Page 5 of Wolf Duke

Ten years, she’d been running. Ten years of barely evading capture by changing her name and appearance and village each month, living among the humans as a filthy, poverty-stricken widow to keep herself and others safe. But she was weary to the bone. Utterly consumed by grief. And lonely.

So very, very lonely.

Of the two warriors who had spirited her away from Ashcross Castle, one had been killed by mercenaries inside a tavern where he’d gone to purchase ale. The other had eventually fled after a few sword fights, saying she wasn’t worth his life. As for the two ladies, one had unexpectedly found her fated mate during their journey, a brief ray of sunshine in the gloom, and Evaine had wistfully wished her well. The other remained at Evaine’s side for eight summers, but as an elder, her destined time came to rise to the stars. Evaine had sobbed as she bid her companion a final farewell with all the flowers she could gather. Yet from then on, she became a lone wolf.

Everything was worse when alone in unfamiliar lands. The cold. The dark. The shadows. The screams.

However, there were times she might have sworn Mother appeared in a clearing or across a stream, urging her on. Or that she felt Father’s heavy paw on her shoulder, holding her back from revealing herself to enemies. But she’d never seen or sensed the spirit presence of her sisters and brother; the sole reason she believed them to be alive. This gave her a little solace, a tiny tendril of hope that one day they might be reunited. Yet after spending every waking hour with Isabel and Cecily and Lucan as cubs, their long absence from her life was far worse than hunger pangs. The ache was an abyss in her soul.

The sudden snap of a twig outside robbed her of breath. A predator? Or merely nature succumbing to snow?

Evaine peered through the tangle of brambles that concealed the den, her heart pounding.

Goddess. It was that silver-haired female again!

Yesterday at around noon, the warmly dressed, ruddy-cheeked elder wolf had placed food on a nearby tree stump, trying to coax her out. Evaine hadn’t dared emerge, knowing full well the danger of poison and how a cunning enemy would use a seemingly sweet elder to lure her into the open. But the scent of roasted mutton and buttered carrot and turnip had been sheer torment, and today she feared the last of her resistance would crumble.

The female cleared her throat. “Good morrow,” she began, her voice low yet urgent. “My name is Blanche. I know not why you hide—or who you hide from, but I cannot let you starve or freeze. Please let me help you. It is Christmastide. If you must leave, I can bring supplies. Food. Ale. A woolen blanket or warm cloak. Tonics or poultices if you are injured. If you can stay…I beg you, accompany me to the castle. My master the king is a generous host and I swear on my mate’s life that no harm would befall you.”

The king?

More tears filled Evaine’s eyes, almost blinding her. The humans in Bewdley had warned that the frightening, haunted Blackstone Castle was less than five miles away, but with her senses impaired due to exhaustion and hunger, she’d never found the right direction. Dare she trust this stranger? For if the female spoke true and escorted her to the ruler of the Western Lands, there was no question Princess Evaine de Wynter would be granted sanctuary. The other wolf kings had regarded her sire as a brother.

“You serve King Cyrus?” Evaine croaked, her voice rusty from disuse. Fortunately, only other wolves could hear her speak in wolf form; humans merely heard grunts or growls.

The other wolf sucked in a breath. “Oh, my dear…he rose to the stars some five summers past. I serve his rightful blooded heir, King Alaric. My mate, Oliver, is his steward.”

“This is the second day you have returned. Why do you do so?”

There was a pause, then the elder chuckled. “Oliver thinks I have lost my wits, setting out with horse and cart in this weather. But I am compelled to. The order will not leave my mind, as though Leto herself issues it. You must be brought to safety.”

Evaine closed her eyes, her whole body shaking with silent sobs. Could it really be true? She would soon be warm? Clean? Fed?

Soon she would be safe?

Swallowing hard, she cleared her throat. “Blanche…I will come. But I may need your help.”

“Of course, my dear. Gently, gently.”

Slowly, painfully, Evaine shuffled along the narrow den tunnel toward the bramble-covered entrance, trying not to retch as the putrid dirt scraped her fur, and her stiff, weak limbs protested every movement. Yet she still paused a foot from the end, her sire’s warning of caution forever in her ears. Was the elder merely pretending? Could there be an entire army of mercenaries just waiting for a foolish princess to leave the den?

A shudder rolled through her body and her belly clenched and twisted in fear. This was it. She was about to place her trust in someone for the first time in two full years.

Leto protect me.

Bracing her paws as best she could, Evaine nudged aside the brambles with her head and launched herself out of the den entrance. The harsh light was blinding, her legs too weak to hold her up, and she collapsed onto the snowy ground at the elder’s feet.

“Oh, my dear!” Blanche fussed, leaning down to curve her arms under Evaine’s belly and help her rise. “Now, are you able to walk just a few steps to my cart? Then we can…GODDESS.”

Evaine froze as she met the elder’s shocked gaze. “Is...is something amiss?”

Blanche sank to one knee and bowed her head. “Your Highness! Forgive my overfamiliar speech.”

“You know who I am?” whispered Evaine, even now, not quite daring to believe.

“It would take more than grime and frost to disguise the green eyes of a de Wynter. May I ask which daughter of King Hugo and Queen Magdalena you are?”

“Their firstborn. Evaine.”