Chapter 13
T he sun was just cresting its arc in the sky when Clara and Bronze ascended the steps of the king’s stronghold. For some reason, the stones beneath her bare feet didn’t feel quite as cold as they normally did after a shift, when she’d indulge her desire to forgo her boots. Perhaps it was the warmth of Bronze’s sturdy frame at her back or the muscle of her courage giving off more heat due to her continued use of it, but she welcomed the sensation with a newfound appreciation for a strength she didn’t know she possessed until recently.
Had she really frightened off those coyotes by herself, after shifting in front of a male no less? A foreign male? Her cheeks heated uncomfortably just thinking about it, but then her wolf’s self-assurance rose up inside her with a warning growl of approval.
Both she and the creature had marveled in wonder when Bronze’s skin shifted and liquid metal poured over and hardened around every chiseled slope of muscle, but it was her wolf that had whined in terror the instant his armor suddenly faded and that coyote’s fangs punctured his flesh.
The rest was a blur of predatory determination and fierce worry like she’d never experienced before. It was both acute and alien, and nearly stole the breath from her lungs.
She’d never been more grateful to see that charming mouth twisted into a wry grin when she’d first laid eyes on the angel after coming out of her shift. It was almost enough to make her forget that she wasn’t actually mating him for any emotional attachment.
But goodness, the relief that struck her once she determined he wasn’t fatally harmed had hit her just as strongly as she had the coyotes.
Preferring not to examine that too closely, she mentally chastised her wolf for bringing the memory up.
Once firmly inside the stronghold, Clara and Bronze made it as far as the foyer outside her father’s receiving room before one of his elite guards standing at the entrance saw them and immediately ran toward her and Bronze.
Broderick, one of the more open-minded of the king’s males, smiled at her with exuberant relief but didn’t take his eyes off her battered companion. Or his hand from the hilt of his weapon strapped across his chest. “Lady, are you all right? Where have you been? The king has been asking after you all morning.”
All morning. So her father hadn’t noticed she’d left last night. Good.
“Thank you, Broderick. Yes, I’m quite well. I had some business with a few of the local farmers along the edge of the western territory. It’s June, and the lupine flowers have just begun to bloom for the season. They don’t grow this far into the mountains, and I promised my staff I’d press some of the blooms for them, but the farmers only permitted me to go out there before the start of business this morning. I didn’t want to get in anyone’s way, so I left early and quietly, hoping to be back by midday.”
Whew. The lie flew from her tongue easier than she’d expected, and judging by the curt nod of Broderick’s dimpled chin, it had worked.
“And who is this male?”
Clara dared not risk turning back to look at Bronze, but she gathered, just from how thick the tension had grown in the small hallway, that there was much the angel wanted to say, no doubt with a fair amount of foul language thrown in. To her eternal gratitude, however, he remained quiet.
Thank the Moon Mother for small mercies.
“On my return, I ran into a bit of trouble with coyotes. This male, Bronze, came to my aid, as you can see. I wish to introduce him to the king so I might formally express my appreciation before seeing to his injuries.”
Broderick narrowed his eyes in Bronze’s direction and assessed him again, but before he could open his mouth to speak, another voice traveled through the open door.
“Then please, daughter, don’t linger in the hall with him like some insipid traveler who doesn’t know how to ask for what she needs. Let me see the male.”
King Halpin’s command carried through the ancient stones of the keep and straightened the spine of everyone it reached. Broderick, for all his brawn, still flinched slightly before clasping his heels together and returning to his post outside the door. Even Clara, who’d lived all ninety-four of her years under the scrutiny of that baritone, ducked her chin out of habit. Bronze, however, didn’t even register the barest perception or interest. An awareness, yes, one that had been studiously employed since they first set foot onto the lycan lands, but there wasn’t an ounce of deference in his demeanor for the male he was about to meet.
That will change , she thought, though she wasn’t as strong in her conviction as she’d once been. Goodness, not even a day in the angel’s presence and already his arrogance was rubbing off on her. If this kept up, what else might she adopt?
Clara didn’t want to think about it as she led the way into her father’s receiving room, ignoring the counselors and advisors huddled around the king, and halted at the edge of the burgundy French Aubusson rug. She was careful to keep her toes just shy of the shadow cast by the massive black walnut desk that nearly spanned from wall to wall. As a young lycan, she’d learned to stay out of her father’s shadows. As a grown female, she’d learned to stay out of even those shadows that were extensions of him.
