Page 27 of Song of the Dark Wood

“Yes. I’ve been chaste.”

The Wolf’s eyes glowed. Grays and blues swirled in his irises.

She blinked rapidly, unsure if she’d imagined it. Something about Wolf’s Keep left her with that feeling constantly hanging over her—as if she was in another world where she couldn’t entirely trust her eyes alone.

“You don’t need to lull me into a false sense of security. You may as well just get it over with now,” Rowan said, bowing her head slightly.

Did he simply like to play with his conquests? Was this fun for him?

When she met his eyes again, he looked both angry and amused. “Are you so eager to be taken?”

Rowan blushed fiercely. “No.”

He chuckled, and a bitter rage erupted from her chest.

“I’m glad you find it funny that a lifetime lived beneath an executioner’s blade has made me eager to end the suspense,” she snapped.

The Wolf’s eyes went wide and then softened. “You’re right. I’m sorry. I don’t mean to toy with you.” He gestured to her steaming mug. “Drink and warm yourself.”

Rowan nestled into the chair by the fire. “What about the blight?”

“What about it?”

“Why did you do it?”

The Wolf’s face was inscrutable as he shook his head. “Don’t concern yourself with the blight. I’ve already given you a lot to think about tonight. Just enjoy your drink. You’ll need it so that you warm up enough to walk back.”

Rowan eyed the mug and took a tentative sniff. Bright red pomegranate seeds floated in the golden liquid.

“Cider?”

A wide smile split her face. The monster in the woods drank warm apple pomegranate cider. She wondered absently if it was a bad idea to drink something offered to her by the god of death, but it seemed rude to refuse his hospitality.

The Wolf pursed his lips. “Did you expect poison?”

She shrugged and took a sip. It burned the whole way down. “Not just cider,” she sputtered.

The corner of the Wolf’s lips quirked up. “Yes, there’s some whiskey.”

Rowan coughed again, embarrassed by her innocence. “I’ve never had whiskey before.”

The Wolf’s eyes widened. “Seriously? You’ve lived your life in Ballybrine and never had whiskey? Drink up.”

Rowan hadn’t imagined it would be so easy to get him to answer her questions. He seemed almost too eager to offer her information.

“Am I really supposed to call you ‘Wolf’?” she asked. “Also, why a wolf, anyway?”

He rolled his eyes. “Hundreds of years ago, I appeared as a wolf to one loud-mouthed bard and that was all it took. Not to mention that for years, wolves were the most feared and misunderstood creatures in these lands. You can call me Conor.”

Conor, which meant “lover of wolves.” It wasn’t a common name since most people didn’t give their children names that evoked the god of death.

Rowan clapped a hand over her mouth to stifle a laugh. “Of course.”

“That’s funny?”

“It’s just so…ordinary,” she said. “I expected something elaborate and less literal.”

She knew she should take it slow, but instead, she gulped down the drink, relishing the delicious warmth that spread through her body. Taking off her boots, she tucked her legs upunderneath the robe and rested her head against the back of the chair.

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