Page 46 of The Dead Queen

Hunter stands abruptly. “I’ll accompany you.” His good-natured smile is gone now, replaced by a stern line of worry. I hate that I’ve ruined this experience for him.

“I’ll be fine,” I tell him. “Stay. Pick out a good one.”

Hunter looks torn between duty and the new cake a server just brought to the table: white with purple frosting and blue berries. “I’ll do my best.”

The large doors of the audience chamber echo when they close behind me. My father stands at the head of a long, polished table, a glass of dark, amber liquid in his hand. Next to him, Commander Malen looks up, peeved at the interruption. He holds a stack of papers in his arms.

The only other people present are the guards at the door.

“Daughter,” Father says, his voice smooth as silk but with an underlying edge. “My apologies for interrupting your wedding planning. I hope you and Hunter are enjoying yourselves.”

I grit my teeth.

He chuckles lightly, then finishes what’s in his glass. “The joys of youth. Young love and all that.” He shares a lewd grin with Malen, eyebrows raised as if he knows anything about love. He’s much too selfish to have ever truly loved anyone, even my mother.

Father sets his glass on the table with a soft clink, then gestures for me to sit next to him. My limbs are stiff as I walk forward. I sit in a chair of my own choosing, several feet away. He notes my small disobedience, his eyes narrowing almost imperceptibly, but says nothing. He sits down himself. For a long moment, we just stare at each other.

Finally, he speaks. “Do you have anything to say to me?”

Panic rises in my sternum. Does he know I asked Hunter to heal and feed the Wolf? I do my best to appear calm.

“You should have tried the cake.”

Father lets out a bark of a laugh, but there’s no genuine joy in it. “Such a comedienne, Little Fox. You’ve always been amusing.”

“But?”

He watches me, then shrugs. “I suppose there’s no point in drawing this out any longer.” He gestures toward Commander Malen, who bangs his fist against a nearby bookshelf. It opens with a groan to reveal a hidden door. Two copper-clad guards enter, dragging the Wolf between them.

I stand so quickly my chair falls out behind me. Father watches me with interest, one eyebrow raised. After my momentary panic, I control my face to be neutral, my hands clenched at my sides to stop them from shaking.

The guards toss the shackled Wolf onto the ground. He lands with a dull thud, a small groan escaping his lips. He’s still visibly weak, but his coloring is much improved. His skin is no longer bone white and his eyes have lost the glassy sheen of the starved. The swelling around his nose has subsided and his bruises have faded to green.

“Ah.” The king claps his hands together. “Our honored guest has arrived.” My father uprights my chair and presses on my shoulder, forcing me down into it. He gestures for the Wolf to take a seat next to me.

The Wolf watches him, his pale eyes like a storm cloud, veiled and haunting. He gets up from the floor on shaky limbs and takes a seat next to me, his chains rattling with each movement. There’s a tension in his body, like a coiled spring ready to release.

“Wine.” Father commands.

Two servants appear from behind a tapestry. One carries a decanter and crystal goblets, the dark red liquid sloshing gently as he moves. The other balances several plates of grapes, breads, and cheeses. They serve us with practiced efficiency and back away, their soft footsteps fading as they disappear behind the tapestry once more.

My father watches the Wolf, predicting his next move like this is a game of chess.

The Wolf doesn’t eat.

“Come now,” my father says, like he’s speaking with an incorrigible child. “You must be famished after all of your … adventures.”

The Wolf stares at him coolly.

I can feel the fury radiating off the Wolf beside me, like heat from a raging fire. His hands curl into tight fists, the cracks in his knuckles caked with dirt and dried blood. Killing hands. I know, deep in my gut, that he could unleash his shadow power and slaughter us where we stand. And yet, he hasn’t.

Why?

Briefly, I think I must have a death-wish, keeping a man like this alive. But I’ve long known that I don’t fear death. There’s little left in this world that I care for. It was all taken from me, replaced with parties and an eager groom whom I didn’t choose. There’s a tiny voice inside of me that thinks I would like the Wolf to kill us all. I’ve dreamed of Commander Malen’s death a thousand times for the cruelties he inflicted upon Hunter when we were children. And I’d truly relish the sight of my father dripping in his own blood, even if it was the last thing I ever saw.

“Suit yourself,” Father says as he grabs a handful of purple grapes.

I hope he chokes on them, but he doesn’t.