Kit Wilding had quite the reputation. After all, he hadn’t been dubbed theWolf of Winterfor nothing. The man had led several branches of the king’s army into the Shadowlands twenty years ago, chasing out the powerful Folk who dwelled there, and rumor said his Skin was a white wolf the size of a horse. None of this impressed Nocturne—not the way it did the other members of this terrible army. Due to his remarkable skin-changing abilities, even those who would sooner stand with the rebels held Kit in high regard. But this knowledge only made Nocturne see him for what he truly was: a monster—and nothing more.
When the alpha spoke, his voice was so low, it nearly blew away in the breeze. “Back in line, fledgling,” he ordered, his breath puffing out before him in a swirling mist.
Nocturne raised her chin and met his eyes. Her hood fell back from the movement, exposing golden-brown skin and ebony hair that fell straight down her back. Her heart thumped with fright as she offered the general a cocky smile that bared all her teeth and growled,“No.”
A muscle feathered in Kit’s jaw, but Nocturne held her ground.
Although immortal blood coursed through the general’s veins, his youthful features suggested he was only several years her senior. But darkness swam in his eyes, and it spoke of pain and death. She might’ve thought him handsome if he’d smiled.
As she continued to glare at him, the general’s eyes narrowed. And when he spoke, Nocturne wasn’t sure if she was imagining that his voice was gruffer than usual. “I thought you should know your village has officially been taken off the map,” he said. “There were no survivors.”
Nocturne’s fierce expression vanished, her eye twitching as haunting memories flashed through her mind.
The neighbors screaming as their village went up in flames; the warmth of her sister’s tears on her fingers as they hid together in the bedroom closet; the brave faces her parents put on as the soldiers looted their house; how her heart jumped up her throat when the soldiers burst through the doors of the closet and dragged her sister out by her hair.
The skin-changers on either side of her—herpack, as they had the nerve to call themselves—had slaughtered her family and burned her village to the ground. And the general glaring down at her was responsible for that night. Had he not given the order, none of this would’ve happened.
Red glazed her vision as her eyes changed color from their natural sea-green, betraying the rage roaring through her veins.
Nocturne lunged for the general’s throat, but he moved blindingly fast. A strong hand came down hard on the back of her neck, and her feet were kicked out from under her.
She collided with the snow so hard the air rushed out of her lungs. The general was suddenly perched like a giant bat atop her back, pinning her in place, the knuckles of his right hand digging into the back of her head.
When the Wolf of Winter leaned down to whisper in her ear, a chill that had nothing to do with the cold shuddered through Nocturne’s body. “You’ve got some nerve for a girl who cannot claim a Skin.”
Nocturne made to reply, but something gave her pause.
She sensed, more than she saw, the general’s nostrils flare. His head suddenly snapped up, the snow beneath her shifting as his whole body tensed. With her head pinned beneath his hand, and her face half-buried in the snow, Nocturne barely managed to follow his gaze…
Three stallions stood nearby, their riders heavily armed and cloaked in black. In the amber glow of the deepening dusk, they were no more than shadows, but Nocturne would recognize these three anywhere. The one on the left was the Wraith, the one on the right the Leviathan. The shadow in the middle was the king, known by his allies as the King of the Fey. Those he considered enemies referred to him only as the Dark Lord.
The general pushed off Nocturne and stalked toward the king.
After a moment, Nocturne staggered to her feet and dusted the snow off her clothes. She couldn’t say for sure, but she thought her eyes might not be stinging from the wind, but from tears.
3
Don’t be afraid.Avalon silently repeated these three words to herself, again and again, as she stared at her reflection in the oval mirror.Don’t be afraid.But no matter how many times she told herself this, her hand continued to tremble as she ran the silver boar brush through her hair, each stroke slower than the last.
Her eyes flicked to the clock on the fireplace mantel. She was to meet her father in the ballroom for supper in less than half an hour. Somehow, she’d run out of time—yet every second seemed to crawl by. A part of her wanted another hour—another ten minutes, even—to mentally prepare, while the other part longed to get this over with.
As soon as she had made it to her rooms, her handmaidens had scrubbed the dirt from her skin and dressed her in a gown of silk and chiffon, the material a rich ocean hue. Avalon had dismissed them as soon as she was able, desperate to have these last few minutes to herself to calm her heart. To figure out how to stop her hands from shaking.
If supper went well, perhaps her father would request her presence again. Now that she was older, there might be a chance the two of them could find something in common—something other than the weather to talk about. But she would be lying if she said her father didn’t frighten her.
Shield her as he may from the many…mistakeshe made while away from their home in Hilsian, some still reached her ears from the careless mouths of servants and townsfolk. It had become far too easy for her to find out which village of innocents had been left in cinders, which town’s citizens had been sold into slavery, and which soldier had lost his tongue for speaking out of line.
These acts of cruelty were the reasons why Avalon found it impossible to relate to him—because she simply didn’t have it in her to turn the other cheek while innocents suffered. Especially not when the cause of such suffering was her very own father.
Avalon set the brush on the dressing table and braided her thick, coarse hair back into a single plait. Her fingers felt clumsy as she wound the strands over and under. When she was finished, she let her arms fall to her sides, took a deep breath, and lifted her gaze to her reflection.
“You are his daughter,” she said to herself. “You are the princess. Nothing is going to happen.”Nothing everdoeshappen,she amended. This small truth was more than a relief.
At worst, they would sit in awkward silence until it was considered polite to excuse oneself. At best, they would discuss the weather, which was cold and gray, and once that small bit of conversation had passed, the squeak of forks and knives scraping against plates would be the only sound. Simple—no reason to break a sweat over it.
Movement in the mirror caught her eye.
Avalon swiveled in her chair, her breath catching in her throat.
