horse with effortless grace.
I watched, taking the reins, as he placed his body in between myself and Magnus; a clear power play, as he refused to bow to the Wolf King.
It was hard to imagine that either of these men had ever been friends. The air had turned cold and icy, and the tension became so thick I wasn’t sure that even a knife could break through it.
