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“I beg your pardon.” Master Bow leaned forward. “Did you say Phillipa tried to kill you?”
“She asked quite a few of us for pointers on how we would do it,” the orc that Phillipa had danced with last night offered. “Of course, none of us gave her any new ideas. But we were all quite concerned for the wolven’s safety.”
Countess Stalbridge shook her head. “I’m not sure I can invite you to bring her back to the Ball if that is true.”
“I’m going.” He moved past Martin and Master Bow, his paw clammy as he put it on the doorknob.
“Wolven, I cannot recommend that you do this.” The countess sighed. “But I completely understand why you’ll do it anyway.”
The night was dark and clear, and he couldn’t imagine that the Willoughbys would be traveling far at this hour. There was probably a boarding house nearby.
On all fours, he was glad he thought better of ripping off his clothes. He was tired of society and rules and promises. It had done nothing for him. He’d lost everything—his humanity, his promised fortune, and most importantly, his wife. Although he appreciated the concern from the countess and Master Bow, he’d learned in his months in the woodlands, and even more so attending the Ball, he could count on no one but himself.
He was the Wolven King, and he would make his own rules.
Pausing only to take the silver pendant out of his pocket, he winced as it once again seared the skin on his paw. He’d hoped to pick up on her scent one more time, but he couldn’t smell much over the burned skin.
He attempted to get it back in his pocket, but the silver was having more of an effect on his paw than he expected. Letting it drop to the ground, and ignoring the pain each time his paw struck the gravel, he followed the only road that led away from Broadstone Hall.
The scent changed the further he got away from the Hall. He relished the clean scents of the woodlands, feeling nostalgic for his little den. For the days that he’d spend doing nothing but watching Phillipa in her garden. He didn’t have her, but he’d been able to live with the dream that he would.
Now that he’d had a little taste of that reality, there was no way that he could live without her.
So many possibilities swirled through his mind. If—when—he was able to claim Phillipa, where would he bring her? No matter what, he would have to stand before the Queen tomorrow and answer for what he had done.
He would have no regrets. But that didn’t mean he could be foolish.
When he was human, the Willoughbys had not been of high status. They had their place in society, of course. Phillipa’s father had been a doctor before he passed. A very honorable man, but not someone who would easily get the audience of Her Majesty.
Mrs. Willoughby had befriended a priest, who could very well have such connections. Wesley had never liked the man when he was human. He had meddled in the planning of their wedding one too many times.
His paw went numb, and he picked up his speed. The last thing he wanted to do was to have to break into a boarding house, going room to room, scaring innocent guests. He’d find himself in a jail cell before he found his wife.
He picked up the smell of horses. Yes. That was a very good sign. At this time of night, a carriage heading away from Broadstone Hall was most likely carrying the Willoughbys.
Running as fast as he could, the carriage came into sight. Now he regretted not stripping out of his suit. It was slowing him down.
The horses whinnied, sensing he was there, and the driver slowed. Stupid human. It gave him the opportunity he needed to gain on the travelers.
He skidded to a stop in front of the horses, growling and snarling. The horses cried out, with their front paws in the air.
“Whoa!” the driver said. “We want no trouble, wolven.”
Wesley stalked toward the carriage. “Who rides inside?”
The driver didn’t answer, instead reaching into his pocket. Wesley knew he had to act now before he had a silver bullet in his chest.
He jumped into the driver’s seat, knocking the man out of the carriage. He did not mean to hurt him—he had enough charges mounting against him by the moment—he just intended to startle him. Separate him from his weapon.
A gun lay on the seat. Wesley howled when the silver hit his tongue. He tossed the weapon in the other direction.
Screams came from inside of carriage. Female screams. Praying. He didn’t have much time to act. He had to get that door open.
“Wesley!”
The one word was enough to stop him in his tracks. Only for a moment. Phillipa was in there.
Grabbing the door handle, he wasn’t surprised to find it locked. But no mechanics would keep him from Phillipa. Not after he’d come this far and put everything on the line.
