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Under the covers, the cold shiver that goes through my body has nothing to do with the weather, but everything to do with the male left alone in the room with me.
Despite lacking formal education, I’m fairly smart, and I piece together the exchange between the two males while the bearded male sharpens his knife, or likely a dagger so he can skin the animal and cook it for me. I would rather eat my own arm than accept a meal from him.
“A fine catch, you might say,” he comments, eyes on his dagger. The metal reflects the waning fire.
“A fine catch. I’m grateful, but allergic to boar as well.” My belly rumbles. Grilled boar steak is one of my favorite dishes. I used to steal it from the Kilseleian kitchens. Servants don’t eat before royalty, and royalty often ate all the good parts of the boar, so unless you stole some beforehand, you only got a bit of red meat from between the ribs.
“Ye better not lie, and at least sit up and show me some respect.”
I peek from under the comforter and watch him sharpen the long dagger, which gleams in the light and is already sharp. He does this for several moments, until I get the feeling he doesn’t intend to skin the animal or feed it to me at all.
“You’re here to kill me,” I say.
The male pauses, then looks up with the piercing blue eyes of his wolf, as cold as the gray eyes of their Alpha. Killer cold. “Now why would ye say somethin’ like that?” He spits on the floor.
“Because you wanted McMar blood, not their breeder.”
He nods. “That I did.”
“But I’m here, and now you’ll collect your blood.”
The male scrunches up his nose. “I could. I could, unless you prove useful.”
“How can I do that?”
“Give me the name of the young lycan who killed Doug.”
Doug must be his brother, and the young lycan must be Duane. Duane is my friend, and I would never give him up.
“Who is Doug?” I ask, even though I already know.
“My brother.”
I was right. “I’m a servant and not privileged to information about who killed him.”
The male’s eyes darken. Some sort of shadow passes over his face. If shadows had a name, this one would be called hate. Genuine hate. Similar to the kind of hate I feel toward the Ott clan Alpha who took me from milady.
An idea strikes me. “I have no idea who killed him, but I can find out.”
“How?”
“Take me back to the clan, and I’ll ask around.”
The male snorts, then chuckles, then full-out laughs from his belly. I’m funny, but in this instance, I wasn’t even trying. Yet, I laugh with him because laughter is infectious. Like a disease.
“Female, I have over half a century of living before ye were even born, and ye think ye can lie to me?Take me back to the clan,” he mocks me. “As if I would.” He laughs again, now more sinister, and finally, when he stops, he leans in. “Before I kill ye, I’ll give ye to a few of my boys. They’ve never had Kilseleian pussy, and we hear it can’t take an inflated lycan knot. We hear it bleeds, and the female screams and screams.”
I swallow.
He jabs the dagger into the dead boar. “You can die from eating fish?”
I nod. “And boar,” I add. “Meat in general.” That’s all lycans hunt.
He picks up Spence’s fish soup and offers it to me. “Eat.”
I can’t accept food from him and live. I must accept food from him and die. What do I do?
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