CHAPTER FOUR
WINTER
“How many executions do you think would be too many?” Winter wondered out loud, his brow arched.
He leaned in the wooden tavern chair, rocking on its two back legs as he tapped a finger against the tabletop.
Their empty stew bowls were pushed to the side, their steins running low, but the maid serving them had already gone to the town square to watch the public hangings.
Micah snorted. “I’m not sure there’s a limit.”
“We need to maintain a pack, so I can’t kill everyone.” Winter wouldn’t mind thinning out the weak though—those bastards loyal to his father who might cause trouble for him later. “Today will be a good start.”
“Four men sends a message,” Micah admitted. “Though eight would send a stronger one.”
Winter swallowed the last of his mead and slammed the stein down. “There’s plenty of time to add names to the executioner’s list.” Though his father had fallen into an unconscious state and hadn’t woken for weeks, there was no telling if he might simply wake at any moment.
And there was still Red Riding Hood to deal with.
Another wolf had turned up dead yesterday with arrow wounds.
While the shifter hadn’t been anyone Winter knew personally, he had still been a wolf, and it was a royal’s job to keep their people safe.
Winter skimmed a forefinger across his lower lip.
The shifters, anyway. It would secure his place among the pack as their leader if he could deal with the bitch in a red cloak.
Winter leaned forward and shoved up from his seat. “I’ll see you back at the manor. Inform General Rawling that the execution is beginning.”
Micah lifted his mead. “Of course.”
Outside, the sun warmed the prince’s face despite the cool autumn morning. He drew in a deep breath and smirked before sauntering down the quiet street. His boots splashed in the rain that had accumulated in the uneven cobbled streets.
Whistling, low and slow, he passed down an alley that led into the town square.
Nearly a hundred villagers or more were crowded in front of the new scaffolding, fiddling nervously with their hands or holding children close.
Ropes were already strung up, swaying with the slight breeze.
Winter ignored the shouts and murmurs as he climbed the stairs.
“A decent turnout,” Winter commented to himself.
A mix of nobles and commoners filled the square, though he was disappointed there weren’t more wolves amongst them.
They were the ones he wanted to make a point with since the humans were already terrified of him, exactly as they should be.
But the pack needed to view him as their leader, their alpha, with no questions asked.
“Welcome,” he shouted, and the crowd fell silent.
Sauntering up to one of the nooses, he trailed a finger along the knot, smirking.
“I’m not one for long speeches. We’re all here for the same reason.
To watch the wolves that told hunters how to get to the king.
Your king. My king. An attack on him is an attack on all of Bloodstorm.
” If only they’d succeeded in murdering the bastard.
He scanned the crowd, drinking in the heavy silence. As Winter squared his shoulders, face after face watched every move he made. Their fear radiated through the crowd, and he reveled in the power they unknowingly gave him.
The old man with one blue-glazed eye, the young redheaded girl holding her mother’s hand.
A foreign nobleman in traditional Moonstone attire donning a large feather in his hat.
Two rows away, a woman with brown hair angled at her chin and wearing dark trousers and a green flowing tunic.
Scars marred the left side of her attractive face.
Brutal. Jagged. As if she’d had a run-in with a wolf.
If he’d gotten close enough to such a beautiful woman, he wouldn’t have marked her—at least not with claws.
Unless she deserved it. However, it wasn’t a habit of his to leave his victims alive.
Maybe once, when he was younger—not anymore.
Humans enjoyed revenge too much to grant them mercy.
Red Riding Hood was the prime example. A vigilante. A ghost. And the best hunter Winter had known. If she wasn’t murdering his packmates, he would admire her stealth. As it was, he needed to locate the bitch and hang her in front of the entire town. Now that would draw a crowd of wolves.
He stilled when the scarred woman’s eyes met his, the greenest he’d ever seen.
Familiar eyes. He knew this human—she haunted his memories.
It was her. The girl he’d told to disappear after his pack murdered her grandmother.
The only human he’d ever felt real pity for.
