Page 49 of The Wolf

TWENTY-THREE

BRINE

Brine stood in the reception hall of the Betraz Manor awaiting his grandmother. She had made him wait two full days before accepting an audience with him. In truth, he had expected her to test his patience much longer. He’d known she would make him wait; it was her style. But considering the unstable state of affairs within the country, Brine reasoned Lady Betraz couldn’t afford to wait long.

So here Brine was, alone, having left Chesh behind in the pirate city with instructions to keep working with his grandmother’s captain and the other ships trading in the area, gathering as much information as was possible. They needed every snippet of gossip to use to their advantage. This, at least, Brine knew he could entrust to Chesh. No one was better at coaxing out gossip than the feline—not even Pyre.

Which was saying something.

His uncle had accompanied Brine to the manor, having shown up Salmiere a day’s ride from the province of Betraz, along the Fiergone River.

The man hadn’t spoken a word to him throughout their entire journey back to the place he had once called home. His uncle was as tired and stoic-looking as ever, but now there was more gray in his hair than Brine had remembered seeing on him as a child. He decided the silver hair looked good on him. Made him look more refined. Regal. Even the ropey scars that littered his skin added to the look, though Brine knew far better than to place much stock in appearances.

His uncle was still working for Old Mother after all. He could have left when Brine’s father died, taking Brine with him, or he could have left with Brine when he decided he could no longer stand to live in Betraz. But the older wolf had done neither of these things. He remained where he was, for whatever reason Brine had never fully understood. It wasn’t as if Bright was close with Arwen. Brine was sure his uncle didn’t even like her. But still, here Bright was, doing her bidding in bringing Brine along to the province of Betraz.

A loyal dog.

It made Brine sick.

A nameless crew of young wolves that Brine did not recognize had met them when they entered the estate, taking over Bright’s duties so his could race on ahead to the manor proper to respond to some order or other. He wasescortedto a log cabin along the edge of town and locked in. Two uncomfortable nights later, Brine found himself now in the reception hall with dread creeping down his spine.

A hundred horrible memories assaulted him as he remembered everything that had gone on here. The blood, the beatings, the pain… He exhaled slowly, keeping his mask in place. While this place held mostly bad memories, he had a few precious good ones. All of them involving a blond-haired, peach-carrying little girl.

Every time he found her she was in a garden or amongst the old book in the library.

Both places of peace.

His mood soured. The reception hall was not one of them. It was where Arwen made her victims wait their punishments.

You are not one of her victims. She isyourprey.

His attention snapped to the entrance as Bright stepped into the hall. The older wolf didn’t even nod at Brine, let alone speak. It had always been safer not to speak back in the day. Words could so easily be used against you, especially when others were taught to always listen and report back to Old Mother. Brine could appreciate this far more now than when he was a child—he’d learned so much from within the safety of the Dark Court—but it still put him on edge. What was his uncle playing at? Was it all a game? Or something more heartbreaking? Had Bright completely lost his soul and will to Arwen?

Bright kept his attention focused on the figure behind him and opened the door wider to let someone in. Brine braced himself.

Here we go.

His brows furrowed slightly as he spotted two figures just outside. He inhaled deeply and stiffened. A faint, familiar scent. Something wasn’t right. A spy perhaps?

Brine stared hard as his grandmother garbed in fanciful black silk sauntered inside. He brushed off his curiosity and forced himself to focus. Bowing low, he allowed his grandmother to walk past, her onyx dress whispering over the stone floor. He kept his eyes pinned to the ground despite how the hair at the back of his neck prickled. His grandmother may have beenignoringhim but make no mistake, she was sizing him up.

“Rise.”

He straightened as she turned her back on him and wasted no time in moving toward a second set of doors that lead to her reception hall.

“Follow,” she called over her shoulder as Bright opened the doors for them, the second figure staying far back behind them.

Brine moved to stand in the center of the room, silent shifters standing along the walls of the room. His grandmother moved to pour herself a drink, a smile teasing the corners of her lips. Seeing her once again was shocking. With her half-elven blood she looked much younger than her age, flawless and beautiful in a terrifying way. There was a predatory, hawk-like look to her dark eyes as she trained them on Brine. Her long, midnight black nails tapped a calculating rhythm against her arm goblet as she took a healthy sip. She raised a black eyebrow, as almost in a challenge.

He knew the score.

Brine knelt in the middle of the room and waited.

His grandmother placed her cup on the gold tray and approached him. He held completely still and allowed her to circle him like a shark. Silence followed, punctuated only by the clack-clack-clack of Arwen’s heels upon the floor. Not a single shifter in the hall dared speak. It felt as if nobody was even breathing, including Brine.

She circled him for so long Brine became certain that his grandmother was going to cut along his exposed neck, lopping off his head, and for a horrible second he realized he’d walked into a trap. But it was too late now to save his life if the purpose of him being here was to die, so Brine stayed still and steady.

“How you’ve grown,” she murmured. “Rise.”

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