Chapter 3 — Chapter Three

Elowen

I am to be wed tomorrow, and I cannot sleep.

I lie in bed, the covers pulled up to my chin, listening to the wind howling outside the window of Blackthorn Hold. Shadows flicker across the ceiling, cast by the dying embers in the grate, and a bitter chill seeps into my bones. Beyond my chamber, the ancient stone of the fortress creaks under the storm’s weight, a reminder of the walls that cage me. From my window, I can just make out the silhouette of a stone maiden in the courtyard below, her carved face frozen in silent vigil—a mirror to my own entrapment.

I was molded for this fate. Trained to be a vision of beauty, silent as a shadow, obedient as a hound. I remember the sharp rap of my tutor’s rod across my knuckles when I dared to speak out of turn, the way I learned to straighten my spine and lower my gaze under her cold stare. I forged iron bars around my wild, angry soul, locking it deep within, and waited for the day I would be bound in marriage.

A fleeting part of me once dreamed of love, of freedom, like the princesses in my mother’s whispered tales. But I always knew there would be no such ending for me. So I waited, and I dreaded.

And now it is here.

Tomorrow, I will wed Lord Malric—a man who forces Wolves to fight like rabid dogs in his pits, who leered at me with eyes that made my skin crawl, who spoke of claiming me as though I were a stray to be collared. I recall the moment I first saw him, his cruel smirk as he watched a Wolf bleed out in the arena, and how his gaze turned to me with the same hunger. My stomach twists at the memory.

He won’t touch you.

The alpha’s promise echoes in my mind, a cryptic lifeline from earlier, when his piercing green eyes seemed to see through my carefully crafted mask. I should tell someone what he said. I should warn them of his hinted intent to escape, of the veiled threat he made against Malric. He is a Wolf, an enemy. Yet here I lie in the darkness, my breath misting in the cold air, as silent as I was taught to be. The wind screams louder, and somewhere in the distance, I hear a faint clamor—boots on stone, perhaps, or a guard’s uneasy shout. My nerves prickle, but I dismiss it as the storm’s trickery.

It was an idle threat, after all. There is no way he can escape these walls. We are both prisoners here.

Still, my eyes dart to the silver letter opener on the bedside table, its faint gleam a frail comfort, before exhaustion finally drags me under.

***

Sometimes I dream I am a statue in the palace gardens.

People wander around me, commenting on the curve of my form, the stillness of my pose.

Her eyes look almost alive, they murmur, when the light catches them just so.

All the while, I’m trapped within, screaming. But my lungs are stone, my lips unyielding, and my mouth tastes of dust and forgotten graves. No one hears me. No one cares.

Other times, I’m back in that frigid church, terror clawing at my chest until I fear I’ll faint.

I don’t cry, though. Father loathes tears. The priest looms before me, his crop raised like a serpent poised to strike.

I didn’t sin, I plead.

Oh, child. All women sin. Your mother was a sinner, and so are you. Do you wish to anger the Sun Goddess? No? Then turn around.

Other times, I’m running. I’m racing through a forest, the wind tearing through my hair, twigs snapping under bare feet. I am free, yet I am afraid. Something hunts me, its breath hot on my neck, and I dread what will happen if it catches me. A voice—Malric’s, low and mocking—snarls through the trees, promising to bind me in chains of his making.

My mother’s voice cuts through the darkness, urgent and sharp, echoing off the ancient trunks as I burst into moonlight.

Wake up, Elowen.

Wake up!

***

My eyes snap open.

Rain hammers against the walls of Blackthorn Hold, mimicking the desperate tone of my mother’s voice from the dream. The fire in the grate is long dead, and my breath clouds before me in the icy dark. As my vision sharpens, I realize what tore me from sleep: faint shouting echoes from somewhere within the fortress, a discordant clamor beneath the storm.

I frown, sitting up slightly, my heart quickening. Outside, something howls—whether the wind or something more feral, I cannot tell.

The door to my chambers bursts open. I jolt upright, clutching the bedsheets, my pulse a drum in my ears.

“What is the meaning—?” The words choke in my throat.

The dark-haired male from the Iron Pits, Darec, prowls into the room. He still wears the green tartan kilt from earlier, its pattern bearing the jagged sigil of a notorious Wolf clan, now paired with a stained linen shirt and boots. The acrid stench of sweat and something fouler clings to him. His predatory gaze locks onto me, a twisted hunger in his eyes. “Hello, sweetheart.”

Memories of his face, contorted with vicious lust as he mounted a woman in the cells, sear through my mind. My stomach lurches.

Two others flank him, clad in matching green tartan. Blood drips from their daggers onto the flagstones, crimson pooling in the flickering torchlight.

My heart stumbles, time stretching thin. I remember my training—stay silent, stay still, even as fear claws inside me. My hands tremble beneath the sheets, betraying the composure I was beaten to maintain. A memory flashes: Father’s hand striking my cheek for a whimper during a public reprimand. I bite my lip to keep from gasping now.

“You were right about her, Darec,” the ratlike one sneers, sniffing the air with a grotesque grin. “A beauty indeed. So sweet, so pure.”

“Aye,” Darec drawls, his thin lips curling. “Won’t be pure for long, though, once she’s warmed a lord’s bed—and ours after.”

