Page 90 of The Lure of Wolves and Whispers

“Iwas.” I’m not sure what he’s insinuating, but it makes the hairs bristle up the back of my neck. “Because of a testyouforced me into.”

Green eyes darken. “What have you told him, Maeve?”

The way he says my name is equal parts dire and raw.

“I haven’t said a damn thing.” I fight to keep my voice level.

He’s accusing me of betrayinghimwhen he and the rest of the Whisperers are keeping the truth about magic from everyone? He could’ve told me the truth in that temple. And he chose to let me keep believing the lie. But one hint of a raised voice, and those gardai outside could come running in. “How about we start with how the fuck you keep sneaking in here,” I hiss.

He prowls forward, face hardening with dark resolve.

His grim expression leaves no room in me for doubt—and neither does the tight, resigned grip of his scarred knuckles as he draws a dagger from his side and positions himself between me and the table where mine are spread out.

What did Talon say about the peasant girl in the dungeons? She was anecessary sacrifice.

If Wolf thinks I’ve put the Whisperers in jeopardy, I’ll be next.

Even if it’s not by his hand, there’s no doubt in my heart that the mage Fang would kill me, a loose end in their plotting, for lesser faults than betrayal.

Wolf steps so close I can see every flit of the thoughts behind his eyes, even if I can’t decipher them all. But there’s conflict, clear as a fresh dawn—hurt too. And ruthless, aching determination.

I still instantly.

“How about we start,” he says, voice low, “with you telling me what you’ve let slip.”

A lock clicks, and Wolf shifts in a blur of black leather, one arm snaking tight around my chest.

Metal settles on wood, and the smell of eggs and butter fills the room.

Cashel sets the tray on a table beside the door and shuts it without a word.

He doesn’t call for the gardai.

He doesn’t draw his broadsword.

I hear the catch of Wolf’s breath and the hammer of his heart suddenly racing against the bare skin of my shoulder as their eyes lock on each other.

Cashel raises both hands and steps toward us as his mouth twists into a dangerous, knowing curve. “I was wondering how long it would take you to come for her.”

The air itself crackles.

I can taste the hair-raising charge, like lightning on the verge of exploding, electrifying the distance between the two of them—and then there’s me, caught right in the middle.

The hard lines of Wolf’s chest go stiff as a board at my back, and the knife he holds so tight in the hand across my chest slips, nearing the skin of my neck.

I hear the hard drag of breath in his throat, like he’s warring for self-control as his hand pulls me in closer against him, angling the knife precious inches away from my throat. My muscles lock in place.

“Wolf,” I whisper, as softly as I can. There’s a rough, strangely protective weight to his arm across my chest, and a wild thrum to his heart hammering in his chest against my back as he keeps his eyes locked on Cashel.

I feel Wolf twitch, like he’s wrestling with himself. His arm tightens around me again, as if Cashel is the danger right now.“You,”Wolf snarls at him.

Hate as black and thick as grease slicking the pikes of the Black Quay radiates in furious heat from every inch of his skin.

Cashel strides forward, leaving the tray by the door, unsheathing the sword at his side. His eyes flash with recognition—no, not just recognition butsatisfaction. As if Wolf has stepped exactly where the prince wanted him to all along. “It’s brave of you to come back here. My father made sure every gardai has a sketch of you, so they know who to kill on sight.”

I go cold.

“You never could turn down a chance to kick a hornet’s nest.” The prince’s tone turns taunting. “Even when we were boys.”