Page 137 of Ravenous

“I could tell you wanted to.”

A ghost of a smile. “I did. I often want to do kind things but must weigh them against the harms that might arise.” She adjusted her kirtle, looking younger than her years. Softer. “I am all at war with myself.”

“Can I assist you in finding peace within?”

She sighed. “The die is cast. I will follow my heart more than my head. Sometimes that is all that any of us can do.”

Sounds like a godsdamn awful plan for a queen.

Before he could press, she said, “Your vampire wife dressed like a Berserker tonight. And I have seen her genuinely attempting to become a warrior.”

“She works harder than anyone I’ve ever trained.”

“Your admiration is showing. It’s not often that one raises the brows of demanding Arctos, is it?”

“No, my queen.”

“She dresses like us and trains like us. Yet as I watched her earlier amid the clan, she clearly doesn’t fit in.”

“I had the opposite impression,” he said honestly.

Did she look different from Berserker women? Yes. Emilia was slighter, her skin pale as new snow, her movements hesitant—as if she expected rebuke with every breath. She gave those small, uncertain smiles that she might just as quickly reclaim.At least at first.

“Others welcomed her tonight,” he added.

Yrsa’s eyes glinted like bermetal catching firelight. “Mustn’t they? Else risk offending the great shield who has taken her under his wing.”

He inclined his head. “By your decree, my queen.”

“I’ve been thinking about that, dear Arctos.” She drank her vodka. “Perhaps I was hasty. I believe I might have…wronged you.”

He stilled. In all the years he’d known her, he’d never once heard the queen hint at regret.

“She isn’t one of us,” Yrsa continued. “And she never will be. She belongs with her own people. Her own family.”

He met her gaze squarely. “Despite what they’ll do to her?”

“The machinations of vampires aren’t our concern.”

“You don’t fear them creating day-walking soldiers?”

Her laughter came soft and low, more dangerous than mockery. “I have no fears about Bloodreach at all.”

Something in her tone froze the air between them. “Then will you allow me to retrieve our people?”

“I’ll consider it. In the spring.”

He parted his lips to argue, but she lifted a hand, elegant and absolute.

“Arctos, you must think further ahead,” she said, her smoke-smooth voice threading through the chamber. “Think like one who has lived for millennia. How would we feed a hundred newcomers through a brutal winter? Those Berserkers have never hunted, would starve at our table. Our law is simple: all must pull their weight. But in spring, with abundance, I could relax that rule. You could train them properly.” She leaned back and sighed. “A few months is nothing. Patience would serve us better than hunger.”

Her logic was flawless—practical, even merciful on its surface. He should have felt reassured. Instead, unease crawled up his spine. She was lying to him; he could feel it, as surely as he could feel the shift in the air before a storm.

When he hesitated to respond, she added, “The Fey fear a catastrophic All-Battle nears with this Accession. I don’t share their concerns, but should we not limit our risk for a few months, just in case?”

Yet more logic. He had no argument. Only that unease. At length, he said, “I believe you’re following your head, my queen.”

“Ha! With that settled,” Yrsa said, her tone brightening, “let us return to the subject of your marriage.”