CHAPTER TWELVE
WINTER
Winter stood outside his father’s bedchamber, staring at the wooden door.
The putrid stench of infection leaked into the hallway mixed with strong tinctures the healers must’ve been using.
Perhaps while he was in there, he could accidentally knock them over and prolong their replacements just long enough for the king to die…
After Talia’s betrayal, the king had continued demanding Winter accept his mate—that would never happen.
Winter hadn’t known Talia before they recognized each other as mates, but he had planned to accept her.
Why wouldn’t he? Wolves only got one fated mate, so without her, he would never marry.
Never sire an heir to the throne. Never feel happy or complete.
And maybe he would’ve accepted Talia if she’d been coerced, but she hadn’t been. He’d listened to them both climax through the door, too stunned to do anything different, and then she’d told him that it was nothing but sex, that it would make her a better princess.
And that … that he could not forgive.
The door swung open and Caston froze. His mouth fell open in surprise before he gathered enough wits to bow his head. “Your Highness.”
“Rawling told me the king awoke and called for me,” Winter snapped.
It had been an abrupt summons—even Sterling had still been asleep in her cage when the knock came on the door.
She’d glared down at him from beneath her furred blanket as if the prince was personally responsible for the interruption.
Caston stepped aside to allow Winter into the room before leaving.
With a silent sigh, Winter squinted at the gossamer curtains surrounding the four-poster bed.
Two candles were burnt to nubs on the small bedside table, casting the room into near darkness.
The shutters were closed over the windows to keep out airborne infections and any future assassination attempts.
“Son,” the king called from behind the curtains.
“Unfortunately,” he grumbled.
A quiet, dry breath escaped his father. “Come here.”
Winter hesitated. He didn’t want to see his father—not on death’s door and not at the peak of health.
General Rawling had said that he was improving, though, and that was almost worse.
To be so close to freeing himself of the king, only for him to claw his way back to the living.
“I can hear you from here,” he told him.
“I said come here.”
Winter raked a hand through his hair and moved to the bed. How quickly would the old man bleed out if he shifted enough to kill him with a sharpened claw? Not quickly enough for his liking.
With a snap of his wrist, Winter ripped the curtain aside. The candlelight flickered across the king’s sunken face. Swollen, dark circles lined his eyes, his lips were cracked, but his skin wasn’t as pale. The blankets were pulled up to his shoulders, keeping any evidence of the injury hidden.
“You look ghastly,” Winter said with a small smirk.
“Don’t get your hopes up, welp. The healers say I’ll be back on my feet in due time.”
Winter shrugged. “No one can ever be too sure, can they?”
The king released another wheeze, which turned into a cough. He groaned and clutched at his stomach as sweat broke out on his forehead.
“As I said…” Winter cocked his head and crossed his arms. It had been nearly a month since the attempted assassination, and, sadly, the king was improving. “Now, what did you want?”
The coughing fit slowed, exchanged with labored breathing. Long seconds ticked by, ten, then twenty, before his father was able to speak again. “You weren’t here when I woke.”
“I’m aware.”
He scowled. “I’m your father.”
“Ah yes.” Winter examined his nails. “But you seemed to forget that when you fucked my mate.”
He bared his teeth. “I am your king.”
Winter gave him a wide, forced smile. “A king who slithered between countless women’s legs even while Mother was alive.”
“I swear to the gods, Winter, if you don’t hold your tongue, I’ll—”
“Kill me?” The prince rolled his eyes. “Good luck.”
“Aren’t you going to inform me of your guest?” the king asked. “The one that should be dead.”
Winter flexed his fingers. “Red Riding Hood? I’m toying with her at the moment. She doesn’t deserve a simple death.”
The king lifted his chin. “I hear she will be participating in a second game. If she wins, I have something in store for her myself.”
Winter could see his father’s intentions gleaming behind his eyes.
Fuck her, he meant. Willingly or not, because he was the king, and no one refused him.
Except the prince, of course. And, even with knowing so little of Sterling, he felt confident she would be the first person to reject the bastard.
Anger blossomed at the idea of her struggling beneath his father.
“A human against so many wolves?” Winter said, forcing his voice to remain calm. “You give her too much credit.”
With that, the prince spun on his heel and left the room. Winter suppressed his simmering rage all the way back to his own bedchamber until he slammed the door behind him. He released a deep roar, his wolf snarling and snapping.
“Fucking bastard,” Winter growled.
“Is that any way to talk to yourself?” Sterling mumbled from her cage.
Winter froze, his focus snapping to his captive.
Her hair was mussed. and she hugged the blanket around her shoulders as if there were a chill in the room.
The fire crackled, its flames low but still pleasantly warm.
Feeble human. However, it seemed she’d regained her passion for antagonizing him in the short time he’d been gone.
“For someone in your position, you’re strangely comfortable insulting me.
” He prowled up to the cage and skimmed his fingers across the iron bars, his gaze never wavering from hers.
She’d been healing perfectly over the last week from the salve he’d given her, her skin less pale, though she’d been sleeping most of the time and silently staring at the wall when she was awake.
When he’d first noticed her bleeding on the floor after the game, he’d wanted to make her crawl up the stairs, wanted not to care, but he had fucking felt something.
