Page 11 of With Fangs and Claws (The Wolf Queen 1)

“Darcy?” My name came out as a rough rasp. “Gods, you’re—”

He rushed in, just as I’d thought he would. When he did, my stance stiffened, and my dagger was laid across the thick column of his throat. With an air of satisfaction, I watched his eyes go wide, smiling to myself at how easily he was duped.

“I can’t stop you from making this deal with my father,” I said, biting each word off precisely. “I can’t prevent the four of you from bundling me up like a sack of wheat and carting me off to Strelae, but know this.” My blade moved infinitesimally closer, dimpling his tanned brown skin. “If you assumed you were getting a polite little Granian miss, you thought wrong. Away from the keep, from my father, from Linnea and all the other means to control me, I’ll become something else altogether. Something you don’t want lying beside you at night.”

I hoped against hope that this would be enough to dissuade Weyland. That like most Granian men, he’d rather plump for a much more biddable bride than marry a harridan like me. Perhaps then Kris and I–

“Oh, my queen, you have no idea what it is I want.”

I’d heard voices like Weyland’s before, coarse ones full of desperation, the first time I sneaked into the men’s barracks long after I should’ve been in bed, only to discover the lot of them were drinking and wenching under my father’s roof. I’d watched in horrified fascination as Jessie, one of the laundresses, appeared to let the man peel her bodice away from her tits in front of all the knights assembled, their roars of approval cut through with her more breathy cry of pleasure right as the man lowered his lips–

Weyland pressed his neck against my blade, a small trickle of blood falling then before he pulled away and wet his fingers with it. Horrified, I went to draw back, but then I was yanked back against him, one hand gripping my wrist, just as his brother had, forcing the dagger to fall free. And the other?

“The sharing of blood is sacred in my culture,” he told me as he held me fast against his body, my back to his chest.

Fingers from that other hand were forced between my lips, my mouth filling with the salty, metallic taste of his blood. I should’ve struggled. I should’ve shoved him away. I should’ve spat his filthy gift on the flagstones and then rung for my guards. No matter how important my father’s deal was, this couldn’t be tolerated. My conscious brain spluttered all those truths to me and yet none seemed to get through. Weyland let out a grunt of satisfaction as my hand gripped his wrist, holding him where he was as I licked his fingers as clean as a cat does its paws.

“That’s it,” he said, releasing my wrist and rubbing his free hand up and down my spine. And with that came something entirely unexpected.

I frowned, a strange feeling rising in my body, growing and growing as I swallowed down his blood, until I let out a little gasp. He nodded then, smirking with self-congratulation as I was set on fire. That gesture of his should’ve warned me and yet the only response I could muster was a desire to toss fuel on the blaze. I sucked at his fingers greedily, then spun around, launching myself at his neck, taking my pleasure straight from the source.

My muscles, my skin, all sang under his attentions, my back arching for more. He groaned at that, both his hands now pressing against my back, forcing me harder against him, which just made me ache more. This was utter madness, I knew that. People spoke of the diabolical powers and depraved activities of the wargen, but I’d never heard of this.

Something deep inside me clenched hard, the feeling almost that of the aches I got when my menses came, but so, so much better, because each clench was coupled with a great burst of pleasure. I felt like I was climbing up to something, seeking something that only my body knew, but right as I began to pant, all that warmth and heat was abruptly withdrawn.

This time when I wavered on my feet, it wasn’t a sham. Tears pricked my eyes, a little groan of loss escaping my lips.

“Don’t look at me like that, sweetheart,” Weyland said, slowly shaking his head as he held me away from him. “I want to follow up on the promises your body is making, but you’ll not thank me for rushing things.” As he took my face in his hands, smoothing his thumbs across my cheeks, I shamefully just looked up at him rather than slapping him away. “With my blood inside you, there’ll be no pain in your chest, not for a while at least. You should rest now, and I should rejoin your father’s terribly boring tour of his keep.”

I didn’t want that, my expression, my inarticulate noises making that clear, right up until the point his lips pressed against my forehead. He was taking insufferable liberties, even if my father had basically signed me away to be theirs, so why didn’t I protest? Why didn’t I shove him away or stab him in the shoulder like my mostly smothered instincts demanded? Why instead did I press into his embrace, right up until such a point as he pulled away?

My dagger was retrieved, placed back into my hand, my fingers closed around it before he turned to go.

“Keep your weapons close, little huntress,” he told me. “My brothers will be ecstatic when I tell them what kind of queen we have discovered. But until we can get you safely back onto our land, you need to protect yourself. Then we’ll take over. Rest now, because the others will be plaguing your father for time with you, now that I’ve had mine.”

Whatever magic his voice possessed, I found myself stumbling over to my bed and lying down on it just as he clicked the door shut behind him, but not before I loosened my stays, thankfully sucking in a large mouthful of air.

---