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Don’t rip my red riding cloak, she absently thought. Grandmother made it for me… three winters ago….
Dirty, rough hands stroked her thighs. And not kindly. Not like Rowan would touch me. She struggled against the touch… squirmed and cried out and prayed again and again.
No one is here to listen.
“You don’t understand! You’re making a mistake! I’m the queen. I’m Blanchette of House Winslowe!”
Silence took hold. Then booming laughter erupted once more.
“The Black Wolf killed all of the Winslowes, stupid whore.”
She forced her eyes to focus. Stared into Geoffrey’s pockmarked face. She smelled his foul breath as it wafted toward her. “You are wrong! I’ll see you beheaded for this, I swear it!”
“You take our fucking like the queen you say you are, and mayhap we’ll ransom you for gold. Mayhap?—”
Geoffrey’s words died in his throat as a sword pushed through the back of his head and out of his mouth.
* * *
Rowan Dietrich, the Black Wolf of Norland, withdrew his sword from the back of the man’s head. The six other brigands slunk backward and fumbled for their weapons. The horses were going crazy at the sight and scent of Smoke—stomping their hooves, rearing up on powerful hind legs. Except for Sunbeam. He remained silent and still, blending into the dark canopy of trees.
From the corner of his eye, Rowan glanced at Blanchette; her dress was torn and dirty, and she fumbled in the dirt, struggling to rise to her feet.
Anger twisted inside him, red and hot.
I shall kill them all for this.
One brigand, greasy-haired and pockmarked, dashed at him from the left. Rowan swept his sword in an arc and felt the satisfying squelch of steel sliding through flesh, muscle, and tendon.
Movement from his peripheral vision. Blanchette rushed forward and retrieved the fallen axe. Rowan ran toward another brigand. The man staggered back, nocked an arrow, and let it fly.
It took Rowan in the forearm. Several moments passed before the pain struck him. Then he strode forward, a growl in his throat, as the bowman withdrew a second arrow from his quiver and nocked it again.
He raised to shoot—but Blanchette was there, bless the brave little idiot, both of her hands wielding the axe. She gave a war cry and swiped at the man’s midsection. The metal sank in deep, and then she pulled it free with another gut-wrenching sound.
The man crumpled and fell. Blanchette locked Rowan’s gaze. Dirt and blood speckled her face.
There were five more brigands. Smoke leaped at one of them, his snarl a thunderclap, his dagger-like teeth tearing into the man’s throat. Blood pumped from the gash and soaked Smoke’s muzzle. Then the wolf squared himself in front of Rowan and Blanchette, his fierce growl rising in the darkness.
The last three men backed away slowly, their eyes riveted on the wolf and his gore-stained snout. They turned and ran like bats escaping hell. Smoke pounced and wrapped his jaws around one of the men’s necks. He dug his fingers into the dirt and leaves, yelling for his mother, blood and flesh coming loose as Smoke worked at his neck until he was silent.
Rowan and Blanchette finished off the last two men.
Then she wandered into the clearing like a woman wading through a dream. The red riding cloak streamed behind her.
She stood like that for a long stretch of silence. Tears and blood and dirt covered her face.
She looked fierce. Primal. Breathtaking.
That tragic vision stole his breath away.
Smoke threw back his blood-soaked muzzle and howled at the full moon. The eerie sound shivered through the night.
“I wouldn’t linger long, Your Grace,” Rowan spat as he glanced at the arrow sticking out of his forearm and the seven dead bodies. “There are wolves in these woods, and worse.”
Eleven
“LOVE IS PATIENT, love is kind. It does not envy, it does not boast, it is not proud. It is not rude, it is not self-seeking, it is not easily angered, and it keeps no record of wrongs. Love does not delight in evil but rejoices with the truth. It always protects, always trusts, always hopes, always perseveres. Love never fails.”
