They put me in an uncomfortable dress that is a terrible fit—too small to contain my breasts and wider hips, because well, female wolves grow to have hips that are generally wider, to aid in birthing a litter of pups—and my hair is styled into what looks like a table above my head. I end up getting frustrated at the amount of pins and crystals they force into it and pull them all out, preferring to wear it down and ordinary. And when they’re not looking, I steal a few pins, hiding them in the horrible dress.
Hopefully, if Atticus gets close enough, I’ll adorn his neck and eyes with them.
My gaze drifts back to the woman and I watch her through the mirror. While she seems to be dressed just like the rest of the human maids, they deferred to her. One of them even bowed to her and called her, “Your Grace.” She’d seemed not to notice…like royalty would, and her gaze remained on me as she tugged the ropes of the corset.
“Could you tell me who will be present for dinner?” I ask when it’s just us two again.
“The King and his council. A few guests.”
“So, King Hamon will be present?” Surely, even he wouldn’t be pleased with having a werewolf in his home.
Her hand on my face falters and for the first time, she lets me see her feelings. Her rage is bottomless, as is her hate. “Hamon is long dead. If you wish to mock me, girl, you should like to try a different topic.”
I blink in surprise. “Dead? Since when?”
“For months!” she yells at me, and her lips quiver for a moment, before she regains her posture. She lowers her head with great difficulty. “I apologize, my lady. I am done and we should head down for your dinner with the King.”
I don’t bother pushing her for more answers, as I have my own thoughts to deal with. King Hamon has been dead for months. How? Who then joined forces with Atticus to fight against us? How does he have access to the king’s armies and his castle? Did he somehow create an alliance with…I doubt Hamon had any heirs. His dead daughter who was killed in Oakshire was said to be his only child. What…in the world is happening?
I get my answer when I reach the dinner hall. A group plays a song in the background that I find mournful and as I descend the stairs looking like a strung-up peacock, I see Atticus seated at the head of the table, an exaggerated crown hanging low on his head. Atticus isn’t just king of the rogues. He also rules over the mortal lands now. How? It’s glaringly obvious. He must have killed Hamon and usurped the throne. It’d explain why all of the guards surrounding us are werewolves. So, had Hamon waged the war against us, or had Atticus done it after killing Hamon and his daughter, just to give the humans a reason to fear and fight back?
Goddess, my head feels too full.
Upon seeing me, Atticus abandons the middle-aged men he is speaking to and rises to his feet. Everyone at the table—all twelve of them—rise in unison, their face filled with awe, fear, and disdain as he walks up to me, standing a foot taller. “Princess,” he purrs, his eyes lightening up with lust as he takes in my figure, and my breasts nearly spilling out of the dress. “Beautiful.” He starts to reach for my gloved finger, but I move faster, taking a pin from my dress and aiming for his neck.
He catches my wrist, laughing, and he takes the pin, tossing it toward the wall behind me. A sharp cry catches my attention and I see that it has been buried into my maid’s shoulder. Even the musicians have stopped playing. My eyes widen, and I start to ask her if she is alright, but Atticus grabs my chin, forcing my gaze back to him. “Do not play these games with me, dove. I don’t like them very much. There’s a maid for every act of defiance you put up, and from what I have seen, you’re the kind to care for their mortal lives.”
“You’re a pig,” I spit, my heart racing with anger.
He grins, and brings my pulse point to his lips, kissing it while holding my gaze. I look away before he can see the emotions in my gaze. I need to return to Kier. Or reach him somehow. He must be going crazy with worry, and knowing him, he’s possibly on his way back here, and I’m fairly sure it is what Atticus wants.
He leads me to the table, dangling me before them like I am some trophy. There are four dukes, three duchesses, two viscounts, Darrock, Raya and to my dismay, Alpha Kytos. The latter shouldn’t have surprised me, but it did, and his smarmy smile as I stop before him, helpless, is one I will never forget. He just might be at the top of my kill-list now, overthrowing Darrock.
Raya throws her arms around my neck, and for a moment, my anger stumbles. “I am so sorry,” she whispers, right before Darrock pulls her off me. The coward doesn’t meet my gaze. The pathetic coward.
The dinner is rather dull. Atticus forgets me almost immediately, speaking with the dukes of places I know nothing about. The duchesses watch me unabashedly, whispering amongst themselves like I can’t hear them talking about how their marriage proposals to Atticus had gotten turned down because he had his sights set on me. They call me beautiful, but it is not a compliment. I don’t eat. I push the food around my plate, thinking hard about what the best way to escape might be.
It has to be tonight, but there are guards outside my door. I could use the windows though. I’m sure I could take the fall. But it’d be silly to try escaping without knowing the layout of this place. Or the guard shift. They’ll likely catch me immediately.
“I’m afraid, but we must depart tomorrow,” Darrock says, when Atticus suggests he takes a tour around Ashbourne with his sister.
Atticus’s expression turns solemn. “You must stay to witness our union. You are free to leave, only after that.”
“Union?” I echo incredulously.
