Page 1 of Wolf Duke

Prologue

In ancient times lived the Titaness Leto, companion of Zeus and mother of Apollo and Artemis. Some say she was a shapeshifter who could assume wolf form. Others speak of an unbreakable bond after wolves guided a desperate mother and her newborns to the river Xanthos to drink and bathe. Leto is revered for her strength and courage against her vengeful enemy, Hera, and to this day is worshiped alongside her divine twins by wolves everywhere.

Ashcross Castle, The Eastern Lands, England

Summer 1475

“You’re not frightened we are being stalked, my love?”

Hugo’s amused words danced in her mind through their bonded link, but Magdalena de Wynter, Queen of the Eastern Lands and Alpha Female of the de Wynter gray wolf pack, didn’t so much as glance at her beloved mate as they strolled in human form through the lush and fragrant castle gardens. No, not by a twitch would the four precious cubs following them know their thumping paws, swishing tails, and excited snorts could be heard a mile away.

Learning to hunt was a rite of passage, and no wolf started with skill and stealth.

“I am terrified,” she returned huskily. “Surely the only remedy is taking me back to bed.”

“You are insatiable, madam,” Hugo growled, the low, rasping tone licking at her senses like a caress.

“Yes. Just like my mate,” said Magdalena, almost moaning as she recalled the masterful way he had pleasured her earlier, while dawn cast golden rays over the tempestuous North Sea. Hugo was a magnificent lover.

In truth, he was a magnificent everything. King. Mate. Father. Someone that a baseborn outcast like herself might dream about, but never hope to meet, let alone rule alongside. Hugo was far too important. Not only did he rule the Eastern Lands as anointed king, but he was also keeper of the Book of Lore, the powerful ancient tome that held a complete history of English Wolfdom. No scribe touched it; the births and deaths, battles, ceremonies and laws merely appeared. Legend said the Book had been a gift from Leto herself to recognize the service and bravery of the first Wolf King, and that the flawless ruby-studded lock was in fact blood drops from Apollo and Artemis. From the Book’s constant green glow and low hum, Magdalena would believe it. Whoever held the Book of Lore not only held the Eastern Lands, but knowledge beyond time.

What was entirely unbelievable: how she and Hugo had met.

One fateful day in a busy tavern where she toiled in the kitchens preparing food, she’d been lured out of her corner by an exotic, heady scent. His scent, calling to her like a Siren. As soon as she’d laid eyes on the rugged, fair-haired stranger, the air had snapped and crackled as they’d both pushed through the crowd to reach each other. Then, as Leto decreed when souls recognized their fated mate, her body began preparing itself: the strange tingle at the nape of her neck, the relentless, aching throb between her legs.

Naturally, Magdalena knew of rutting. Wolves indulged their carnal urges without shame, and while it was pleasant enough, she’d always wanted something more. Most males said she was too proud and contrary, certainly too old to find her fated mate. Then she’d met Hugo and discovered the true wanton within. Even more unexpectedly for a mature and seemingly barren wolf, years after their mating ceremony, she’d experienced her first breeding heat. Wolf coupling was often rough and raw, but how they had survived such a fierce onslaught of unquenchable lust, she would never know. This was why those with wolf blood could only breed with their fated mate; they would kill a human with such need and the knotting that made them one. But Magdalena had conceived, and two months later birthed a most yearned-for litter: rare princesses Evaine, Isabel, and Cecily, and Prince Lucan, the heir. To be a mother was a joy beyond words, even if her cubs were the noisiest, messiest, hungriest little beasts in the realm. After initially treating her with grave suspicion, the de Wynter pack now spoke her name with reverence. Finally, Magdalena belonged somewhere.

Every wish had come true. Because of Hugo.

“I humbly thank thee, my queen. For those memories and all your gifts,” said her mate, the praise warming her like a cloak in winter. “It shall be my honor and pleasure to show you how much. But first, we must play the game. Only after the cubs have startled us with their skill will I permit you to retire to your solar for…hmmm, rest and refreshment.”

Magdalena swallowed hard. The way he loved her was quite astonishing, except it was far more than that. He treated her as his equal. They did everything together: hunt, fight, play, and rule over the vast expanse of the Eastern Lands, which stretched from Hadrian’s Wall near the Scottish border, all the way down to Oxford and across to the North Sea. Although they had several estates, their principal residence, Ashcross Castle, was a stone fortress about twenty miles outside of Norwich. Other packs ruled the remaining three quarters of the realm: the Armstrongs over the Northern Lands, Hawthorns over the Southern Lands, and Beaumonts over the Western Lands.

“I swear I’ll be the most startled mother in England,” she replied, attempting a meek tone and only managing teasing.

Hugo growled again, his unwavering lust for her flooding their bonded link. But moments later, a large shrub rustled like it was trying to shed every leaf, and their fearless firstborn, Evaine, sprang from the greenery to land beside them with a heavy thud.

Magdalena gasped, then pressed a hand to her chest as three more cubs followed, each louder than the last. “Goddess!”

Evaine prowled around them in a circle, ears pricked and tail up in triumph. “HA! We have you now,” she announced, her voice an endearing blend of high-pitched human child and low wolf growl. As Evaine matured from cub to wolfling to full grown, her voice would eventually settle into the rough rasp of adults, but for now, Magdalena adored the proof her young were still young.

“We do!” giggled Isabel, their sweet secondborn. “Mother and Father must pay a forfeit. What say you, Cecy?”

“More books,” said Cecily, their scholarly thirdborn, and the other cubs groaned.

Lucan, the baby of the litter, and by far the most mischievous, rolled his eyes. “Honey cakes, Cecy. That was the plan. We capture the king and queen for honey cakes.”

Hugo cleared his throat. “We shall pay your forfeit…”

The cubs cheered.

“However,” their father continued sternly, “Lucan, you must tread softly. Lift those paws. Isabel, no jests while stalking—prey will not fall to laughter. Cecily, I know you are excited to learn, but that tail twitch reveals your position too readily. And Evaine, temper your courage with caution before leaping. Be sure your prey is truly vulnerable and not foxing you.”

“Yes, Father,” they chorused, but plainly their minds were wholly on the prospect of spiced cakes drizzled with honey.

Magdalena sighed wistfully. While their young were not yet wolflings and still some way before full grown, they were definitely no longer babes. Once upon a time they had loved cuddling into Mother to be groomed; now they wiggled and hopped and twitched their ears, impatient to run and play. Yet they were still small enough to think honey cakes a great treat, and she would cling to these last remnants of cub life. Far too soon for her peace of mind they would leave the pack to search for their fated mate, a difficult and often fruitless quest, but even more so for royalty. Between the assassins, the brigands, and the smooth-tongued charlatans…

No. She would not ponder that. Not on such a glorious summer’s morning.