AllFreeNovel
Share Us
Those golden eyes unnerved her but also provided a strange comfort.
Like Rowan Dietrich.
Blanchette blinked once, twice, three times.
What am I doing? I’m a Winslowe. I’m a raven, not a wolf.
I’m a fighter.
Her father might not have been a saint, but he’d been a fighter. She owed it to him, to her mother, her grandmother, her brother, Willem, and even her sister in Demrov to keep her promise.
To keep fighting.
That was the fire she’d needed.
Blanchette stepped over Rowan’s cloak, then raced out of the chapel and up the winding stairwell, her heart pounding in her throat. A musky sweat tingled on her skin. Rowan wasn’t outside the chapel. She thanked God for that small mercy.
Smoke watched her vanish into the shadows before he scurried off—probably to find prey and rip out its throat.
The wind whistled through the castle’s ancient stones, filling her home with an ominous breeze. Blanchette grasped a torch, watching its light crawl up and down those walls, furthering the illusion that the castle was a living entity.
Can it hear me? And would it even listen?
Protect me, she prayed. Guard me and keep me safe.
She exhaled a breath as her foot touched down on the last step. She hurried through the long, dark hall and felt snowy air whip her cheeks as she crossed the courtyard bridge. The clatter of swords rose in the night.
She looked down and saw Rowan’s men sparring and loosing arrows on a line of straw men. The sound of the arrows reminded Blanchette of a flock of ravens taking to the sky. I am a raven. Standing off to the side, Rowan stood in a wide stance and crossed his muscular arms. Her thoughts danced back to the morning in the village… to the warmth in his eyes, the compassion in his voice, and the solid feel of his body as they rode Sunbeam.
She paused without thinking in the middle of the bridge, her gaze chasing restlessly across the scene. He made an awe-inspiring sight—snowflakes dusted his broad shoulders, his eyes set into a hard, scrutinizing gaze, and his ink-black hair fluttered in the wind’s icy breath.
When did it start snowing?
She frowned, realizing the extent of her confinement and solitude.
Every few moments, Rowan would call out a simple change: don’t strike so early, keep your body at an angle, keep your expression straight, or you’ll give away the game. The men would implement the corrections and perform the move again. Their desire to please Rowan was tangible. She felt it even from the top of the bridge.
Rowan’s husky voice funneled up the battlements and came alive on the bridge, seeming to join her right where she stood. Then his gaze followed. Her heart skipped a beat as Rowan’s stare fixed on her. She thought he’d yell and draw his sword. Maybe run after her or send a score of his guards or Smoke on her like wolves hunting a deer. Instead, he simply smiled.
It was a ghost of a smile—more of a grin, really—but in that second, his stern demeanor altogether shattered. It struck her as an involuntary gesture… as if Rowan himself didn’t realize he smiled up at her.
She’d known of the Black Wolf for nearly half her life.
Who is this man?
He wasn’t breaking their melded gazes, just like Smoke hadn’t in the chapel…
Blanchette winced as the torch’s flame nipped at her cheek, so distracted was she. That gaze pinned her. She swallowed and edged away from the balustrade, her heart racing, her emotions a wild tumult. They regarded each other a moment longer. Finally, he cut off their stare with a sharp nod.
What does that nod mean?
And why do I even care?
Then his deep baritone swelled the courtyard as he resumed directing corrections at his men. He never yelled or shouted; his voice’s steady, confident inflection was commanding enough. He appeared to do everything with calculated control. Blanchette scandalized herself and wondered how he’d handle himself if a woman ever took power.
A young boy sparred against a man almost twice his age and size. The wooden swords clapped together, and the redheaded boy stumbled over his own feet. He slipped on a patch of ice and fell hard, smacking against the ground with a jarring thump. Rowan approached him and knelt on one large, well-muscled leg.
Why isn’t he sending his men after me?
