The Night Prince (The Wolf King, #2)(78)

We make uncomfortable small talk about the food and Brodie’s progressing music skills. I ask about the wellbeing of Kai, and whether anything else has been discovered about what happened to him when he was a prisoner.

“He’s alive,” Lochlan interjects. “Which is more than I can say for some other members of my clan who seem to have mysteriously gone missing.” He throws a dark look at Callum, who growls.

“For the last time, I have not killed Ian or any of the others. Make no mistake, if I ever see them again, they are dead. They were responsible for Rory—”

A murmur fills the hall, and there’s a clatter as people put down their crockery.

Fiona has a man in a headlock, and hauls him between the tables toward us. She throws him onto the floor in front of our table, and he lands on his hands and knees, laughing. He’s wearing a high-collared, tailored blue coat that looks expensive, breeches, and black leather gloves. His coppery red hair shines in the candlelight.

My heart hammers in my chest.

“If you wanted me on my knees, sweetheart, all you needed to do was ask.”

The Great Hall falls silent. His accent is my accent—the accent of the Southlands. What’s more, it has the musical lilt of nobility.

Fiona backhands him, and he groans and says, “If you keep treating me this way, I’m going to fall in love with you.”

Callum’s hand curls around his knife. “Who is this buffoon?”

“I found him lurking by the stables,” says Fiona.

The man raises his head. His blue-green eyes meet mine, and I clench my jaw so hard it hurts. I take in his handsome face, spattered with freckles, his chiseled jaw, and the clef in his chin. Blood dribbles from his nose.

“My apologies,” he says. “I must have forgotten my manners in all the violence. My name is—”

“Philip.” I stand abruptly.

Dimples crease his cheeks.

“Hello, little sister,” he says.





Chapter Thirty-Nine





Silence.

Then, whispers. They slither through the crowd like snakes. “It’s the Southlands prince.”

The air erupts. Wolves jump to their feet. One of the benches turns over. Shouts fill the air. They’re hysterical. A woman’s shriek for vengeance is so hoarse I expect to see blood pouring from her mouth. Lochlan’s men push back those who run toward us.

I’m engulfed in the anger, and I know it’s aimed at me, as well. My hands ball into fists. My breathing is ragged, like I’m trying to contain a storm in my lungs. Fire blazes through my veins.

“What are you doing here, Philip?” My tone is icy.

His smile widens and shows off his perfect white teeth. He doesn’t seem even mildly concerned by the mob that bays for his blood.

He made my life miserable. He taunted me, mocked me, belittled me. He spent my entire childhood waltzing around the palace he was set to inherit as if he already owned it, and I was nothing but one of the objects within. He did as he pleased, drank as he pleased, bedded women as he pleased, and constantly made an exhibition of himself. He never received more than a slapped wrist for his behavior. All the while, I would be punished if so much as a crack showed in my perfect fa?ade. Now he’s here. He must have got back from the war he was fighting on behalf of my father and come straight to the Northlands to bring me home.

“I might ask you the same thing, Sister.” He clucks his tongue over the noise. “Someone’s been a naughty girl. Daddy will be displeased.”

A low growl vibrates in Callum’s chest, a sound that a wiser man would cower from. My brother has always been a goddess-damned idiot. Does he not comprehend that he’s in enemy territory, surrounded by Wolves? Does he not sense the violence in the air? The thirst for blood—his and mine?

Lochlan leans forward slightly, and his brow furrows. Philip’s grin falters, almost as if he recognizes the Glas-Cladach alpha.

Callum nods at Blake, who sits at the other end of the table.

Blake gets up and strolls toward Philip. In a sudden movement, he plunges a syringe into my brother’s neck, and Philip crumples to the floor.

“I’ll spend some time with him in the infirmary,” says Blake.

Callum stands up beside me. His arm brushes against mine. “No one else touches him until I’ve decided what to do with him.” He gestures at a couple of men, and they lift my brother and drag him through the mob toward the exit.

“He wouldn’t have travelled alone,” I say. “He can barely dress himself without his entourage, let alone travel across the entire kingdom.”

“Lochlan?”

“I’ll send out a search party,” says Lochlan. His earlier darkness seems to be replaced by intrigue.

Callum whispers something to Fiona, then he and I follow Blake out of the Great Hall.

***

When we arrive at the infirmary, Philip is tied to a chair near the cot where Kai sleeps. His head lolls against his chest, and his hair is the color of tarnished copper in the soft light of the flames. His wrists are tied to the arms of the chair, and his long legs are spread slightly, his ankles bound to the feet.

I halt close to him, by the fireplace. Callum stands beside me. Blake dismisses the two men who brought Philip here.

Philip was supposed to be fighting in one of my father’s wars in the kingdom of Rema, but if this has hardened him in any way, he wears no evidence of it. His long, high-collared coat is well tailored, he’s as well-groomed as always, and his face—the only bit of his skin that is showing—is flushed with the flames, but not tanned by the warmer weather overseas. I can imagine him sitting in one of his big elaborate tents, drinking and eating and ordering others to do his—and my father’s—dirty work.