Conrad did not let her go. He kept his massive hand wrapped tightly around Fiona's upper arm, the grip bordering on painful. He wasn't dragging her, but he wasn't leaving room for escape. They moved through the narrow, unlit servant corridors behind the great hall. The walls here were rough-hewn stone, wet with condensation. Fiona limped beside him, struggling to keep pace with his long, furious strides.
"Conrad, stop. You're thinking with your teeth, not your crown."
He ignored her. His jaw was locked so tight a muscle ticked violently beneath his beard. He kicked open a heavy oak door that led to the spiraling stairwell of the king's tower.
"You can't just hide me." Fiona hissed, gripping the iron banister as she pulled her bad leg up the first stone step. "I am a scullery maid. Hetty knows I went up to the hall. The kitchen will notice I'm gone."
"Let them." Conrad growled. His voice echoed up the dark stone shaft. It was the voice of the alpha, vibrating with a territorial edge that made Fiona's pulse spike. "Let Hetty report you missing. Let them think you ran off into the snow. Tonight, Fiona, you died to the kitchens."
"And what do I become?" She shot back, stopping on the stairs. She yanked her arm, forcing him to halt and look down at her. "Your secret? A pet you keep locked in the tower while you bed the northern queen to secure your borders?"
Conrad flinched. The word hit him like a physical blow. He stepped down, crowding her against the cold stone wall. His chest brushed hers. The smell of him, pine and ozone, the scent of a storm breaking, enveloped her, drowning out the dank smell of the stairwell.
"Never say that," he whispered, his amber eyes burning into hers. "You are my mate. You are the only thing in this rotting keep that actually belongs to me. I will annul the marriage."
"You bled on the parchment, Conrad." Fiona yelled, uncaring who heard them in the stone shaft. "I know the highborn laws. A blood vow to a northern pack isn't broken by a signature. It's broken by death. If you cast her aside without consummating the union, her father's army will march on Oakhaven by spring. You will drown this city in blood just to keep me."
"Then let it drown."
The sheer, terrifying conviction in his voice silenced her. He meant it. The boy she had loved in the mud of Crimson Ridge was gone. This man was a king, and he was willing to burn his kingdom to the ground for a ghost he had just dug out of the ash.
He turned and continued pulling her up the stairs. They bypassed the main royal quarters and reached the apex of the tower. Conrad bypassed his personal chambers and dragged her into the adjoining antechamber, a fortified stone room used by the king's personal guard.
Only one man stood duty. Bran. He was a veteran of the vanguard, a massive brute of a man missing half his left ear. He snapped to attention as the door crashed open.
"My king." Bran started, then stopped dead. His eyes dropped to the filthy, shivering woman in the coarse linen apron. He inhaled sharply. His nostrils flared. Recognition slammed into his weathered face. "By the gods. Fiona—"
"She is alive, Bran." Conrad said, his voice flat, deadly, leaving no room for questions. "And she is a ghost. No one knows she is here. If anyone opens this door besides me, you open their throat. Understood?"
Bran drew his heavy broadsword, planting the tip on the stone floor. He gave Fiona a look of profound, shaken reverence. "With my life, Alpha."
Conrad turned to Fiona. He reached out, his knuckles brushing her scarred cheek one last time. His hand was trembling. "Stay here. Lock the heavy bolt."
"Where are you going?" she asked, her voice betraying a sliver of the fear she fought to hide.
Conrad turned toward the door. The vulnerability bled out of his posture, replaced instantly by the rigid iron spine of a warlord. "I have a wedding feast to finish," he said, "and an advisor to speak with."
The antechamber was warm. A massive hearth crackled in the corner, radiating heat into the stone blocks. The bed in the corner was small, meant for a guard, but the furs piled on it were thicker and softer than anything Fiona had touched in six years.
She didn't sit on it. She paced. Her bad leg throbbed, sending sharp spikes of pain up her thigh, but the adrenaline kept her moving. The silence of the tower room was suffocating. For two years she had lived in the chaotic, screaming belly of the kitchens. Silence meant isolation. Isolation meant danger.
Down in the great hall, Conrad sat perfectly still on his wooden throne. The blood wine had been cleaned up. Isolde sat beside him, her posture still perfect, her expression an impenetrable mask of pale marble.
"You returned quickly." Isolde murmured, not looking at him, delicately picking apart a roasted lark with her silver fork. "I trust the air cleared your head."
"It did," Conrad replied, staring straight ahead.
His eyes were locked on a man sitting three tables down. Cedric, the king's chief advisor. The man was holding court, laughing with a group of southern warlords, his silver hair catching the torchlight. Cedric, the man who had brought Conrad the bloody tunic, the man who had organized the search parties, the man who had sworn on the old king's grave that the riverbanks were empty.
Conrad's wolf clawed at the inside of his skull, begging to be let off the chain. It wanted to leap over the high table. It wanted to sink its teeth into Cedric's throat and tear the lying tongue from his mouth.
Patience, Conrad told his beast. We cannot kill the head of the council without proof. The lords would revolt. We need to dismantle him.
"You haven't touched your meat," Isolde observed softly. She leaned in, her mint and rosewater scent cloying and artificial compared to the deep, earthy reality of Fiona. "The lords are watching, my king. They wait for the feast to end. They wait for us to retire to our chambers. The alliance is not sealed until the marriage is consummated."
Conrad slowly turned his head to look at his new wife. She was beautiful, intelligent, and utterly cold. She was exactly what his kingdom needed. And she was a stranger he would never touch.
"The alliance was sealed with blood on the parchment." Conrad stated, his voice a low, gravelly rumble. "I am weary from the day. You will take the queen's chambers tonight. I will sleep in the tower."
Isolde's fork stopped halfway to her mouth. For a fraction of a second, the mask slipped. Her pale eyes narrowed, a flash of genuine northern ice breaking through the polite facade.
"To sleep apart on our wedding night is an insult to my father's house," she said, her tone dropping dangerously low.
"I am the alpha king of Oakhaven." Conrad replied, standing up slowly. The sheer, overwhelming pressure of his aura bled into the space around them, heavy and suffocating. "I do not answer to your father. Good night, my queen."
He walked away. He left the great hall in absolute silence, hundreds of eyes burning holes into his back.