Page 5 of Wicked Prince of Carnage
“I’m not at liberty to discuss it,” Caston said with a slight hitch in his voice. “I’ve only been sent to bring you home.”
Winter gritted his teeth. If something involved his father, he doubted it was a true tragedy. More like the old bastard had the patience of a child and wanted the prince to run off on a new mission. Not that Winter gave a damn about terrorizing hunters and making the entire court of Bloodstorm fear him. In fact, he relished it. When someone fled at the sight of him, it filled him with a sense of amusement. Ofpower.
“If I must,” Winter said, sighing heavily. He licked a canine tooth as he peered at Jasira over his shoulder. “We’ll continue this soon.” Grabbing Caston by the back of his neck, Winter dragged him from the small bedroom.
They passed through the empty lounge with worn velvet furniture and a grand piano. Half-empty glasses of liquor lined the bar, and one of the stools rested on its side. Dust and stale bread permeated the air, a far cry from his pristine manor.
“For your sake, I hope this is worth interrupting my morning fuck,” the prince hissed in Caston’s ear as they exited onto the street.
“I assure you, it is.” He shrugged.
The bastard believed he was too safe. Winter would fix that …viciously… Send his close packmates around his home, taunt his family, until he learned his place. He shoved the man away, causing him to stumble. “Unless the manor is burning to the ground, I highly doubt it.”
Winter strode through the empty streets. The sky was still pink with the dawning of the day, doves cooing as they flew above. Sagging roofs sat atop buildings, homes, and businesses. Peeling paint covered their worn exterior walls. Puddles of piss lined the path where the people emptied their chamber pots.
Striding ahead of Caston, the prince wound through the streets and up a hill leading into the forest. Sweet-scented pines replaced the repugnant village odors as he first took the left fork, then the right, traveling deeper into the trees.
There, past another hill, stood the manor house Winter lived in. The brick building held up walls of ivy that crept around the windows of all two dozen rooms. It was a simple dwelling compared to his father’s elaborate castle further west in the court of Bloodstorm, but Winter preferred it. More woods to shift and run through, more game to hunt.
And less of his vexing father—though the asshole had been living in the manor for months now. It felt almost as if he were staying in Winter’s permanent residence out of spite, and he wished he could easily crush him beneath his boot.
As he neared the front of his home, the bold scent of blood made the hair on the back of his neck rise.Had his pack gone hunting without him? He sniffed the air.No.That was shifter blood.
“Ah, fuck,” he muttered. Perhaps it was a tragedy after all.
Pushing through the heavy oak doors, Winter was greeted by a slew of his father’s most trusted advisors, all speaking at once.
“Your father—”
“Hunters—”
“—Attacked—”
“The healer is hopeful that—”
A wide shifter with short auburn hair shoved his way through the neatly dressed older men. “Shut the fuck up,” Micah shouted, his voice bouncing off the high ceiling. He was the last of Winter’s original packmates—one of his most hostile wolves—who hadn’t been murdered by Red Riding Hood like so many others. The shifter was loyal to Winter, understanding that the prince was his alpha and that there would berepercussionsfor disobedience. Micah’s serious gaze landed on him, a deep crease between his brows. “Your father needs to see you.”
“So I’ve been told.” The prince’s expression remained neutral on his way through the crowd. Once they hit the staircase leading to his father’s bedchamber, he looked over his shoulder at Micah. “Well?”
“Hunters attacked two hours ago while it was still dark. They killed the guards in the garden and climbed up the ivy, breaking into your father’s room.”
“I suppose he’ll order the vines to be cut now.” Winter tsked. “Was it Red Riding Hood?”
Micah shook his head. “No, it wasn’t that fucking bitch. However, the king is severely wounded. He managed to kill two of the attackers, but not before they broke his arm, leg, and nearly disemboweled him.”
Nearly.A shame they didn’t succeed. “If he killed two, where are the others?”
“Just one more, and he’s locked in a cell,” Micah replied.
Winter nodded. “I’ll deal with him myself.” Show solidarity or whatever the hell it took to get his father to move back home after he was well enough.Ifhe recovered at all—which would be the prince’s ideal outcome. “He’ll recover, I assume? No one’s come running to ask me for favors yet.”
Micah grunted. “We don’t know, but the healers remain optimistic.”
If his father died, that meant Winter would finally gain the crown. “Wonderful,” Winter drawled before rounding the top of the stairs to the third floor and shoving through the doors to his father’s room—the fanciest suite with the largest four-poster bed.
Antlers hung along the walls as decorations, and the massive hide of a grizzly bear lingered in front of the fireplace. Heat radiated from the hearth, the fire burning high, and a sweat broke out across Winter’s forehead. The high-ranking pack members converged around the bed, all wearing cotton breeches and loose shirts as if they’d just roused from sleep.
“Well?” the prince asked, unable to see his father between the other males. “I was summoned.”