I scramble from the four-poster bed, nearly tangling in the covers, and seize the silver letter opener from the bedside table. I brandish it before me, though it’s a pitiful defense against three bloodthirsty Wolves. My nightdress clings too thinly to my skin, and I feel the weight of their leering eyes, my body shrinking under their gaze. Shame burns in my chest, but I refuse to lower the blade to shield myself.

“Leave now,” I snap, my voice quivering despite my efforts to steady it. “Lord Malric will have your hides if you linger.”

Darec chuckles, stepping closer. “Your lord’s a mite preoccupied, lass. It’s just us now. Thought we’d get better acquainted. What say you?”

“Get out,” I hiss, gripping the opener tighter.

He smirks, unfazed, opening his mouth to taunt further—when the door swings open with a heavy thud.

“Out.” A low growl rumbles from the threshold, vibrating through the stone floor.

The three males freeze, tension rippling through their frames. Darec’s smirk falters for a heartbeat.

The alpha stands there, his presence a storm made flesh. He wears a crumpled white linen shirt, high boots, and his red tartan kilt, his face sculpted from thunder and unyielding granite. His boots scuff the stone as he steps forward, and the Wolves flinch at the sound. “Out. Now. Touch her, and you’ll answer to me in blood.”

Darec swallows, forcing a grin as he turns. “Just a bit of sport, Alpha—”

“Now,” the alpha snarls, his voice a blade, his green eyes promising carnage.

Darec hesitates, then shakes his head. “Come on, lads. Let’s be gone, lest we regret it.” He offers me a mock bow, his smile venomous. “Until next time, Your Highness.”

The alpha slams the door behind them. My mouth is dry, my thoughts a whirlwind. Is he my savior—or a greater threat?

“Are you hurt?” he asks, his tone gruff but softer.

I raise the letter opener, cursing the tremor in my hand.

“I’m sorry for them. Their clan…” His eyes darken, a shadow of disgust crossing his face. “They’ll pay for this.”

“You need to leave,” I say, my voice higher than I intend.

“Aye. I do.” He swallows, his gaze shifting from the wardrobe to the crescent moon beyond the window. Shouting echoes louder through Blackthorn Hold, mingled with the thunder of hooves below. “Do you have a warm cloak?”

“Why?”

“It’s cold outside.”

“I fail to see how that concerns me,” I retort, though my pitch betrays my unease.

Regret flickers across his stern features, his jaw clenching briefly. “Aye, you do.”

A bitter laugh escapes me as I step back. “You cannot truly believe I’ll go with you.”

“You will, Princess.”

“You… you won’t hurt me,” I say, clinging to his earlier promise.

He sighs, his expression heavy. “That’s where you’re wrong. I won’t slay you, nor touch you as those curs intended. But you’re coming with me. And if I must force you, I can’t swear it won’t pain you. I swore to protect you from him, and I’ll betray that if I must—for my people.”

I narrow my eyes, lifting my chin. “I aided you earlier.”

“Aye, you did. And I’m grateful, Princess. Truly. But it changes nothing. I need you to end this war.”

I shake my head. “Abducting me will only fan the flames. You’ll die for this, you fool.”

“If that’s the price to save my kin—those who’ve lost homes, families, to this endless slaughter—I’ll pay it gladly.” His voice hardens, though his gaze flickers with something like sorrow. “So, what’ll it be? Will you take a cloak and walk with me, or must I carry you over my shoulder? It’s a poor choice, I know. But it’s yours.”

“You wretch,” I spit, shaking my head. “You’ll never breach the gates of Blackthorn Hold. They’ve likely been breached already if you’re here, but more will come.”

Below, the shouting grows frantic, hooves pounding the earth. “Hear that?” I jerk my head toward the window, a strand of red hair catching in my mouth. “They’re coming for you. Leave now, and you might—”

Before I can finish, he’s on his feet, and I’m slung over his shoulder. I shriek, pounding his back with my fists.

“Are you mad?” I snarl. “They’ll flay you for this—”

He throws open my wardrobe, and my threat dies as guilt surges through me at the sight of a wolf-fur coat hanging there. I didn’t place it here—it was among Malric’s trophies when I arrived—but shame gnaws at me still. I think of Malric’s barbaric hunts, the pelts he paraded as victories, and a small, defiant part of me stirs. I loathe his cruelty, even if the Wolves are my enemies. And, in some buried corner of my heart, I’m relieved to be torn from his grasp, despite the terror of this Wolf’s intent.

The alpha stills, his muscles tensing beneath me at the sight of the fur. Then he snatches a different cloak, a heavy bear pelt, and strides from my chambers.

I strike his shoulder blades again, though my blows lack full force. Fear of his darkened mood holds me back—or perhaps it’s that treacherous whisper of relief at escaping Malric’s chains, no matter how fearsome this captor may be. The rough grip of his arm anchors me, the scent of damp fur from the cloak mingling with the cold bite of the air as we move into the corridor.

“You won’t escape retribution,” I growl, my voice laced with both defiance and doubt.

“I will. Now hush.”

“Where are you taking me?”

“Home. Where the mountains howl with forgotten songs.”