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Huntley gave him a small, sad smile over his shoulder. “I know, Father. And I shall try to win that back for you.”
And then he was gone, that stale promise already applying its force.
* * *
Blanchette stood in front of the looking glass, where she beheld the past, present, and future all in one breath. She saw the naive and oblivious girl she’d been. She saw herself as she was now, with new wisdom in her gaze. Then she stared deeper into her eyes and found Mary—the girl who shared her blond hair and blue eyes—and Blanchette saw the woman she’d become.
Suddenly, the space behind her was filled. Rowan’s massive body appeared in the looking glass, his dark form towering over her. She held her breath as his arms came around her body, and his hands gently touched her shoulders. He gave a firm yet gentle squeeze, which caused her insides to flip, then ran his hands down each of her arms in a tantalizingly slow movement.
Blanchette glanced at their reflections. Rowan loomed over her—dark, silent, and every bit the Black Wolf. Narrow hips gave way to a pair of broad, well-muscled shoulders. Her gaze crept down the length of his body with a mixture of fascination and tingling wariness.
His features were strong and decisively formed. He was far too masculine to be called beautiful. His very presence dominated every room in which he stood. He was impossibly tall, dwarfing her own body in comparison; she barely reached the middle of his chest. And despite his strength and large size, he possessed a sleek elegance she’d never witnessed in a man before.
Like a wolf…
Rowan turned into her hair and inhaled the scent. Callused hands massaged her throat. They delicately flittered across her neck as his fingers formed a steeple. Then he cupped her chin in the cradle of his palm and lifted her face. His thumbs brushed the scar on her cheek. Their eyes mingled in the reflection in an enticing swirl of blue and hazel. His fingers were surging with strength. Her neck fell limp in his grasp, and a sharp exhale fled her lips.
He stepped away for a heartbeat. She felt weightless without him there. When he returned behind her, he brought her father’s crown to rest on her brow. The jewels drank in the firelight and sparkled like a thousand stars. She watched, transfixed, as Rowan’s fingers slid away from the crown and moved through her curls. His hands came to her shoulders and slowly skated down her arms. Gooseflesh broke out across her skin, sending a delicious chill through her bones.
Then his fingers were at her neck, curling into her hair and pulling it aside. His lips came to her nape in a barely-there caress. His mouth grazed her skin, and her eyes shut in ecstasy. She felt the solid strength of his body behind her, the whisper of his lips on her skin, and the weight of her family’s crown on her brow. She relaxed, falling back into his weight, the world around her fading.
She opened her eyes and took in their reflections again. The Black Wolf of Norland. How well he lived up to his name at that moment. His dark hair fell into piercing eyes—eyes that missed nothing. He wore a leather jerkin, which was open at the collar, exposing his hard upper chest. She spun in his arms, turning away from their reflection so they stood face-to-face.
His hands clasped her chin and tilted her head back. Before she knew what was happening, his lips came to her cheek. She exhaled a long sigh, and his mouth traced the line of her raised scar—from the edge of her hairline all the way to the corner of her lip.
She leaned her head against his chest, where his heart raced strong and sure.
“You are my queen,” he whispered against her cheek.
“Rowan…” Her voice came out in a gasp. She started to speak again, but Rowan swallowed her words. Possessively, his mouth sealed over her own. His arms snaked around her body and grasped her tight. She felt his fingers digging into her hips and the curve of her bottom. She sank into him with a desperate moan, savoring the feel of his rock-hard body, his full lips moving against her own, massaging, urging her submission. He tasted of a sweet summer wine. She tilted her head and felt his tongue dart past the seam of her lips. He searched inside her mouth, his smooth tongue sliding against hers, his teeth gently nipping her lips and claiming her in a sweet, sensual possession.
She gave herself fully.
My first kiss.
How sweet it felt.
How right.
He tightened his grip on her as if she might slip away. Large palms ran up and down her back in firm strokes… then his hands came to her neck, and his strong fingers wound into her curls and urged her ever closer.
She pulled out of the kiss, breathless and aching. She watched as the first content smile came to his face and warmed those hazel eyes.
She smiled back at him.
Yes, I am falling fast…
* * *
She stood at the edge of a precipice that overlooked her kingdom. Below her, Norland spread out in vibrant patches of greens and yellows like a quilt. She observed the tiny ant-like figures moving through the village and down the roads. The people of her homeland. She closed her eyes and inhaled the salt-laden air, welcoming it into her lungs.
You are my queen.
When she opened her eyes again, she found herself in the middle of the woods. Massive trees stood around her, their gnarled arms reaching for a moonless sky. Blanchette’s heart pounded. She held her hands out before her, but they were barely visible in the darkness.
It was cold… so cold.
Her breaths misted against the black, clashing against the frigid air. She pulled her red cloak tightly about her body, then took a wary step forward. She felt the moist earth sink beneath her boots and heard the tree’s skeletal branches quiver in the wind. She took another step. Then another, her fear and a sense of foreboding mounting with each one. The mournful cry of a wolf trembled through the wood.
