Page 155 of Hunt Me

“Get us immediate care for the wounded and assistance with burial. Also, compensate the villagers.”

“I will see to this. Are you okay?”

Matilda surveyed their bloodied surroundings and shook her head. “I don’t think I will ever be okay.”

57

Swine

Luka paced anxiously, boots striking the floor as Denalia rested peacefully in her bassinet, ignorant of the magnitude of the atrocities her young eyes had witnessed. Matilda had yet to return, and with each pivot, the ache in the pit of his stomach grew.

He felt helpless.

Then, when he fled with their child, abandoning his queen to face Prince Lykaon alone, and now because her fate was unknown.

He sat in an armchair near the window and peered into the distance. His foot tapped repeatedly, and his jaw tightened with each passing second. His heart… it raced, feeling like galloping hooves in his chest. His fingers curled over the armrests, and his nails dug into the wood until one of them broke. He’d barely registered the pain of the nail tearing from the nail bed.

Commotion outside drew his attention to the courtyard beyond the window.

He nearly collapsed with relief from the sight of Matilda easing off Obsidian. She appeared unharmed.

Luka’s hand found the stone ledge beneath the window, gripping it as the unbearable tightness in his chest finally loosened. For hours, his mind had tormented him with every possible fate that could have befallen her after he’d left. He did what he had to do to protect their child, but every instinct screamed at him to turn back.

Matilda handed Obsidian’s reins to a waiting stable hand before consulting with Ezra. She gestured toward the castle as she spoke, and his advisor nodded attentively. Luka found himself staring.

There was something undeniably regal about her, yet she resembled no queen he had ever known.

She wasn’t wearing a jeweled gown sweeping across the earth behind her, or delicate slippers on her feet. Her hair wasn’t in an elaborate arrangement of curls adorned with an ornate crown, or rings on her fingers dripping with precious stones. Matilda wore fitted leather britches and tall boots muddied from travel, a dark tunic clinched at her waist beneath a heavy cape that shifted from the blustery winds.

Her curls had long since escaped the braid she’d worn. From there, he could tell the earlier events had made her weary, but she still looked every bit a queen—perhaps more so.

Her appearance held a femininity, yet nothing about her seemed fragile. She looked every bit capable of walking into a throne room or onto a battlefield without changing so much as her boots.

Luka’s mouth curved into an approving smile. Centuries of queens had been taught to look majestic while sitting beside kings. Matilda looked majestic giving orders in a muddy courtyard.

Something warm expanded beneath his ribs… pride.

Matilda had faced a prince alone and returned home to him and their child.

As though sensing his stare, Matilda suddenly looked toward the castle. Their eyes met through the window, and her stern expression melted into a soft smile.

Luka’s own smile snapped into a frown when she playfully gave him her middle finger. His fingers tightened around the stone ledge.

“The woman is an asshole. Leave it to her to ruin the moment.”

Whatever frustration he felt fled as soon as she entered their private quarters, bringing with her the smell of dirt, blood, and death.

Without thought, she stood over the bassinet and stared at Denalia.

Luka recognized the look on her face. It was one he’d worn himself many times—shame and regret—something that often came with the title.

He approached cautiously.

“Shall I have the servants prepare a bath?” he whispered.

She responded without taking her eyes off Denalia.

“I was right when I called vampires soulless monsters.”