Page 8 of Throne of the Wolf Queen

‘Matthias?’ There’s hurt in my tone. Fury and pain. Why won’t he join me? The sickening scrape echoes through my mind and I grip my head as Matthias jerks once more, as if tugged away by an invisible tether, his body turning, leaving me.

No. He can’t leave me. Not again. I cry his name over and over, but that noise, that damn scratching, drowns me out.

‘Matthias!’ My body cleaves as he turns to face me, tears coursing down his cheeks. His mouth works and I know he’s saying something, but that noise, I can’t hear him over that⁠—

‘The bower,’ he gasps and I nod, ready to run to our place, our secret, and meet him there. ‘Find the bower.’

I try to answer, but those claws are incessant, shaking the entire building. I’ll destroy them. Rip them from⁠—

Claws?

I cracked open one bleary eye, confusion roaring through my mind for a few aching heartbeats. Rough wool sheets stole my attention from the memory of my Matthias. My mind swam as I lifted my heavy head from the prickly pillows, before Pablo whined again.

‘Give me a moment,’ I said, clutching my head and peering at the room I’d lived in till I was fourteen. Till I’d fallen from the horse and with a thundering heart informed Romero my emerging gifts had been lost along with my sight. The pale sunlight splintered, slicing through the window where Matthias first tore out my heart.

Pablo’s whine was pained as I swung my gaze over to the door. I’d best let the wolf out. I had enough shit to deal with right now without the wolf quite literally adding to it. Pushing myself up, I forced myself to the door, opening it just a crack. I lay my hand on Pablo’s back as he pushed his snout through, sniffing. As desperate as he was to relieve himself, he’d not leave me alone if he thought another assassin lay in wait. After a moment, he turned his amber eyes to me, snorting and shoving the door wider. He flew through the moment it opened and I twisted the lock.

My forehead slipped forward, relishing the rough graze of the wood, and I exhaled a tattered breath. Today would be a mess of meetings, arguments, raised voices. A mess that demanded action as we faced the greatest threat of our time. I groaned into the door, knowing there were a million reasons to care, but failing to find a single fuck left to give within my shattered heart.

I dragged my hands through the tangles of my hair. Last night, I’d collapsed on my old bed after the attack, shut my eyes and pretended I wasn’t waiting for the familiar creak of the servants’ door – the sound I’d wait for every night when I’d still lived here. The sound of Matthias creeping into my room, a ready excuse on his lips, like something he’d forgotten to tell me. As a young child, he’d have done anything other than face up to the reality that he was scared or lonely, or that his heart ached with the loss of his family. Walking over to the corner, my fingers traced the outline of the door, my heart twisting as I realised Matthias would struggle to fit through now. No, I thought, grunting as I grabbed the oak dressing table, dragging it across; if anyone emerged from there now, they’d more than likely want to spill my blood.

I’d never see Matthias or his wide smile come through there again.

My husband had deliberately kept his tattoo secret. Deliberately avoided telling me what he’d done. He’d promised me. Promised me he wouldn’t. That he understood the risks of putting Vyrium into his body far outweighed the temporary benefits. If he’d told me, if only he’d been honest, we might have found a way to remove it before it was too late. Then I might be waking to the warmth of our tangled limbs instead of an empty bed.

Snatching up a grey gown, I threw it on. It was time to put all thoughts of Matthias aside till I saw him again – if I saw him again. The day demanded my attention, action. I slipped warm socks onto my feet and went to the bathroom to wash. Swallowing down the tears, I scrubbed myself raw.

Lord Elias, a tepid creature, Romero’s former advisor, pushed his glasses down his nose, watery eyes narrowing as I crossed my arms.

‘I’m afraid if Princess Enfys⁠—’

‘Queen,’ I corrected.

Did his nostrils flare, or was it a trick of my eyes?

‘If the queen has provided you with immunity from the charges of regicide, then Duke Lommond is immune too.’

‘The murdering bitch should have no say in how we deal with this situation.’ Danté stood against the arched lead window. I couldn’t see his expression, only his bulky silhouette against the stark light.

Asher stood with his hand on the hilt of his sword, but Skye and I placed our hands on his arms. As much as it pained me, we had to suffer Danté’s presence. I glared at the blurry form of the duke, saw how he raised the stubbled chin I’d enjoyed punching. For now, we held still. For the sake of the peace and unity we so desperately needed, let him preen and imagine he’d won. We’d need the force and might of not only Drufaera, but every guard from the fractured Alliance still standing in order to swipe away the Carushan army. Once we’d dealt with the empress, Danté was next on my revenge list.

‘Speak of my queen in those words again and I’ll⁠—’

‘She’s not a queen any more, though, is she?’

I groaned as we all turned from the huge circular table to peer at the throne, where Oskar, the child whose birth caused Mama’s death, sat. When I’d left Bronzehold eight years earlier, he’d been nothing but a babe, a furious ball of red, his clenched fist held tight against his screaming mouth.

He hadn’t changed much.

‘That bitch,’ he continued – I assumed his pointed finger was aimed at me – ‘hasn’t even got a country of her own any more. And that one’ – he turned to Enfys and his hand dropped over the side of the throne – ‘is only here as you’ve all decided I’m too small for the crown.’

Enfys sighed before smiling at the prince as he tried to settle his flailing feet on the floor.

‘I’m only here till you’re old enough, Oskar.’

‘I’m nearly nine,’ he mumbled.

‘And if we don’t come to a decision soon, you won’t have a bloody throne to sit on,’ I said, threading my fingers through Pablo’s fur. The boy had spent the first ten minutes complaining he didn’t have a wolf of his own.