Callum said Blake was the most dangerous man here.
I suppose I’ll soon find out whether or not that is true.
As we head down the stairwell, Callum reels off a list of all the foods we can expect to eat this evening.
I’m barely listening. I keep having to disentangle my hand from his, only for him to reach for me and enclose my fingers within his once more. I’m not even sure he realizes he’s doing it.
This kind of overfamiliar behavior would not be tolerated in the Southlands, and I wonder whether all Wolves are this physical, or whether it’s just Callum.
I don’t hate it, though, and that in itself is rather disconcerting.
I’m a betrothed woman—even if I’m supposed to marry a cruel and horrible man. My father would kill me if he saw me holding hands with the alpha of Highfell. I don’t even want to think about what he would do to Callum.
Callum’s familiarity, however, is not enough to distract me from the high-pitched screeching that hits my ears when we walk into the next corridor.
Callum must notice my wince, because he chuckles. “You don’t have bagpipes in the south?”
He points ahead. There’s a young boy—around ten years old—standing at the entrance of the Great Hall. He has a blue tartan bag nestled beneath his arm, and his cheeks are as red as his hair as he blows into a pipe.
He looks like he’s about to pass out.
“Just be thankful you don’t have wolf hearing,” he whispers darkly. “I had to listen to the wee lad practicing.” He gives the boy a thumbs-up as we pass by. “Great job, Brodie!”
An extra shrill note rings my ears as Brodie puffs out his chest with pride.
A soft laugh escapes my lips.
Callum’s gaze snaps toward me as we enter the Great Hall, a warm smile spreading across his face.
“What?” I ask.
He shrugs. “You have a nice laugh.”
When we walk into the entrance hall, my smile fades.
In the Southlands, we thought the Wolves were too unruly to unite against us. For the centuries that we have been at war, they have fought among themselves, as well as with us. It has been our greatest advantage.
Yet here, within the walls of this castle, there must be over one hundred Wolves. They shout and laugh and insult one another as they sit along four long tables that are laden with food.
The air smells like ale and woodsmoke and roast venison.
At the end of the hall, beneath a coat of arms that depicts a wolf and a moon, there’s a raised dais. At the table atop it sits Robert, the acting Wolf King.
Callum takes my hand and leads me toward him and the four equally menacing men that sit with him. There’s a lull in the crowd as we pass by.
I’m not sure why he’s taking me toward Robert’s table. The Wolves sitting there look like the scariest in the hall—each donning a different tartan. Callum drops into one of the vacant seats at the end of the table, and gestures that I do the same.
Trying not to show my fear, I sit down beside him, the small letter opener pressing into my thigh. Not that it will do me much good if everyone turns on me. It seems like that may be a possibility. Everyone is looking in my direction.
Can they smell that I’m a human? Or are they wondering why I’m wearing Callum’s clan colors?
Callum, however, seems perfectly at ease. His legs are spread, and his elbow rests casually on the table. When Robert looks at him, Callum meets his eye.
There’s a moment of tension. Then Robert leans back in his seat and forks up a piece of meat before going back to his conversation.
The raucous laughter and merriness resumes—even if some of the Wolves look at me with a mixture of curiosity and hostility.
I spot Fiona, the girl I thought was Callum’s wife, at one of the tables. She’s wearing a dress like mine, made of red tartan, and her brown hair hangs in waves down her shoulders—though there are a couple of strands of hay in it.
She grins and turns back to the person next to her. Isla is sitting at the same table, and she scowls when I catch her eye.
Beside me, Callum grabs a plate and starts piling it with food—potatoes, roasted turnips, venison, thick meat gravy, and blackberry sauce. He places it before me, then helps himself to a plate.
I ignore my grumbling stomach.
“Weren’t we supposed to be keeping my presence discreet?” I whisper.
“The alphas sit at this table.” His voice is the same volume as mine as he scans the Great Hall. “And I’m an alpha. It would have looked stranger if I’d not sat here.”
He stabs a chunk of meat with his fork and puts it into his mouth.
“Where’s Blake?” I ask.
“No idea. Whenever he crawls out from wherever he’s lurking right now, he’ll come sit at this table too.”
My eyebrows raise. “He’s an alpha?”
Blake looks strong, but he isn’t big and muscular like Callum or the other males sitting at this table. His accent also indicates he doesn’t originate from the Northlands.
“There’s been some debate over the matter,” says Callum, his voice low. “The last person who questioned it hasn’t been seen for a while.” He nods at the entrance to the hall. “Ah. There he is.”
Blake stands in the doorway.
Like earlier, he’s dressed in dark breeches rather than a kilt, and wears a black shirt that is perfectly fitted to his hard chest and torso. His hair is dark, and a couple of errant strands curl against his forehead.
He scans the Great Hall, a bored look on his face.
When his eyes lock onto mine, a wicked smile spreads across his face.
He heads toward us.
Chapter Nineteen
Many of the men in this Great Hall remind me of beasts. But there’s something different about the dark-haired male who prowls toward us.
It’s not just that he wears breeches instead of a kilt. It’s the calculated disinterest on his face, and the fluid way he moves.
He reminds me more of a cat than a wolf.
People much bigger than him watch him warily as he passes by.
When he stops in front of our table, Callum leans back in his seat, a look of dislike etched onto his face.
“Brought your pet to the feast, I see?” says Blake.
He’s almost as tall as Callum, though not as muscular. He looks like he’s in his early twenties like Callum, too. I catch his scent of shadows and pine—like a forest at night.
“We need to talk,” says Callum.
A slow smile spreads across Blake’s face, and dimples puncture his cheeks. “So we do.” While Callum’s voice is low and rough, Blake’s is smooth like silk. “After we eat.”
He looks at the door on the left-hand side of the hall and Callum inclines his head.
Blake drops into a seat by Robert and starts a conversation.
“I’m not a pet,” I say quietly.
Blake meets my eyes and smirks.
Again, I feel that small tug of recognition. I wonder if I saw him at my father’s palace. If I did, what on earth is he doing here?
“No. Course not,” Callum says absently, stabbing a potato.
“What if he says something about me to Robert?”
“He won’t. He’s a self-interested prick. He’ll want to find out what you’re doing here in case there’s a way for him to exploit it,” continues Callum, lowering his voice. “There are too many ears in this hall. We’ll speak with him later.” He nods at my plate. “Enjoy your food. It’s good, I promise.”