CHAPTER TWO
WINTER
EIGHT YEARS LATER
No one was more feared than Prince Winter. Even if he hadn’t been born and bred to be a harsh ruler, the decades would’ve done the job for him. Did the Prince of Carnage take things too far on occasion? That would depend on who was asking…
The harlots never ran from him when he entered the brothels, though, not when they were too desperate for coin. This brothel was wretched, but the harlots did whatever he requested. Though humans were pitiful creatures, they were better at keeping secrets, especially when they feared one’s wrath.
Winter had been visiting the brothels ever since he rejected his mate, Talia. Fucking bitch. Most wolves in the Bloodstorm pack only ever settled down with their mates. Some wolves fucked around before they found each other as a bit of entertainment, but that was all it ever was.
Which meant Winter had a choice: forgive Talia or never take a mate.
There was a third option, of course… Marry and bed a human.
Winter’s skin crawled at the idea of binding himself to one of the village women.
A human he’d briefly encountered eight years ago came to mind, the only one he’d ever found himself drawn to until he discovered the traitorous blood running through her veins.
He shouldn’t still be wondering about her now, wishing he hadn’t discovered who she was and had run into her again—she should’ve been dead in his thoughts.
But, every now and again, her face haunted his dreams and he woke curious where she’d disappeared to.
He pushed the memory of the human girl away. The answer to his mate dilemma was clear—he would die alone with no heir to the throne. Rule alone while wreaking havoc whenever and wherever he wished.
He sauntered down the brothel hallway, the scent of sex and rose petals heavy through the air. The brothel was always quiet in the mornings. Patrons and harlots alike slept off the excitement of the night before. The wine, the fucking.
He brushed his fingers against Jasira’s chipped, copper doorknob.
Without a knock, he entered the overly-warm room.
Wallpaper curled from the walls, and the curtain had been patched so many times, Winter wasn’t sure what the original fabric was.
The young harlot sat on the edge of her thin mattress, running a brush through thick brown hair.
“Your Highness!” Jasira chirped and set her brush down on her tilted night table. “How may I serve you today?’
He didn’t say a word, only closed the door behind him and tossed her payment beside her brush.
Winter grabbed her wrist and dragged her nails down the side of his neck hard enough to leave red marks. He savored the slight burn. “Be rough,” he ordered.
A loud bang came at the door, shaking the worn wood. “Your Highness.”
Fuck. Winter’s wolf snarled, begging to come out and tear the man’s throat out. The king’s advisor was a nasally prick and must’ve followed him here. Always lurking, always inserting himself where he didn’t belong. As a glorified errand boy, he never seemed to get that through his thick skull.
“Come here. Show the bastard how feisty you can be.” Winter settled on the edge of the bed and yanked Jasira toward him possessively. She lifted her skirts and straddled him at the same time she unlaced her bodice. Her small, perky breasts sprung free as another knock banged on the door.
“Oooh,” Jasira moaned loudly. Winter grabbed her hips and buried his face in her soft neck. “Don’t stop,” she continued.
“Your Highness!” Caston shouted a second time. “It’s your father.”
“It’s always my father,” Winter grumbled into Jasira’s shoulder.
When Winter didn’t reply, Caston rattled the door handle. “I’m coming in.”
Intrusive bastard. Winter glared at the fucker as he stepped into the small bedroom.
Where the prince had solid muscle, Caston was almost gaunt.
He wore his dark blond hair neatly slicked back and his nose hooked toward the right.
And most notably, he’d never fought to the brink of death like most in Winter’s pack.
“Can’t you see I’m busy?” Winter snarled, gripping Jasira’s hips tighter, her skirts flared around him.
Caston’s gaze fixed on her exposed chest, and he licked his lips. “You’re needed back at the manor immediately.”
“What is it this time?” Winter set Jasira aside and stood before adjusting his trousers. “If you’ve caught another group of hunters, lock the fuckers up and I’ll deal with them later.”
“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. Of power.
“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 be repercussions for 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. If he 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.”
“He can barely speak at the moment,” Caston said, pursing his lips.
“All of you leave except for my son,” King Valco moaned, his eyelids fluttering.
Winter stepped inside the room and motioned the other men out. “We don’t have all day,” he snarled when they shuffled their feet.
After the last noble left, Winter shut the door with the heel of his boot and folded his arms across his chest as he studied his father.
King Valco was well-built for his age, his hair still dark with a few streaks of gray, his skin smooth, but right now he looked older than his forty-seven years.
Dark circles rimmed his eyes, lines creased his brow, and bloodied bandages wrapped around his wounds.
His pale skin appeared waxy as the light from the window highlighted his features.
If his father had died and done them all a favor, Winter would inherit Bloodstorm. No one would ever call him weak.
Winter cocked his head. “You look like shit, Father.”
His eyes flashed with pain, and his words came out garbled, “You should’ve been here instead of turning your back on your duties.”
Winter snorted. “Well, I was busy.” He raised his brows and tilted his head as if considering the damage hidden beneath the bandages. “That stomach wound will take weeks, if not longer, to heal. What lie will we tell?”
Valco sucked in a deep breath to speak, but only an agonized groan left his throat. He coughed and grasped his chest before finally getting a sentence out. “You’ll rule in my stead until I’m well again. Prove yourself.”
“Will I?” Winter drawled.
“You will rule this pack while I’m recovering, and do it well. If you—” The king closed his eyes, his breaths ragged. Winter stepped toward his father, itching to tear open his wounds wider.
Someone rapped on the door, drawing him from his thoughts. “Your Majesty, I’ve collected the herbs you require.”
The healer. Better yet, perhaps Winter could slip wolfsbane into one of the concoctions… Make it look like an accident…
For now, Winter would spread the news that his father was hurt. Weak. He smirked. His father wanted him to rule? To make sure the hunters didn’t attack the pack? Fine. He was perfectly capable of that. More than capable, in fact. The court already feared their prince.
“How did it go?” Micah asked when Winter reached the top of the stairs.
“Perfectly.” Winter grinned. And if his father lived, he would make him regret it.