Page 37 of The Fox Heir

I drop the quartz to the ground. It bounces off the mossy patch and lands with a soft clatter on a gravel path.

“That’s the thing about empires,” I say. “The bigger they are, the more trouble they cause. Just ask the old fae kings and queens.”

Tristan’s mouth twists in something that’s not quite a smile. “Tell that to your father.”

I hesitate, and he catches it. His eyes flick to mine, sharp and curious.

“I have,” I say earnestly. “Even before you came to Caerwen. I tried.”

The humor leaves his face. His jaw sets, and the light in his eyes darkens. “I know, Red.” His voice dips lower. “I know.”

Something within me stirs at that. Maybe it’s this courtyard with its haunting chimes and fractured mirrors, but my guard slips. He tricked me into coming to Annwyn. I haven’t forgotten that. Yet when he looks at me with those tortured eyes, I begin to understand him. His home is crumbling. His people are dying. And his queen believes I’m a weapon that can save them all. Maybe he does too.

As terrifying as it is, I’m beginning to wonder if they’re right.

Something sparks between us, sharp as flint to steel, and my skin prickles as if charged with lightning. My eyes linger on the Wolf. His dark hair falls across his eyes, and his hands are curled into fists at his sides, as though he’s holding back something dangerous.

And gods help me, I want to touch him. His gaze pins me with the strength of an oncoming tempest. I want to step into the storm I know will break me.

But I can’t. I can no longer deny that I want this Wolf, but there are too many secrets between us. Too much is at stake.

I am the Fox Heir. He is the Dead Queen’s Wolf.

Together, we would only end in ruin.

Chapter 13

I sit upright in bed long after the fire has burned to embers.

I’m waiting.

Outside the tall windows, wind rattles the glass in its panes like a beast begging to be released from its cage. Clouds drift across the crescent moon, drowning the chamber in shifting shadows. The darkness is all-consuming, making my ears strain for every creak and groan of the ancient castle. The cold presses in around me, oppressive and suffocating. No one is awake this late, in this cold. No one except me.

It’s well past midnight when I see her. The wraith appears at the foot of my bed as though she’s been there for hours, watching.

“No,” I say quietly.

Her hollow black eyes don’t move. Her pale dress floats up and around her like a current around a drowned body.

“I’m not going to follow you.” My arms fold over my chest. I will not play her games. They only lead to trouble.

The shadows around her eyes darken, and her fingers lengthen. She swipes at me with cracked fingernails. But I don’t flinch. I refuse to be intimidated by a dead girl made of mist.

“Go away.”

She lashes out again. This time, her nails slice a thin scratch across my cheek. I reach up and feel a warm trickle of blood. The sting only sharpens my defiance. I refuse to be bullied by the living; I certainly won’t be pushed around by the dead.

“You think you can intimidate me just to lure me into another trap?”

The wraith withdraws a step, dark hair stirring like smoke. Her gaze flicks sideways to the dressing table, to the silver moth knife glinting in the moonlight.

“What good is a knife against⁠—”

Before the words leave my mouth, the wraith grabs the knife. The blade glimmers in her pale hand for the span of a breath, then she slips out the door.

For a moment, I can only stare, stunned. I didn’t think ghosts could even hold objects, let alone steal one.

Panic jolts me upright. “Hey! Bring that back!”