Atticus smiles, his fingers dropping on my thigh and I jump at the slithery touch. “I have extended my offers to both kings, in exchange for your safety. An alliance with your father and the Neredian king’s surrender. They are rather small prices to pay for your life. Should everything proceed as planned, we will be wed by tomorrow night.”
I feel sick in my stomach. Cold dread washes over me. “And if they do not accept?”
He shrugs. “I don’t know, dove. I always get what I want.” He seems to be contemplating it, and I know when he arrives at a conclusion, because his eyes light up again, eerily, and they drop to my fingers. “We’ll begin sending them parts of you to speed things up. But I do hope it doesn’t come to that.”
Raya looks as sick as I do, and unlike her, I don’t wish to sit here and hear Atticus talk. I stand and walk from the table before I can puke all over it, and I ignore his calls and booming laughter as he convinces his guests that I’ve had a long journey.
I have barely entered the room when a scream begins clawing its way up my throat. He’d come here. Kier would. Oh Gods. To fight or to surrender, whichever option it was, Atticus was expecting him. He’d kill Kier. Tears well in my eyes as I kneel, clutching the floor and the bedstand. A cold constricting feeling coiled in my chest and spread. I claw at it, the air suddenly too thin to breathe.
A whimper escapes me, choked and desperate as I try to get the message down the bond. “Don’t you dare…”, but there’s nothing there to hold onto. Not even Nyx can hear me.
I close my eyes and I see Kier. His eyes. His nose. His lips. His laughter. His scent and his embrace. His kisses. His voice. If he comes here…He can’t. My breaths become ragged gasps, each one a desperate attempt to fill my burning lungs. I have to get back. I have to return. The words become a mantra repeated through each sob, and I barely register the presence behind me until familiar hands that burn like ice touch my neck. “It’s useless—” Atticus starts, and my reaction is instantaneous.
Turning, I channel my rage and panic into my fists, and it cracks into his cheek.
Snarling, I lunge for him again, but there are guards on me, pulling me off him. Their rough hands clamp onto my arms, twisting them behind my back. Atticus’s eyes narrow at me and he touches his cheek with an expression that’s somewhere between sadistic amusement and anger, and I lose it.
I thrash against them, driven by the desperate need to draw blood from him. My screams of outrage mingle with promises. Promises I am unsure I can keep. Adrenaline surges through my veins, fueling me with strength that remains useless, and all I do is rage like a wild animal.
When Atticus decides he has had enough, he slaps me.
For a moment, the pain engulfs me, shocking me out of my state of rage, and my breath stills, as does my body. His hand rises again and I flinch, expecting another. But it doesn’t come. Instead, he cups my cheek, wiping my tear away, soothing the sting of his slap. “I’m a rather simple man, Jessamine Hunter. All I require is submission, obedience.” His leans in so close, his breath chills my skin. I draw back, away from him, but there’s nowhere to retreat to as he presses his mouth to my cheek. “I won’t hit you again if you promise to behave.” I shiver, disgust pooling in my belly as he lowers his head over my neck, kissing Kier’s mark.
He laughs when I jerk, attempting to claw out his eyes—said eyes that now settle on my chest.
“Why did you kill Nadine?”
I expect my question to startle him, distract him from the swell of my breasts, but he doesn’t look away from them as he responds almost casually, “I got bored.” His gaze flicks to mine. “It’ll be different with you, though. I can tell. I collect wild, beautiful things. Unbreakable, they may seem, but everyone has their limit. I wish to test yours, and unravel, you will.”
As if to buttress his point, he slides a finger down my chest, ignoring my struggles against his men who hold me in place as he splits the bodice. I suddenly have an idea of why Slyder may have felt entitled to the body of a women that wasn’t his; a woman whose consent he didn’t have. Because his king is no better. My struggles and thrashing do nothing, and I hate that my body begins to lock on itself.
“You smell delectable, without all of that blood on you.” His fingers clamp on the back of my neck, steadying me as he sniffs in deeply. “It’s…” A tear slides down my cheeks and…and…I’m suffocating. He tugs down hard on the strap of my dress, and suddenly rears back, like he’s been hit with something.
His nostrils flare and he stumbles far from me, cursing. He swerves, grappling for the bed post. The wood snaps and he hurls it into the mirror, roaring in anger. Glass shatters, and a shard flies past my neck, cutting me. I am, however, transfixed by his sudden reaction, watching it unfold. The guards seem less concerned. Unbothered. They must have seen this happen too many times.
He completely destroys the room, breaking everything.
And when he is done, Atticus rubs a hand over his face and laughs softly. “How unfortunate.” His eyes drop to my mid riff. “Such ill timing.”
He’s rambling again. I am fairly certain Atticus is not a sane man. Hasn’t been for a long time. He raises his head, blowing out an exhausted breath as he points at the guard flanking my left side. “Get the physician.”
“Why?!” I yell, my blood boiling. “I won’t have you inject me with anymore bane—”
“You’re with child and that gets in the way my plans.”