Instead of staying behind her as he had done in the foyer, Bronze stood next to her, with his hands braced behind his back and the toes of his boots hanging over the edge of the rug, disinterestedly bleeding all over the thing and firmly engulfed in the imposing shadows of her father’s desk.
“Father, this is Bronze. He is?—”
“Not a lycan.”
Clara’s stomach plummeted. The king’s booming declaration was low in timbre but loud in proclamation. A tremulous silent warning echoed around the room. Then her father slowly rose from his seat, and Clara called on years of patience to resist rolling her eyes at the display of dominance. How many times had she witnessed his knuckles braced on the desk as he forced his muscles to fill with a strength that had begun to flee over the last century of disuse? There had been a time when the silver in his beard had been prized and distinguished, born of his gray wolf’s coat and a mark of lycan supremacy. Now, the silver had overrun the rest of his beard, and its sleek precision had long been tarnished with the advancement of age and narrow-minded ableism.
“No, I am not,” Bronze responded.
Clara couldn’t comprehend what would have compelled Bronze to admit that so soon. Although, it wasn’t as if they’d discussed it, and thanks to her ongoing foolishness and lack of foresight, they hadn’t exactly determined a workaround.
Dammit. Why hadn’t she thought of this? No humans were allowed in the lycan lands. They weren’t allowed to know of her species’ existence at all! But he couldn’t exactly confess to being an angel, could he? One who possessed power her father couldn’t conceive of? Oh, no, that wouldn’t go over well. The blow to the king’s ego alone wouldn’t be one any of them would so easily come back from.
The king lifted a bushy brow, seemingly intrigued, or perhaps desirous of carrying out an execution so early in the afternoon. God, she hoped it wouldn’t come to that. “You are not a human, either.”
“No.”
“Then what are you?”
“Father, he?—”
“A demigod.”
It was Clara’s turn to lift a brow as she flicked her warning gaze in Bronze’s direction. It was one thing to throw her father’s arrogance back at him but to lie so boldly about something so significant?
The king folded his arms over his barrel chest. “Is that so?”
“Yes.”
“Who is your sire, then?”
“An unknown mortal male. My mother is Saulé, celestial goddess of the sun.”
Every lycan in the room held a collective breath. She had never heard of such a goddess, though she never had a cause to study cultures that did not have a connection to lycanthropy in some way. When she read the uncertainty on the others’ faces, however, it was clear they hadn’t an awareness of such a goddess either.
Which meant her father likely had no knowledge of the subject.
Oh, this would not go over well.
Clara waited in no way patiently to see how he would react.
“And you, it would seem, are also the great coyote killer of the Northeast. Judging by your injuries, it was not so easy a takedown, I gather.” King Halpin’s steely gray eyes roved over Bronze’s form but held neither a note of approval at Bronze’s supposed victory nor disgust that the male who allegedly saved his daughter was not of lycan blood. It was the usual mark of her father’s indifference to her existence, perhaps worsened slightly due to Bronze’s blood collecting on the king’s rug.
“I overheard what my daughter declared. I take it you wish to see to your wounds and collect some form of reward for your efforts.” The last words were spoken with such belabored annoyance that Clara could no longer contain her ire.
If her first small act of rebellion had been fleeing in the night to the human lands, then each act would only snowball from there, surely. Wasn’t that how stubbornness worked?
She didn’t know where it came from, but that gripping thought struck her hard and dug its heels in. What would happen if I kicked that snowy clump down the mountain? “Actually, Father, Bronze is here to compete for my hand.”
The king’s eyes shot to hers, and her muscles went rigid. A flush of anger rose up and colored the king’s complexion a deep crimson. Whether it was for speaking out of turn or the actual words she’d said, she wasn’t sure. Either way, she was over it. It wasn’t like she’d been given many turns to speak her mind anyway.
If she had any hope of rebuilding what the avalanche of her actions sought to bury, she’d need her snowball to gain momentum.
There’s no turning back now.
When her father didn’t immediately respond, however, she took advantage of the silence to stake her claim. “I’m aware that you’ve made a betrothal arrangement on my behalf with Lord Raff from the western territories, but I should like to propose another alternative.”
“You should like ?”
Three words. They were three simple words, but they were the most her father had said to her directly in over a month. She tried not to let the pain of it show and barreled through.
“I should more than like, actually.” She lifted her chin and made damn sure to address everyone in the room except her father. “I deserve to have a say in my own future and, more importantly, the future of the northeastern lycans. Therefore, with your advisors and counselors as my witnesses, I am calling for the formal enactment of the Betrothal Games. This male, Bronze, has proven himself worthy to me and, as such, is who I choose to serve as my champion in the games. As king, you have the right to select the other two competitors as you see fit.”
