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Banners hung from the walls bearing the sigil of the Black Wolf.
A brazier burned off to the side, its flames licking the image of a snarling wolf. Blanchette trembled at the sight and lurched upright. She was in one of the extra chambers serving as her cell.
Foreign, she thought, as her boots touched the stones. No longer my soil, her mind reaffirmed with each step, her gaze warily taking in the changes. They were both big and small. Some could be seen at a glance; others would only be noticed by someone who’d lived here all their lives.
She’d expected the door to be locked. Her heart thumped in alarm as the handle answered to her hand and turned.
She nearly walked straight into the guardsman posted outside the room. His eyes reminded her of two dirty patches of ice; his skin had a leathery way about it and was spotted with brown freckles, his thin hair a dirtier brown. That stare was hostile. Even the Black Wolf’s gaze hadn’t matched it.
He hates me.
He grabbed her shoulder with a mailed hand. She winced from the grip, which felt like an iron manacle. “About time. Come.”
“Get your hands off me.”
“Sir Rowan demands your attendance. You’ve kept him waiting long enough.”
Blanchette bit back her curse, not wanting to tempt how that mailed fist would feel against her cheek. “You must beg his forgiveness for me,” she spat, even as his eyes sharpened at her defiance. “I’ve no desire to look upon the face of my family’s killer.”
He snapped then. “I’m no killer. I’m Sir Edrick, Rowan Dietrich’s right-hand man and captain.” She felt that mailed hand as it latched onto her arm in a painful, viselike grip. She gave a shallow scream, sure her bone would snap in two from the pressure.
“And you are fortunate I’m so obedient to Rowan’s commands,” he said, his voice a whip. “Were it up to me, I’d have you drawn and quartered before the kingdom.”
Her stomach roiled at his words, and her skin broke out in goose pimples as he drew nearer. The heat of his breath fell upon her, its scent tinted with ale. “I took the innocence of one of your ladies the night your home fell, you know,” he said, whispering as if the words were an endearment. “She cried out for you. Does that make your heart weep, Princess?”
Oh God… Elise.
I am lost.
“You disgust me. You are no knight, not even a man. You are nothing but a cold-blooded murderer. And I shall have you drawn and quartered the first day I come into my throne.”
He laughed at that, a harsh, joyless sound. Her blood ran cold as his grip tightened, and he pushed her against the closed chamber door. The hot sting of his breath scorched her neck, and the door’s coarse wood dug into her flesh.A little cry escaped her.
“Your family were the murderers, Princess. An entire kingdom starved and bled beneath their negligence and iron heels. But the Black Wolf has changed all of that. You’re in a new world now. Our world. So you best wake up. You are a princess of nothing, the third and last of your name, a prisoner in your own home, and another disgrace to your family’s legacy. Now come.”
* * *
Sir Edrick brought Blanchette to her father’s solar. The fabled Black Wolf of Norland lurked behind the massive oaken writing desk, sifting through her family’s ledgers and personal letters.
The actual black wolf she’d seen during the battle and inside Jonathan’s home sat beside the man. It was beautiful. Deadly looking. And very protective of its master. The creature lowered its head, its lantern-like eyes fixed on her. She carefully treaded inside, the wolf measuring her every movement. It rose to its feet and emitted a low warning growl that pricked the hair on her arms.
Demons. The two of them.
“Stand down,” Rowan whispered, and the wolf quieted its growling and glanced up at its master expectantly.
Sunlight shimmered through the window, illuminating the hard lines of Rowan’s face. She observed him without his knowing—taking in the tension that furrowed his dark brows and how he’d absently curse and scratch at the dark stubble on his chin. He’d lower his hand every few moments and stroke the wolf’s dark fur.
She would have fled the room had the captain not hovered directly behind her—a flesh-and-blood shield.
A heavy, four-poster bed dominated the room, surrounded by linen hangings. Her father’s oak chests sat in front of the bed, and a flock of carved ravens adorned the wooden stakes. A bed fit for a king. Rushes were strewn underfoot: an exotic blend of basil, balm, chamomile, costmary, daisies, lavender, marjoram, and mint.
There was also a bench and a table bearing a silver flagon and cups. The Black Wolf’s hauberk gleamed on a stand of crossed ash-poles with his snarling helm secured at the top. The furniture was heavy and ornately carved, its colossal size balancing the room’s dimensions. Beneath it all lay a brightly patterned octagonal rug. Winslowe Castle was a seat that represented domain and power. Blanchette reluctantly admitted that Rowan Dietrich sat it well.
That queasy feeling rose inside her again.
“My Lord, I’ve brought the girl as you requested.”
The queen, she inwardly amended. She had to bite her tongue from screaming it.
