Page 19 of The Dead Queen

He smiles, welcoming the challenge. “I know that you’d rather read histories than fairy tales, even though your life looks like one.”

My breath catches in my throat, but I say nothing. Did he watch me in the library? The thought sends a chill down my spine.

When he’s only a few feet away from me, I shift, keeping my back to the hidden exit in case I need to run.

“I know that you had a very special bond with someone who was taken away too soon.”

I just glare at him.

“I know that she’s the one who gave you that pretty knife.”

My limbs grow cold.

We stare at each other for a long moment, but he breaks first. His eyes flicker toward the window, assessing if he could make it there in time.

It’s all the opening I need. I run toward the window and slam it closed, then hold up my knife again. “What do you know of my grandmother?”

His expression changes, softens slightly. “Nothing I can say.”

I rush toward him, pointing my knife at his chest. He doesn’t even flinch, like he’s unafraid of a little girl with a little knife. What he doesn’t know is that I have a lifetime’s worth of anger inside of me. And that is far more dangerous than the blade.

“Tell me,” I growl. It’s a threat, and he knows it.

“Don’t push me,” he says quietly. “I don’t want to use this.”

I’m not sure what he means until I notice something. His hands. They’re held up for what I thought was self-defense. I was wrong.

A dark mist swirls around his palms.

I take several hurried steps back, my eyes wide. I’ve never seen shadow power before, but there’s no mistaking it. Where my power appears as a golden light, his is dark. Threatening.

“You want to kill me?” I ask.

“No.”

“Hurt me?”

“I don’t want to.”

Fury ignites inside of me. This man is a Wolf, one of the Dead Queen’s most powerful knights. The Wolves of Annwyn lead enemy fighters at the border. They’re nobles who wield the most lethal shadow power. They kill for the thrill of it. My mind spins with memories of the mangled bodies brought back from the borderlands. The corpse wolves in the forest. The centuries-long war with no end in sight. My grandmother’s death.

I hate this man.

I rush at him, my knife slashing at his pretty face. He narrowly avoids me, his eyes widening in momentary surprise. I lunge for him again, but this time, he’s prepared. He grabs me from behind, wrenching the knife out of my hands.

“You’re one of them,” I hiss. “One of the Dead Queen’s Wolves.” The mask he wore at the ball lies on the floor near the window. How did I not suspect? Our enemy was hiding in plain sight.

“Yes.”

“Your people killed my grandmother!” Hot tears of anger sting my eyes.

“Yes,” he says again, less forcefully.

He releases me and I spin around. The Wolf stares at me with a curious expression on his face. It’s almost like he’s sorry. But his regret means nothing to me. We face each other at a standoff for several long moments. Me, in front of the window. Him, alight by the fire.

“Tell me,” I plead. This stranger knows more about my grandmother’s death than I do. I’m at his mercy. And it sickens me.

He swallows, hard. “I can’t.”