While she’d been recovering, he’d planned the games and dealt with all the responsibilities of running a court—signing death sentences, allocating funds, making obligatory appearances.
She studied him with her bright green eyes, ones that he loathed to admit enticed him too much. “I suppose so.” She shrugged.
“Don’t you have something to say to me?” He inched closer to the bars, inhaling her apple scent.
She arched a brow. “Do I?”
“Perhaps start with thank you.”
“For?”
He trailed a finger across his lower lip. “Making you comfortable.”
“Yes, you gave me a blanket and pillow,” she pointed out. “But you also tricked me into thinking I was going to eat human meat when it was boar.”
Winter’s lips curled up at the edges. “Maybe you’re right. Maybe you’re not.”
Sterling narrowed her eyes. “I know my meat.”
Winter’s gaze fell to her scars, her mussed hair. His wolf clawed inside his chest, and a part of him wanted to rip the cage open, grasp his hands in her hair to see how soft it was as he bit into her sweet neck to taste her. Not to tear her apart—but to touch her.
He wanted her.
Wanted to fuck her, even if it was just to get her out of his head. But she was a human, a traitor, a murderer of his kind, someone he shouldn’t want to stick his cock in.
“You were meant to die in the enclosure,” he said, forcing his voice to take on a lighter tone.
“And yet you helped me, then stitched me up,” she grumbled.
There wasn’t much of a choice in that. Though, he supposed, he could’ve called for a healer instead of doing it himself.
He simply wasn’t ready to let her die yet—not when there would be another game that would accomplish the task for him.
Draw out the satisfaction of watching her fight to live, only to fail.
He shrugged.
Sterling shifted closer to the bars, her face mere inches from his. “Why did your mate want to kill me herself?”
“Because she’s a selfish bitch.” However, if Winter had let Talia kill Sterling, then he wouldn’t be secretly lusting after her right now.
Perhaps he should give into temptation, let her ride him like she had offered in exchange for her brother, let the distraction take him away from his father, Talia, and his future.
She would most likely fail in the next game, and then he could forget all about her.
“It might be because you’re keeping me in your room,” Sterling said.
Winter gave a dry laugh. If she only knew the thoughts running through his mind about how her body would feel wrapped around his in pleasure.
“Talia knows I wouldn’t fuck you.” Inside, his wolf tilted his head as if to say liar.
“She simply wanted to be the one to take down the infamous Red Riding Hood.”
Sterling watched him for a long moment. “If you say so.”
“The cunt won’t interfere again,” he insisted. During the next game, he would have her locked in a cell with trusted guards to make sure she stayed there.
“Seems to me like she doesn’t care what your orders are.”
Winter’s nostrils flared, his breath mingling with Sterling’s. Talia had been after his forgiveness ever since he walked in on her riding the king’s cock. If Talia assumed he was fucking his prisoner, then so be it. He’d been free for quite some time to fuck whoever he wanted.
“So if I win the next game and you set my brother free, then what? Are you really going to keep me in this cage forever, or will you kill me yourself?”
Winter swallowed, imagining his claws slipping out, slashing across her throat. He fucking wouldn’t. It was why the games must continue. She deserved to die for what she’d done, but he couldn’t do it himself.
“Dinner will be brought up soon,” he finally said before storming from the room.
After making his way to the cellar, he snapped his fingers at the guard, sending him away. Then he turned toward the cell where Cyan was kept. Winter cocked his head as he studied the young boy sitting cross-legged, surrounded by paper creations. Flowers, tea cups, a house, wolves, Sterling.
“What are you doing?” Winter asked. His gaze lingered on a paper wolf with layers of fur, a snarled lip, toes on each paw.
“I’m crafting with the paper you gave me,” he said simply.
Winter looked from his wide, innocent eyes, to the paper yet to be folded into something. “Have you ever worked with anything else?”
“No. I like paper.” Cyan creased a page with his fingertips. “Do you like to make anything?”
Winter rested an arm against the bars and peered at the inquisitive child. “Chaos.”
Cyan bit his lip and nodded. “Did you know chaos can be found in almost everything? Gardening, baking, cleaning.”
He arched a brow. “That wasn’t the chaos I meant.”
“Why is it that wolves have mates and no other humans or shifters do in Grimm?” Cyan blinked, his mouth agape as he awaited the answer.
“Why are you asking so many questions?” he asked suspiciously.
Cyan sighed, his shoulders falling. “I do it with everyone. That’s why all the workers at the shop leave. Except Nareth. He’s always been there for me and Sterling.”
“He’s not dead.” Yet. If Winter was bored enough in the future, he might choose to finish the bastard.
Cyan perked back up and lifted another sheet of paper. “When me and Sterling argue, we settle things with our words. Maybe you should try talking to humans too.”
Winter had a better way of settling things—murder.
The prince cocked his head. “You haven’t asked if your sister is all right.”
“You would’ve told me if she wasn’t alive,” he said matter-of-factly. Winter frowned as Cyan continued, “Will you give her something I made?” He held up a folded dove. “She’ll know I’m safe with this.”
Instead of the no he would’ve given anyone else, his tone remained even as he answered, “We’ll see.”