Page 93 of Craved By a Wolf

And part of her had foolishly believed he loved her in the way she loved him.

Hella huffed, aiming it at herself and not him. She knew she was being mopey when she should be being kickass and escaping, but she was tired and needed a moment to lick her wounds.

She didn’t have any proof that MacKinnon really had been pulling the wool over her eyes the whole time. She also didn’t have any proof that he had been under the influence of magic when she had found him with Godiva. And she had no chance of following through with her plan to get to the bottom of things and find out the truth now anyway.

Ethyrian wasn’t exactly going to let her go back to the fae town and continue her work, and he definitely wouldn’t let her out of his sight—or out of whatever gilded cage he constructed for her—if he knew about the wolf. MacKinnon was possessive of her, but he wouldn’t hold a candle to Ethyrian if the nymph knew she had feelings for another male.

She needed to be careful not to mention the wolf.

She frowned and sighed. Apparently, some part of her was already on the way to forgiving MacKinnon and still believed in him. The rest of her was convinced he was a no-good lying bastard. She clasped her knees and stared at the wall opposite her, going in circles as she thought about him and what had happened, trying to get to the truth, even if it was one that hurt her.

She replayed everything that had happened in that room with Godiva and MacKinnon, and something dawned on her—Godivahadlooked different. The dark circles beneath her eyes and the sallowness of her skin had been subtle, but when Hella compared how she had looked then to how she had looked at the ball in Paris, it was clear as day. Godiva was sick.

Hella frowned at her knees.

Or maybe sick wasn’t quite right.

Back at her coven, there had been a cage in the library, a place where they kept dangerous tomes that contained dark magic. The books had been there so the teachers could show students what dark spells looked like and lecture them on the dangers of using such magic. A group of girls had broken into the cage one night and convinced a young witch to do one of the spells, telling her it was the only way she could join their group.

The witch had ended up in the infirmary, a hollowed-out shell of herself.

Hella had seen her through the window and had felt bad for her. She had looked so gaunt and vacant, and although she had returned to something akin to her normal self after months of recuperation, she had never been the same. The spell had ravaged her strength, stealing years of her life according to the teachers who had used her as an example and a warning to avoid dark magic.

Had Godiva used dark magic? The more Hella considered all the possible spells the witch could have used to fool MacKinnon into feeling Hella was his mate, the more she began to feel he hadn’t been fooled. Such spells wouldn’t have lasted as long as MacKinnon had been after Hella. They would have faded and lost their hold on him, and Godiva would have been forced to renew the spell on him to keep him convinced that Hella was his mate.

Godiva hadn’t used light magic to trick the wolf into thinking Hella was his fated one.

The foolish witch had employed dark magic to find out who Hella’s fated one was and then she had tracked down MacKinnon and cursed him to make sure he did as she wanted.

Which meant he really was her fated one.

She didn’t have time to process that. The iron door of her cell creaked open.

“Up,” the guard grunted and she flicked him a bored look. “The king wishes to speak with you.”

He said that as if she should be honoured by it, so she rolled her eyes.

“You can deliver a message to your king,” she said and flipped the guard off.

The blond male stomped into her cell, seized hold of her and dragged her onto her feet, his grip bruising as he pressed his fingers into her flesh. She struggled and scratched at his hand, scoring red marks across his perfect pale skin, and he didn’t even flinch. He just dragged her from the cell and along the corridor, moving quicker than she could manage. She grimaced as she trod in a puddle and something squished between her bare toes, silently cursed the guard who had taken her boots from her, declaring their heels could be used as a weapon.

She stubbed a toe on the first stone step of the staircase and took her anger out on the guard, punching his hand to make herself feel better and hoping it hurt more than her throbbing toe did.

He carried on up the spiral staircase as if she wasn’t even there, pulling her along with him. It grew lighter as they left the dungeon behind, the air becoming fresh enough that she could breathe without gagging. She sucked down deep breaths, savouring each one that purged the smell and taste of rotting flesh and bodily functions from her lungs, mouth and nose.

When they reached the top of the stairs, the guard shoved her in front of him, almost slamming her into the wall.

She scowled over her shoulder at him. “You really should work on your manners.”

He didn’t even bother looking at her. He kept his eyes forward, fixed on a point beyond her as he marched her towards what felt like her doom.

Female servants scurried around, those who were moving along the corridor rather than crossing it pausing to bow their heads as the guard approached them. Nymphs. Even the lowest among them expected women to be subservient.

Which was so not her style.

So, while Ethyrian’s castle might be rather impressive, with the solid gold detailing that covered the ivory walls and ceilings of the wide corridor and ribbons of that precious metal coursing through the pale marble floors, and might have swayed a weaker woman with the promise of riches and a life of luxury, she was going to have to escape again.

She just needed to figure out how.

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