Even now he felt the connection snap between them, yet she carried the blood of her traitorous family.
She looked different than she had that day.
Of course she did—she was a woman now. But her braid was gone, her body curvaceous, gaze hardened. His wolf yearned to touch her, to fuck.
His eyes narrowed in disapproval over his sudden desire for a human.
She’d been pitiful with a bow the last time he saw her, worse than any human he’d seen, but she’d managed to survive this long.
And she’d lingered so close to him, knowing what would happen if he discovered her…
Foolish woman. Or perhaps brave was the right word.
Either way, the prince never should’ve been tempted by a human—this one especially.
Winter pretended as though he didn’t recognize her, and he relished the anger rising in her expression.
She must’ve assumed he’d easily forgotten her after her grandmother’s slaughter, while she’d probably thought about him every day.
Back when they’d first met, he hadn’t asked her name, but he’d find out once he finished with the executions.
“Bring out the condemned,” Winter ordered.
A commotion rose behind him where Bael, one of his newest packmate replacements, dragged the first wolf onto the platform in shackles.
The prisoner was older than Winter’s father, gray in the beard and hunched in the shoulders, but he’d led the other three into committing this treason.
Now, though he was forced to take each step, he maintained enough self-respect not to beg or scream.
Three more wolves dragged the rest of the traitors onto the stage at the same time Bael placed the prisoner on the furthest block of wood.
The chains around the younger wolves rattled as they were manhandled onto the remaining blocks.
They, however, were not silent and resigned.
Their pleading and sobbing filled the town center.
Winter smiled maliciously at them as the ropes were lowered over their heads.
The wolf nearest him—the youngest, perhaps not even twenty years—whimpered like a newborn babe. Pathetic. “Please,” he begged. “I’m sorry. I didn’t—”
Winter kicked the block out from beneath him before he could finish speaking—the sound of his neck snapping echoed across the quiet, entranced crowd.
There were no excuses allowed in Bloodstorm.
Actions had consequences, no matter the reasoning.
Helping human hunters kill the king was no exception … even if Winter wished they’d succeeded.
His footfalls thudded against the wooden planks as he strode to the next noose.
The block flew out from under the convict and into the crowd.
A young dark-haired boy leapt out of the way just in time to avoid being cracked in the head.
Winter smirked down at him with a cool expression, daring the boy to cry out.
The woman from Winter’s past pushed through the crowd and grabbed the boy by the back of his tunic.
She scowled up at Winter, where he loomed over them at the edge of the scaffolding.
Bodies jerked and swayed on either side of him.
Her lips moved, whispering words to the prince that he couldn’t hear over the other sounds.
The ropes creaked too loudly, the hum of the crowd, the sobs of the last traitor as he awaited his fate.
Whatever she said, he didn’t doubt it was unpleasant.
“What was that, human?” Winter demanded, still concealing the fact that he recognized her.
She pinched her lips in a tight line. “Nothing, Your Highness.”
“You clearly have something important to say. Share it.” He lifted his arms and motioned to the crowd. “I’m sure we would all love to hear it.”
“Don’t,” the little boy urged her under his breath. Winter realized at that moment who this boy was—the young woman’s brother, no longer a babe in a basket but a scrawny child.
Her jaw clenched, hands balled at her sides. The crowd remained suffocatingly silent as they waited to hear her answer—or waited to see what Winter would do. Perhaps both. But the prince paid them no attention.
“Well?” he insisted.
“I said you’re such a gracious prince.” She blinked innocently, a false smile curling the edges of her lips, followed by hatred burning in her stare.
“Mmm. Aren’t I?” Winter cooed. Tension filled the air as he kept his gaze trained on hers.
With that, he kicked the final block out from under the last wolf. The crack of the prisoner’s neck rang through Winter’s skull as he turned his back on the crowd.
“Bring me the girl,” he ordered Bael. Winter was eager to see the look on her face when he questioned what she was doing here, revealing that he had indeed recognized her. What came after was to be determined.