The Night Prince (The Wolf King, #2)(93)

“You should be in bed at this hour, lassie.” Mrs. McDonald’s voice is admonishing. She turns and folds her arms, her soapy hands wetting the sleeves of her brown dress. “And you certainly should not be parading around dressed like that.” She clucks her tongue at how the robe, drawn in at the waist, clings to my curves.

I raise the tome. “Did you write this?”

Her eyes narrow on it. She turns back around. “Aye, I wrote it. A long time ago. I haven’t the time for it now. What of it?”

Despite the questions that bubble dangerously close to the surface, the corner of my lip twitches. “Who would have thought you were such a romantic, Mrs. McDonald?” I say.

“Hm.”

I walk toward her, and stand by the counter on the other side of the bucket she’s washing dishes in. The window looks out onto the herb garden, and outside, the wind rustles the rosemary and bushes of thyme. I can’t quite bring myself to ask her the question I want to know the answer to.

“You wrote about the Anam-Cridech in this book,” I say.

“Aye. It’s a rare thing, in reality, but I always put it in my books.”

“The Anam-Cridech. . . if two Wolves shared it, would they be able to feel each other’s emotions?”

“I like to write it that way. In truth, no one knows. It’s rare for such a bond to exist, and even rarer for it to be accepted.”

“It has to be accepted?”

“Oh, aye, of course. Why do you ask?”

“How does one accept it?”

She shrugs. “I don’t know. The only wolf I know to have experienced the Anam-Cridech is James, and he was never forthcoming about the details.”

My eyebrows lift. “James?”

“Aye. With that lassie he used to court. Claire. Or that’s the rumor, anyway. People say she refused him, so the bond never solidified.”

My pulse is hammering. “How can it be broken?”

She laughs. “Broken? Once accepted, it cannot be broken. Only the Moon Goddess would have the power.” She goes back to her washing. “No. The Anam-Cridech is eternal. The bond is thought to surpass even death. Why do you want to know. . .?”

I’m already turning on my heel, walking on trembling legs out of the kitchens. I murmur my thanks, I think. My mind, my body, feel as if they’re someplace else. The corridors blurring around me, I make my way to the stairwell.

An eternal bond, shared by two Wolves, created by the Moon Goddess, written about in love tomes—that would be upsetting to Callum. I grasp the banister, and suck in a breath.

You already know.

Nausea rises within. I remember what Callum told me when I first arrived at Madadh-allaidh.

It’s a wolf thing. Rare, but powerful. Stronger, even, than love. Two souls chosen by the Moon Goddess. . .

I know what the bond is.

If I go in one direction, I could confront the alpha who lied and deceived me in the dungeons.

If I go in the other, I could face the alpha who hid the truth he must have suspected for weeks now.

The dangerous, horrible thought has grown vines so thick I can barely breathe. I fight it back with everything I have. I push it down, because I can’t, will not, allow it to surface.

I’m not a rabbit. I’m not prey. I’m not a problem to be locked away in a tower. I’m not a helpless princess that needs protecting from the truth.

Someone has to pay for this.

Someone will pay for this.

Body trembling, heart thumping, chest heaving, I pick a direction.





Chapter Fifty





I burst into his chambers.

I barely notice the four-poster bed with the tartan throw, the fire in the hearth, the crescent moon that shines through the window.

Callum is in the copper bathtub. Even through my rage, my breath hitches at the sight of him. Powerful, muscular, yet completely at ease—the firelight dances across his wet skin and turns it bronze. His knees are raised, and his head is leaning against the edge, exposing his throat. His damp hair is the color of wet sand, and brushed back from his forehead in that way that makes him look younger.

He opens his eyes as the door swings shut behind me.

He grips the sides of the tub, and starts to sit. Water cascades down his chest, and I cannot deal with seeing any more of him right now.

“Stay where you are,” I say. He stills as if he senses the growing storm in me. I know he doesn’t fear me—could not fear me—yet wariness tightens his jaw.

“You need to calm down, Princess.”

“You lied to me.”

His expression darkens. “I did not.”

My chest heaves, because that is not the truth and he knows it. There’s a scream inside me, tearing me apart from the inside. My teeth ache, and I want to bite something. My skin hurts with the force of containing it all. My muscles vibrate; my bones shake. If I don’t release it, I will combust.

“Rory. . .” Callum warns.

I storm toward him, grab the slippery soap that sits on the side of the copper tub by his hand, and hurl it at him. Then the washcloth. Water sloshes over the side of the tub as he raises his forearms. Both bounce off him and hit the floorboards.

“Are you done?” he growls.

“No. I’m not done!” I swipe the candlestick off the mantelpiece beside me.