Page 30 of Wolf Duke

Two armed guards carried in the queen’s crown, an elaborate, only slightly smaller version of the king’s, except it was entirely covered in diamonds and pearls and lined with gold velvet. Rowan took the crown and lifted it high. “To the North! Queen Evaine of the Western Lands. To the South! Queen Evaine of the Western Lands. To the East! Queen Evaine of the Western Lands. Evaine is queen, long may she reign.”

“Evaine is queen, long may she reign,” bellowed the crowd.

The soothsayer then placed the startlingly heavy crown upon Evaine’s head and offered an ancient blessing before he turned to the crowd, his arms outstretched. “Wolves of the Western Lands, greet your anointed ruler King Alaric and his true mate Queen Evaine.”

The cheers and applause were deafening. Alaric smiled and lifted their clasped hands, before turning, very slowly, to acknowledge his subjects.

Alaric squeezed her hand. “Not long to go now. I’m so very proud of you,” he murmured.

About to reply something saucy, Evaine instead froze as her gaze settled upon a cloaked figure standing on the stone ramparts. A tall, plump female who at first glance appeared to be an elder wolf, with a walking stick, lined face and silver hair. Until their gazes locked…and the she-wolf blew her a kiss and traced a heart in the air.

Evaine gasped. Only one female she knew had ever done that. A beautiful ray of sunshine who raided the kitchens for honey cakes, loved to dance, and could always be depended upon to provide a reassuring hug or kind word when anyone was sad or scared. Someone so reluctant to leave a warm bed or cushion in front of the fireplace that she would blow a kiss and trace a heart rather than get up.

ISABEL.

A cry tore from Evaine’s throat and she staggered forward, intending to run. Naturally, her ceremonial garments prevented that entirely, and she barely kept the queen’s crown atop her head as she wobbled in place on the dais. Wretched train! Wretched jewels!

Alaric moved closer. “Sweetheart? Do you feel faint?”

“No,” she replied breathlessly, looking frantically along the ramparts for her sister. But the cloaked figure had vanished. “I thought…I thought I saw…”

Her voice trailed off as doubts crept in. It had been ten long years; all she remembered was her sister as a cub. Just because Isabel had been plump then didn’t mean anything now, especially if she had gone without food on many occasions. As for blowing a kiss and tracing a heart, perhaps many did that. Besides, the female had been easily fifty feet away. Too far to see her eye color, or examine her ankle for the small crescent-shaped mark Isabel had since birth.

No, seeing her sister was wishful thinking. Evaine had wanted another de Wynter to be present so badly for her crowning she’d conjured something that simply wasn’t real. The time had come to accept that she might never see her sisters and brother again.

“Saw what?” asked Alaric, his low tone more urgent. “A mercenary? Concealed weapons?”

Evaine sighed. “Nothing like that. It’s foolish, really. I thought I saw Isabel, but I was wrong. It was just some poor elder wolf wishing us well.”

Her mate hesitated. “Are you sure? It would make sense if your sister was in disguise. I can send out another search party. With a signed note from you, so Isabel knows she has sanctuary here.”

“No,” she said firmly. “The female wore a long cloak and had silver hair, and was gone in the blink of an eye. To be honest, with this anvil crown crushing my head, I’m surprised I’m not seeing fairies and unicorns.”

Alaric smiled ruefully as he waved to a group of wolves who were toasting them with tankards of ale. “The sooner these crowns are back in the Treasury, the better. I’m sure my skull has a gold imprint. But we can leave the dais at any time, all the official parts are complete…my queen.”

Evaine whimpered softly as fierce desire coursed through her body. “Not all.”

A slow smile curled Alaric’s lips and his eyes glittered. “Then let us retire and attend to the remaining matter most thoroughly.”

She inclined her head. “Yes, my king.”

Chapter

Seven

All Alaric wanted to do was take Evaine to bed. But of course, there was a bloody damned ceremony for that as well.

“You are doing well, brother. I’d have personally hurled every single courtier into the moat by now,” muttered Darius as they followed Rowan up the narrow spiral staircase toward the king’s bedchamber.

Alaric smiled grimly at the thought. Today, the endless protocols and procedures, having to remain even-tempered at all times, answering questions, and engaging in inane chatter with guests and dignitaries was requiring a truly Herculean effort. “I am about a tail twitch away from doing just that. I don’t recall everything taking this long last time, or being this tedious.”

The King of the Southern Lands snorted as he impatiently rapped his fingers against his ceremonial sword hilt. Usually Darius wore nothing but black, but for formal occasions such as this, he deigned to wear the Southern colors. In truth, an embroidered ruby-red doublet and silver hose never made him appear any less terrifying or battle-ready. “Ah, but you weren’t cross-eyed with lust for Theda. I see the way you gaze at Evaine. You burn for her…and something more as well.”

Alaric harrumphed. “Have you considered searching for your own mate instead of watching me and mine?”

“Death has no mate,” growled Darius, his face shuttering as they continued down a brightly candlelit hallway. “But let me know if you require assistance in removing courtiers, Your Grace. I’m in the mood to spill blood.”

“There is no need to twist the dagger, brother,” said Alaric. “As for spilling blood, you are always in the mood to do that. It’s why you are feared across the realm. Our colors really are suitable for our thrones; mine dipped in gold, yours dipped in the blood of your enemies.”