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He sat before the hearth, which had appeared to have burned out hours ago. Ashes and dust filled the dirty mouth of the fireplace. Her eyes drifted to the tiled stone mantel and its carvings of her family’s sigil. Years of smoke blackened the crests and distorted their shapes. Yet there they hung all the same, just as they had across the generations, greeting her like old friends.
A heavy fur-lined cloak draped Rowan’s body, fastened around his neck with a snarling wolf clasp. His dark hair fell above his collar in thick ink-black waves. Beard stubble covered his chin and accented the strong cleft. His hazel eyes, usually so attentive and sharp, looked exhausted. Empty. Dark circles rimmed them like two open wounds.
Before she could speak, Rowan shot to his feet and crossed the room in swift and deliberate strides. He had a nervous energy about him—an uncharacteristic restlessness that went against his usual composure. But as always, he moved like a man at war, a man with purpose. Vengeance and ambition powered his steps.
He stalks about like the black wolf he’s taken for his sigil.
Finally, he came before her, and as he did, her head darted higher and higher until she could feel the thick knot of her hair pressing into her neck. A dizzy feeling swelled in her. Her heart beat a little faster.
He was impossibly tall and standing far too close. Yet she refused to surrender and step back. She meant to win if this was a game he wanted to play.
Blanchette’s eyes flickered from his face and back to the mantel and her family’s crest.
“You look awful,” she said as they stood within a foot of each other.
Rowan surprised her with a bark of laughter. He raked his fingers through his hairline, then idly sat his palm on his sword’s pommel. “And you look lovely, ma princesse.” His deep voice was soft and thick. His eyes tracked down her dress as if to press his point, and she felt her cheeks warm at the blatant gaze. She loathed herself for it. Hated that she’d found any compliment from his attention or the heat from his warm eyes. She reached for the cross around her neck, only to remember it was no longer there.
Brimming with her own nervous energy, she ran her hands along the sleeves of her dress, absently toying with the material. It was one of her own garments that Governess Agnes had fetched from Blanchette’s bedchamber. It slid between her clumsy fingertips—the one tangible thing anchoring her.
“You sat up all night,” she accused rather than asked.
His features hardened again. He dared to step nearer, and the wafts of his breath sweltered across her face. He smelled of ale and smoke and the earthy scents of her homeland. That very thought caused her to grow queasy. Angry. And resentful.
My homeland.
Mine.
“And I’m surprised you sleep so well, Princess.”
He kept calling her princess—in both English and French. Did he intend to mock her? She wouldn’t have it. Her integrity was her own to keep, and no wall he breached would spirit that away. She craned her neck back again to meet his gaze straight on. His eyes were deep and probing, indecent in their forwardness and quiet confidence.
“What do you know of how well I sleep? You know nothing. I’ve seen things… horrors carried out on your orders that shall forever haunt me, whether I sleep or dream or am rotting in the ground.”
He paused as if digesting her words. When he spoke, his voice was low and intense. His words were like a physical touch. They sent shivers down her spine. She could see the shame and pain etched on his face. He was a man who’d seen and done terrible things, but she could sense that he was also a man of honor.
I can use that to my advantage.
He placed his hand on the hilt of his sword, and she couldn’t help but notice how his fingers curled around the ivory wolf pommel. The Black Wolf of Norland, she thought to herself. A powerful and dangerous man.
A predator in my home.
“Maybe so. Yet people have starved by the thousands while your father and his court feasted each night. I’ve done terrible things at your father’s orders. Things I shall never rectify. Within this very city, I’ve seen children drop dead in the streets, and I could only stand there and helplessly watch. I was a sworn knight, yet powerless. There was nothing I could do, no way I could end their suffering… but that’s all changed now. I’ve heard the people’s cries, and I intend to answer every one of them.”
“How dare you? You’re living a lie. You’ve bloodied the soil of Norland. You and the traitors who follow you have brought death and devastation! I?—”
“You are living a lie, girl,” he insisted, coming close enough so the heat of his body radiated.
Blanchette held her ground.
“Call me girl again.”
Despite herself, a dark thrill ran through her as she drank in the sight of him. At over six feet of uncompromising male, he was imposing and as dark as a shadow. Hazel eyes stared down at her through a fan of thick lashes.
She watched as he shook his head and gave her a hard, measured stare. What was he measuring? And why, in God’s name, did she suddenly feel so small? She shivered and stepped back, only in part from the wintery cold.
Swiftly, he removed his cloak. He set it over her shoulders and fastened the interlinked, snarling wolf heads. Heat engulfed her, and the soft, firm weight of the garment seemed to press her through the stones below her feet.
“What are you?—”
