Page 69 of The Lure of Wolves and Whispers

The scars across the backs of his hands have their own shadows in the flickering light, but there’s little more than calluses on those long fingers. One simple silver ring, worn on his pinkie, but nothing like the heavy jewels Prince Cashel wears.

After a beat of silence, he speaks again. “You haven’t killed the king yet.” Wolf’s eyes flicker over my face.

There’s an easy arrogance in his tone, but the set of his jaw betrays him.

Would something happen to him if I fail?

It shouldn’t matter to me. One hand finds the hilt of one of the knives at my waist, and I meet his guarded eyes.

“It’s kind of hard when there’s an entire entourage outside his rooms day and night.”

The muscle along his cheek ticks. Like he’s fighting with himself. “Not anymore.”

Not rolling my eyes is a battle. I win—mostly. “You expect me to believe you just… what?” I gesture with my fingers. “Waved your hand and cleared them all out? If that’s why you want me down here—”

“I want you here,” he says, lethally soft and quiet despite the hallowed emptiness of this ancient space, “because those maps I gave you are useless now for killing the king.”

How is silence so damn loud? Neither of us moves for a heartbeat, but the race of my pulse is a hammer in my ears. “What do you mean?”

Wariness darkens the green of his gaze. Wolf wavers, hands stroking down the hilts of the knives strapped at his sides, jaw gritting. Old Ones, it’s as if he thinks he’s handing me the keys to the Whisperers’ doom by answering a fucking question.

“We didn’t clear the crowds away from his chambers,” he finally says in that dangerously low voice. “The High King’s been… relocated.”

Cold dread trails up my shoulders. “Relocated?” That doesn’t make any sense. “Where?”

And why?

His mouth is a tight slash of frustration. “We’re not sure yet. As far as Talon’s been able to gather, a small group of gardai moved him late last night. Only those gardai and the High Queen know where he is now.”

Both hands press against my eyes until I see stars. Even if I hadn’t landed on a plan yet, all those hours of poring over maps and thinking about how I might be able to get in and kill the High King was for nothing if we don’t even know where he is.

“Fuck.”

Wolf’s eyes flash to mine. The shadows in them waver. “For once we agree.”

The moment stretches out between us like a bridge, fragile and taut. And even though part of me is inexplicably afraid of shattering it, there’s one question that’s stuck with me ever since he found me before the First Look.

And if I don’t ask now, I’ll regret it.

“Are the Whisperers burning harvests in the north?”

Wolf’s expression goes carefully, maddeningly blank. He tilts his head, then steps forward to close the space between us, blackcloak rippling behind him. “Now, what would give youthatidea?”

Damn it, he smells good. Leather and smoke and sweet, woodsy sage. Scents that draw to mind not the prospect of safety—but of escape and release.

“I know someone is.” Fighting to keep my breathing steady, I inch back again from him.

Wolf matches each step of my retreat with a slow, wary advance of his own, not stopping even when I draw one of his knives from its sheath at my side.

“Noble daughters talk.” I shrug, as if the closeness of him doesn’t have my heart racing. “Especially ones trying to make alliances with others who can’t feed their people.”

Those dark green eyes ensnare mine. The scar on Wolf’s jaw twitches as the muscle there tightens.

Old Ones, what leaves a scar like that? For reasons I refuse to think about, my fingers itch to ghost along the lines of it. As if just one touch would reveal something and fit the jagged pieces of him together a tiny bit more neatly.

Wolf leans in an inch closer, so the tip of my knife meets the supple leather at the top of his thigh. He’s testing me—seeing if I’ll actually bite.

One inch is all it takes, and my knife shifts just enough toward what I have to imagine is one of his favorite body parts to make him hiss.