Her Wolf King

l'attaque

THE ATTACK

EVERET growled as he skirted the forest floor. He shouldn't be here, with autumn leaves crunching beneath the pads of his paws. He should be there. In the village. With her.

But night had fallen, and were he to show up now, as a wolf, he would likely be shot on sight. The townsfolk would fear he had come to eat their children or attack their cows.

You should have gone with her, he chastised himself. You need to keep her safe.

He had the pressing sensation that something was horribly wrong. That he'd done her a disservice by letting his wife go into town alone. That he had let her wander into a trap knowingly.

After all, why else would Marya attack a tiny, nameless village if not to bait a trap? She must have known that Lenore would fear for the safety of her family, and that she would go into town.

He ought to have given her something to communicate with. An enchanted raven that would carry messages, perhaps. A magic mirror they could talk through.

But this was no fairytale, at least not one with a happy ending.

And he was not the prince he would ride in to save her. He was the wolf to be feared.

Yet the nagging urge went on pounding at his skull, battering down the door instead of knocking. You need to go to her. You have to ensure she is safe. Something terrible is happening to her.

Sighing, he finished his bloody meal, and made for the town. With any luck, he would be there by sunrise. He'd track Lenore's scent to her house. Her brother would let him in. All would be well.

All had to be well. After spending the past few months with her, he could not picture himself as a solitary, cursed creature in that castle anymore.

He did not merely need any woman.

He needed his wife. And he refused to let another moment go by without telling her how much he loved her and how deeply she had lit up even the darkest caverns of his heart.

***

Timothy had been right about one thing.

As Lenore lay in the tiny twin bed and listened to her brother snore, she knew Kirk was coming after her.

Because what else could have caused that looming shadow in her window, that crunch of twigs breaking, or that heavy intake of breath, but him?

Watching them?

Watching her?

She rolled over in bed. It's not him. Go back to sleep.

But she couldn't.

She removed the knife she had left under her pillow, one she'd taken from the castle to slice the loaves of bread (which had magically multiplied into more than enough to feed the whole village when she'd removed them from her trunk). Gripping its bone handle, feeling the polished ivory and its swirling engravings, she lay in wait. Not even a yawn escaped her despite it being the wee, small hours of the morning, the barely-blue shade of the sky giving credence to her suspicions that dawn had yet to come.

"Lenore?"

She whipped her head around. It was Timothy. "Why are you awake?"

"I was thinking about what Papa said," she whispered. That was far from a lie. Thoughts of his mysterious statement—that the treasure she sought was her heart of all things–had kept her awake long after she usually slipped into slumber.

"Do you know what he meant? What treasure have you been looking for?"

Her twin bed creaked as she moved over, still gripping the knife with white knuckles. "He must have been talking about..."