“If the shoe fits.”
He takes a step toward me. Then another. “Esmerelda, I’m warning you. Don’t push me.”
“Why not? What are you going to do, Marcus? Lose your temper and kill me too?”
He doesn’t stop. Keeps coming until we’re standing toe-to-toe, breathing the same charged air. His presence hits like a storm front. My heart slams against my ribs, but I don’t move.
My wolf is coiled and ready, ears flat, tail stiff, eyes locked on his.
“I had no part in that,” Marcus growls, voice dark with fury. “And I had nothing to do with what happened to our families. But you?” His eyes burn into mine. “You were responsible for the assassination of two of my most experienced guides. You want to talk blame? Fine. Let’s talk blame.”
My hands curl into fists. Nails bite into my palms. We’re breathing fire and accusation into each other’s faces, both of us refusing to flinch.
The room is too quiet for what’s happening between us.
Then the doors swing open.
The council members return. “It has been confirmed. The wine was poisoned.”
A breath explodes out of me.
My wolf goes rigid.
Marcus flinches. Just slightly.
“The poison was activated by a single sip,” Thaloran continues. “We believe a spell was layered over it. Something fast-acting and old. Very old.”
“No,” Marcus whispers. “That can’t be. I drank the wine.”
Thaloran fixes his gaze on Marcus. “You what?”
“I drank the wine,” he repeats, louder this time. “I drank it.”
My voice cuts through the tension, quiet and sharp. “Convenient.”
Marcus paces, dragging a hand through his hair again. Another show. Another carefully acted scene.
He’s performing, and I hate that part of me—some dark, curious part—still watches him, trying to unravel the truth from the performance. That part is my wolf, too. Calculating. Sniffing for lies.
“Do you know if there was wolfsbane in the wine?” Marcus asks Eryndor.
“We’re still running tests to determine what was in the poison,” he replies. “We’ll return with results shortly.”
They leave, but I’m aware they know everything taking place in this room. I don’t care.
The moment the door shuts, I round on Marcus.
“Wolfsbane?” I demand. “If there was wolfsbane in the wine, you’d be on the floor, screaming. Don’t pretend you wouldn’t be affected.”
He shrugs. But his expression falters. A flicker. A flicker is all I need.
My wolf growls again. She knows that smell. That twitch. That’s the scent of a lie.
The pieces crash through my mind, tumbling over one another. He poured the wine. He was alone with it. That cry for help when I arrived was too loud, too desperate. And the herbs he insisted on using afterward? What if they weren’t to heal? What if they amplified the damage? Or masked the symptoms? Or something worse?
But then why help the investigation? Why stay here?
My wolf paces, confused. Torn between fury and something dangerously close to doubt. Or hope.
