"Conrad." Isolde's voice irritated him, sounding a thousand miles away. "Are you unwell?"
He didn't answer. He couldn't. His biological imperative overrode higher brain functions. His pupils dilated, the amber ring of his iris expanding to swallow the dark. His nostrils flared. He turned his head slowly, tracking the invisible line of the scent through the chaotic room.
Fiona reached the edge of the dais. She didn't look up. She felt the oppressive, crushing weight of an alpha's aura radiating from the high table, but she attributed it to the tension of the wedding. She moved with practiced invisibility, stepping up to the king's flank. She reached out with a scarred, calloused hand, tipping the heavy silver pitcher over his iron goblet. The dark red blood wine flowed smoothly.
Conrad didn't look at the wine. He looked at the hand. He saw the burns. He saw the missing fingernail on her pinky. The tattoo of the vanguard infantry on her wrist, a sword crossed with a wolf's fang.
The air vanished from his lungs. He snapped his head up. She was staring firmly at the table. Her hair was chopped and dull. Her face hollowed out by malnutrition and exhaustion. But the jawline, the curve of her cheek, the way she held her breath when she was nervous.
Fiona.
His wolf slammed against the bars of his ribcage, howling her name. Before he could process the sheer impossibility of it, before he could think about the crown on his head or the queen at his side, his hand shot out. His massive, battle-scarred fingers wrapped around Fiona's wrist just as she finished pouring.
The physical contact was a violently electric shock. Fiona gasped, the sound punched out of her. The silver pitcher clattered loudly against the iron goblet, spilling dark wine across the white linen tablecloth like fresh blood. She looked up. She couldn't stop herself. Her hazel eyes clashed with his burning amber ones.
Time stopped in the great hall. The deafening roar of the feast faded into a dull rushing static in her ears. She saw the exact moment the alpha king of Oakhaven realized he had been mourning a life for six years. She saw the grief. Then the absolute, earth-shattering rage.
Panic seized her. The primal prey instinct kicked in. She yanked her wrist back with all her strength. Because his grip was loose with shock, she broke free.
Fiona turned. She didn't run. Running would trigger his instinct to hunt. And if he hunted her in this hall, it would end in a bloodbath. She walked. Fast, rigid, and terrified. She melted back into the flow of servants carrying empty platters, keeping her head down, limping heavily towards the scullery doors.
Conrad sat paralyzed for exactly three seconds.
"My king." A soldier touched his arm. Her skin felt like ice against his burning flesh.
Conrad stood up. He didn't just stand. He surged upward, knocking his heavy chair backward. It crashed onto the stone dais. The high table fell silent. The surrounding lords turned, their conversations dying in their throats.
"I need air," Conrad ground out, his voice thick, rough, sounding more beast than man.
He didn't wait for a response. He didn't look at his new wife. He stepped off the dais and strode through the hall. Lords and warriors instinctively scrambled out of his path. The king was radiating a lethal, unrestrained dominance that made the hairs on the backs of their necks stand up. He tracked the trail of pine and wood smoke. He walked through the heavy oak doors, leaving his own wedding feast behind.
The stone corridors beneath the great hall were damp, lit only by flickering, smoking torches that smelled of cheap pitch. Fiona moved as fast as her ruined leg would allow, her breath tearing through her throat in ragged gasps.
He saw me. He knows. Oh gods, he knows.
She bypassed the main kitchens. It was too crowded. She needed to hide. She pushed open the heavy wooden door to the deep pantries, the cold rooms where the slaughtered game hung to cure. The air inside was freezing, smelling of copper blood, raw meat, and dried sage. Carcasses of venison and wild boar hung from thick iron hooks in the ceiling. Shadows danced wildly as the single lantern flickered.
Fiona stumbled into the back corner, wedging herself between a cold stone wall and a massive hanging stag. She pulled her knees to her chest, pressing her hands over her mouth to muffle the sound of her frantic breathing. She had to leave Oakhaven tonight. She would steal a cloak, slip out through the waste chutes, and disappear into the snow. It was over. The secret was out.
The heavy oak door of the pantry didn't just open. It was violently shoved inward. The wood cracked against the stone wall with the sound of a cannon shot.
Fiona flinched, squeezing her eyes shut. Heavy, deliberate footsteps echoed on the flagstones. They were slow, predatory. Conrad wasn't walking like a king inspecting his keep. He was moving like a wolf cornering its prey. He navigated the hanging meat, his broad shoulders brushing past the carcasses. The torchlight from the hallway cast his long, imposing shadow across the frost-covered walls.
Fiona held her breath until her lungs burned. The footsteps stopped. He was standing right on the other side of the hanging stag. She could hear the deep, harsh intake of his breath.
A massive hand reached out and shoved the heavy carcass aside. The stag swung on its iron hook, revealing Fiona huddled in the dirt.
Conrad stood over her. He was dressed in the ceremonial black leather and dark iron of his wedding armor. He looked massive, terrifying. His chest heaved with every breath.
For a long, agonizing minute, neither of them moved.