Clara didn’t bow. She didn’t drop to her knees or lower her eyes or make herself appear as if she didn’t deserve to have just as much of a say in her future as the males around her.
But she would wait, and as the silence stretched on, the echo of her words seemed to grow louder with each heartbeat.
Odd. She expected shouting, fist banging, even a thrown object or, worse, a physical blow of misplaced anger aimed at an advisor or two. Perhaps a shift to wolf form in a display of dominance. The laugh that burst forth from her father, however, took her entirely off guard.
“Betrothal Games,” the king bellowed once he’d managed to collect himself. “If it comforts you to think of such a thing as a game, then by all means, call it what you must. I prefer to think of it as strategy, mind you. Your mother, were she still alive, would agree with me. There is only so much one territory can do to thrive without the benefits of trade and expansion.”
Seeming to remember himself and who he was in the presence of, her father carefully softened his features and came out from behind his desk. “Now,” he said, laying his hands on her shoulders, “what’s all this nonsense about games? You are nearly a century old, Clara. Far out of your youthful years. The time for fanciful daydreams should have been left in the past. Look, I can understand your nerves as much as anyone, especially after meeting this—Bronze, was it?”
The angel stood silent. Only Clara seemed to notice the tense tick of his jaw and the shards of citrine-colored ice that flashed between blinks.
“Um, Your Majesty, if I may.” One of the king’s high advisors—Pascal, if she recalled correctly—stepped forward. “The lady is not wrong.”
“What?” the king gritted out.
Oh boy. Here we go.
“That is, there is a law, though it hasn’t been enacted in several monarchies, wherein if the betrothed heir takes issue with the ruler’s choice of mate, the heir may call for a formal request to enact the Betrothal Games. It is a competition of sorts where three champions compete for the hand of the heir. The winner is sworn in as the monarch’s formal successor. It is an old law, sir, but a valid one. I believe its origins were based on ensuring the power of the monarchy’s succession through literal feats of strength.”
Clara stepped out of her father’s hold, through the thickening silence, and went back to Bronze’s side. Beneath the concealment of her cloak, a warm, sturdy hand pressed into the small of her back, calming her wolf instantly.
“Horse shit!” the king yelled. “Lord Raff is arriving tomorrow. The papers are already drafted, and I’ve signed my portion. The alliance is as good as done, and once he gets here, she’s the price I have to pay to ensure our people have a bolstered army to defend against the encroaching humans.” Again, he spoke as if she wasn’t in the room. Then he surged toward her, surprising all the males with a swiftness not witnessed by their king in some time.
All the males except one.
Bronze threw himself in front of Clara and silently warned the king back with his eyes. Every soul in the room stiffened at the display of the king’s aggression toward her, and Clara had to work quickly to conceal her own shock.
The lycans would not have been able to survive the centuries they had, hidden among the humans, if not for the strength of their monarchies or their laws. As such, it was forbidden under lycan law for any monarch to outwardly threaten physical harm against another member of the monarchy. Doing so could result in exile, being purged from the family bloodline, or even death.
Once Bronze had safely put her out of range of the king’s temper, Pascal stepped forward. “Your Majesty, the lady has made the declaration in front of witnesses. It cannot be undone or ignored.”
“Witnesses,” her father ground out, though the word was hardly intelligible around the elongated fangs that thickened his speech. His gaze flashed to Bronze, who stood as immobile as a mountain, and threw his own silent challenge into the fight with the angel. The king bared his fangs and looked at Clara over Bronze’s shoulder. “It seems I’m not the only one who knows something of strategy. The rest of you,” he yelled, “leave. I shall discuss this with my daughter in private.”
“Fat fucking chance,” Bronze said through gritted teeth.
“It’s fine. I’ll be fine,” she assured Bronze in hushed words she was careful to make sure didn’t travel. Her shaking hands circled his biceps. “You can be right outside the door the entire time, but this has to happen this way. I knew I would have to face him.”
Neither Bronze nor the king said anything. Only when her father turned his back first, seemingly unconcerned about Bronze’s threat, and went over to the serving bar on the far side of the room did the advisors begin to funnel out.
Clara had no idea what compelled her to do so, but before Bronze put his arm around her shoulders to direct her out of the room, she glanced at her bare feet.
They were still standing strong despite being fully engulfed in the shadow of her father’s desk.