Page 52 of The Wolf

BRINE

Brine was standing before what he used to call “the throne” as a child. Of course it wasn’t a throne, because sat upon it was not the ruling monarch of Heimserya. But to his small eyes the large, ornately carved mahogany chair with gold trim seemed plenty extravagant enough to be a throne.

As was the woman who now sat upon it, flanked on either side by his uncle and several other high-standing wolves, including a red wolf who rankled Brine to no end. His name was Texel, Brine was fairly certain. And in the small crowd of wolves milling around in the room waiting to hear what news Brine had for the group, was another grizzled, maimed, mangled wolf Brine was fairly certain was Texel’s son.

Not only that: the son fit the description of the shifter Damien had so thoroughly dismembered in the forest several weeks before. He had done so to save a maiden, though considering it was Damien, Brine was almost positive he always used a maiden as an excuse for his bloodshed. Regardless, Brine did not like the father or the son upon immediate observation.

In truth, he didn’t like the look of most of the wolves in the pack. They looked weak, and cruel, and too eager to follow instructions without thinking about what those instructions really meant.

The entire pack needed gutting from the inside out. Which was exactly why he was here.

“So what have you been up to all these many years since you left home?” Arwen said from her throne, almost lazily. She said it as if Brine had gone on a trip, rather than to flee as far as he could from her, as if she had the plague. She tapped her nails impatiently upon the shiny surface of the desk in front of her chair, though it was bereft of documents or adornments and so seemed to Brine functionally useless aside from a surface upon which she could tap her nails.

The act irritated him, but Brine made sure that his irritation did not show in his countenance. He had to appear principled, disciplined, and strong, not short-tempered or emotional. If he showed his emotions he was as good as dead.

He took a breath and plunged headfirst into the story Pyre had helped Brine concoct; the fox’s imagination was far superior to his own. “I was young and hungry to make my mark,” he said. “I wanted to try and strike out on my own. So I helped to create the Dark Court. This I am proud of. But when the Jester decided to side with the weak youngqueen, I knew my time with them was up. So I left. And here I am.”

Arwen’s dark eyes fixed on him. “So what of Merjeri?” she asked. “I know you’ve been causing issues there. Issues that directly affect me. So why should I trust you?”

Pyre told him to expect his grandmother to know of him causing problems in Merjeri. So for this he had yet another lie. “It was the last job I chose to do for the Dark Court in order to get close to the dragon and his mate,” Brine said, ignoring an insatiable urge to scratch his nose. It was vitally important he remained stock-still while he lied, keeping his heart as steady as possible. “Given what they’ve been up to the last few months, I believed you would want to take vengeance against them for destroying your links with the head of Merjeri. Not only that…” Brine stopped for effect. “…the Dragon King has access to travel through the mountains to the elven lands. That vengeance is personal for you, I know. But if there was a way to capture his mate and use her as leverage against him, I have no doubt you could find a way to best use the Dragon King’s travel routes to your advantage.”

This piqued Arwen’s interest in the precise way Pyre, Damien, and Brine all knew it would. She sat up straighter on her throne, unable to hide the fact that Brine’s news was both unexpected and very, very welcome. Then, out of the corner of his eye, Brine spied a red-cloaked figure step through a doorway, followed by an unfamiliar shifter with sandy hair.

The scent that wafted through the door was familiar, and Brine stiffened.

Sweet poison,no.

The cloaked figure was Red.

HisRed.

Hismate.

A shudder ran through his body as he forced himself not to move in her direction. He watched her from the corner of his eye as she approached the throne, crimson cloak brushing the floor.

A chord of familiarity struck him.

The red cloak…

He’d heard gossip in Merjeri of one a crimson cloaked assassin who worked for Old Mother. Though it was said she had saved several members of the Hood’s men and allowed them to escape Arwen’s clutches…

It can’t be.

Yet there she was beside his grandmother. Arwen grinned at him as Red kneeled next to the throne. She pulled back Red’s hood and stroked his mate’s long, wispy, blond hair.

Everything in Brine rebelled at the action.

Rage ignited in his gut as he spied the bruises across her face. Someone had struck her several times. His gaze latched onto his grandmother’s hand petting Red and it made him want to tear the appendage from her body.

How dare Arwen touch what was his? It was outrageous.

Calm down. She’s playing with you.

Brine managed to keep his emotions in check. It was only a show of power. Arwen didn’t know what Red could mean to him. She was just showing her dominance over the young woman and yet… she was watching Brine with anticipation. What was her game?

“My dear grandson, I thought to introduce you to my blade.”

“You blade?” he said, voice bland.

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