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“What is it you want?” I clenched my fists at my sides.

“Vengeance,” Virki bit out through his teeth. “You will never know what your life has cost not only me, but every kingdom. You keep us in battles instead of greeting a brighter future.”

“I do not make the choices for greedy kings. If battles must be fought in their lust for power, that is on their shoulders.”

“Is that what you say to ease your own guilt? The Jorvans know you are now playing the role of a Draven royal. This was merely the beginning of their attempts to retrieve you.” The man leaned in, his voice low. “I for one cannot wait until you are placed exactly where you belong—Salur.”

I watched him stride away, unsettled and enraged, with a new determination to find the bones of the Wanderer. To rob these corrupted lands of the lust for more power. I could not wait to slit Fadey’s throat and prove to these wretched kingdoms that I was no threat to them.

If I could merely survive long enough to do it all.

—

“How did they know we’d wed?” I lay over the mattress, scratching behind the pup’s ears.

Roark, water still dripping down his bare chest from the hot baths, removed his belt and draped it over the back of a wooden chair instead of placing it in the wardrobe.

When he turned around, he frowned. The beast does not sleep on the bed.

I snorted and scratched the wolf even more until his long hind leg flicked like he might be chasing the same scratch.

“How can you say that? He saved me, Roark.” I kissed the wolf’s snout. “Don’t pretend like you’re not bonding with him. I see it.”

Roark slid over the bed and curled his arms around the sturdy, heavy body of the fara.

The wolf panted and wriggled, like he believed his new bonded might, at last, give him the attention he craved. Instead, Roark shoved the beast across the mattress to the foot of the bed.

He drew me into his arms and held out a palm when the pup tried to return to his place near the pillows. No, he gestured swiftly. She is my wife. Stay there. Be glad your ass is not on the floor.

A small whine slipped from the wolf, but he obeyed and watched us from the foot of the bed.

I let an arm fall across Roark’s stomach, my head on his shoulder. With care he lifted my wrapped hand. The bandages were stained with the slow trickle of blood.

“I’m fine.” I curled my palm back.

It hasn’t stopped bleeding.

“It was a blood cast,” I said with a sigh. “I’m sure the wound will heal differently.”

Roark pinched his lips but did not say more. We already had spoken to one of the Draven healers, who’d instantly gone to his herb books looking for protections against blood craft. All we could do was wait.

With his gentle, brutal fingers, Roark drew small circles across my shoulder, saying nothing. We simply sat for a moment in silence.

I do not know whose order brought them, Roark wrote on my skin after a long pause.

I lifted my head. “You speak of Thane?”

He nodded. Thane is named Bold for a purpose, but this was reckless. Like poking a rabid wolf.

“I do not believe Thane gave the order,” I said. “He wouldn’t have killed Sel and Thorian. It had to have been Ingir. They came to take me.”

Tension grooved over his brow, but he didn’t respond.

“Do you not think so?” I held out my palm. “This felt intentional.”

But Fadey and Ingir are not fools. They have made their plans for seasons. You think they would throw them away by sending a unit of Stav Guard against the whole of the Dark Watch?

“So you think it was all a ruse?”