Page 91 of The Lure of Wolves and Whispers

What the—?

“Some nests need a good kick.” Menace drenches every one of Wolf’s words. “Others deserve to bescorched.”

He shifts his grip on me and levels his blade at the prince.

With the arm he’d used to hold me to his chest, Wolf grips my bare shoulder and twists me behind his back, putting himself between me and Cashel. My balance shifts, and I stumble: a combination of hunger, weakness, and the dull, stubborn pain from the poison.

“Get your clothes on.” The command in Wolf’s words is steel.“Now.”

Neither of them takes their eyes off the other for even a second.

Their focus on each other gives me a modicum of privacy, at least. My things are strewn all over the bed and the table at the edge of the wall, mixed in with washcloths and towels and blankets. After a long moment, I find what I need and struggle into my leathers, fighting to keep my balance as they cling to mystill-damp skin. My chest band and tunic follow—except it’s not my tunic at all. This one’s about three sizes too big and smells faintly of warm spice.

It’s too late to grab another. I hoist my belt around the waist and let it swim over me.

“And your knives. Every fucking one of them.” Wolf jerks his head to the table but never breaks his glare on Cashel.

“Keep your voice down,” I snap, and shove the blades into their sheaths. “You know there’s a dozen gardai outside that door?”

“None of them will come until I call,” Cashel says with easy arrogance.

“And how long will it take you to run to them this time?” Wolf tilts his head. “If I recall, last time was, what—all of an hour after I tried to save your fucking neck?”

“Not even that.” Cashel’s eyes turn to storm clouds as his fingers tighten on the hilt of his broadsword. “And I’d do it again rather than be your mother’s hostage. She hadnoright—”

“She had every right. Your father let her sister die, then married the woman who killed her.” A vicious gleam scorches in Wolf’s eyes.

My stomach pitches. They’recousins? The connections click into place in my head. That would mean Wolf’s aunt was the High King’s first wife… and Cash’smother.

“Or were you actually stupid enough to believe your father’s lies about…” A mocking smirk twists Wolf’s features. “What was the excuse—afever? One even the Martyr couldn’t heal?”

Aoife’s words from the baths come rushing back to me.

Two noble families were caught scheming in the uprising five years ago. A whole family was wiped out after the prince discoveredtheir plotting and told his father, Aoife had said to me in the baths. That’s why people call Cashel the Bloody Prince.

In Quayside, we always heard that he had wiped out the family of his closest friend over an insult, and my mind races, fitting the pieces together.

No.Wolf would never risk—

My breath freezes in my chest as a horrible realization slams into me. Who would be closer friends than two boys growing up in the same dangerous court? Two boys who shareblood—who would taste betrayal as the worst kind of insult imaginable?

My eyes fly to Cashel just as he lunges, sword arcing down for the crown of Wolf’s head.

Both my hands clamp over my mouth, muffling my choking scream.

But thank the Old Ones, Wolf is fast. I knew it from the night we struck our bargain, but that speed was nothing compared to this. He ducks and dodges a brutal slash from Cashel’s heavy sword and slams the fist not gripping his dagger into the prince’s jaw.

I hear the crack as Cashel staggers backward.

“It was poison.” Wolf positions himself again, bracing for another strike, loathing burning in his eyes. “And you know exactly who gave it to her.”

Cashel lunges, faster this time. The room is large, but the way it’s laid out, it’s not big enough for wielding a broadsword—and the satisfaction in Wolf’s eyes makes it abundantly clear he knows that too. Focus burns in his glare, like he’s waging a battle inside himself with every quick, controlled movement. He ducks a slower, heavy slash of Cashel’s sword easily to reach out and slice the tip of his dagger deep into the prince’s upper sword arm.

“Fuck!” Cashel drops the sword, and it clatters on the marble.

“Your Highness?” A rough fist pounds on the door—and my heart stops.

Wolf freezes, and for the first time, a flash of fear brightens his green eyes. Mine fly to the telltale crimson staining the elbow of Cashel’s velvet tunic.