Page 107 of With Fangs and Claws (The Wolf Queen 1)

Of course, the minute everyone looked, I lost that feeling and I stumbled and fell forward, forced to catch myself on my hands. I was followed down by the sound of other people’s laughter, but I got back on my feet. If the mirth of others had been enough to stop me, I’d never have learned anything.

My father’s men had cackled when a tiny little me was led out onto the training grounds, struggling to lift the smallest of practice swords. They’d laughed as I’d sent arrow after arrow into a hay bale, or worse, somewhere behind it, failing to hit the target. And to cap that off, when I did start hitting the target, they’d continued to laugh, hoping to put me off, only developing a grudging respect when I pushed through. I’d pulled arrow after arrow, getting closer to where I wanted it to go, then run off to retrieve them before starting again.

People always laugh at others when they’re just learning something, because they’re confronted with the memory of their own failings. They want to feel safe, secure in their now expert proficiency. But the problem is, no one ever got better at anything without being willing to accept they might be bloody terrible, at first. Terrible is our natural state, skill comes from an act of will to push past that and reach for something else. So I got to my feet, not really giving a damn what the others thought, as I started from the beginning.

I made the first position, then the next, then the next, feeling that flow rush through me, my fur forming and disappearing as I did, my body feeling like it was moving on its own now, as my brain had finally seemed to communicate properly with my limbs. I moved and I moved, feeling the thud of the wolf’s paws as I stamped my feet, feeling the questing of a sensitive nose each time I thrust my face forward. My hands raked through the air, now vicious claws. I swung my body around, teeth bared, a wolf posturing in front of others so as to prevent them from taking her kill.

And then I ran out of steps.

“Well done,” Ayla said with a tilt of her head. “Now, if the outlander can do it, so can you. Again!”

“Darcy.”

This room always seemed to cast a spell over me, my eyes blinking, my head jerking back at the sound of a masculine voice. When the man reached for me, pulling my head to press against his, I baulked, bucking against his grip.

“Shh, shh…” he told me, even and calm, but I didn’t want that. I wanted this. This dance, it unlocked something inside me, something wild, something hungry… And that’s when I stopped resisting. I cocked my head to one side, then grabbed the collar of his shirt, pulling it to one side before burying my nose in his neck and breathing in a woody scent that felt more vital to me than air itself.

“If we have to have one of the king’s get here, watching us dance, I don’t see why it can’t be the princes,” a feminine voice complained.

“I wouldn’t mind sniffing Weyland again. He smells like rum and spices.”

I stiffened then, strong arms wrapping around me as a growl trickled out from between my lips.

“Weyland smells like rum and spices or whatever fucking cologne he’s wearing for you only, my mate,” the male voice said, low and terse. “No one is sniffing him but you. They want to taunt you as much as they’re able. To get back at you for being stronger, better than them. For possessing what their parents say they must have.”

“Gael?”

I blinked as I looked up at him and it felt like I saw his face for the first time.

“Always, love.” He moved in slowly, waiting in case I pulled away before brushing his lips against mine. “You’ve been at it for hours and were starting to sink deep again. Have a drink, then come sit with me for a second. Just come back to the real world.”

I walked over to the spot on the wall he’d been sitting against, the water skin and a discarded book on the ground beside him. He pocketed the book and then handed me the water and I drank from it greedily.

“Slowly. You’ll make yourself sick if you guzzle it,” he said. I felt like something came back as he rubbed his hand over my shoulder blades, but also something intruded.

Right now, in this place, it was like there were two Darcys. One who was a wolf, a maiden, on the hunt, some kind of devil moving her limbs as she performed a dark rite that somehow, she’d always known. She smelled Gael’s scent and just wanted to burrow her nose in his skin and never leave, breathing him in for the rest of my days. That ignored the other Darcy, the forgotten one, left at the border as I entered Strelae. The one whose lungs clamped down, refusing to fill when stressed, the one who snuck out to play at being a knight or a hunter. And that girl was also Darcy, daughter of the Duke of Elverston. Prim and proper as a noblewoman should be.

So which one was I?

Gael, seeming to sense my confusion, took the waterskin when I was done and curled me across his lap, letting one Darcy come to the fore.

“I can’t stay here for long,” I said, watching the dancers take a break as well.

“I know. You’re always slipping from my fingers and the only way I can bear it is by reminding myself that you always come back.” He stared down at me now, stroking the side of my face. “You will, won’t you?”

I would’ve said yes to anything he asked right then, absolutely anything, and I told him as much, which made him smile. His fractured eye twinkled just as bright as his unchanged one.

“I’ve got to go soon. Weyland will take over and be here when you’re done. Pepin has me doing some coordinating of the people coming into the city. She’s quite the operator.” He kissed me one last time. “Just stay out of trouble until he gets here.”

---