The silence that followed the crash of Vane's body was heavier than iron. It smelled of ozone, split firewood, and the terrifying metallic tang of fresh blood.
Conrad did not look at the crumpled, lifeless form of the northern captain. His glowing amber eyes remained locked on the dark red stain spreading across the coarse linen of Fiona's apron.
A low, vibrating sound started in his chest. It wasn't a human noise. It was the mechanical rattling growl of a predator whose territory had been breached. His body underwent a horrifying micro shift. The bones in his hands audibly cracked, elongating. His fingernails darkened, thickening into lethal curved talons. The veins in his neck bulged black and prominent against his skin.
He dropped to his knees. The stone floor cracked under the impact.
"Fiona," he rasped. The voice was distorted, layered with the vocal cords of the beast.
Fiona pressed a trembling, blood-slicked hand against her side. She forced herself to sit up, her breath hitching in her throat. The adrenaline was fading, leaving behind a cold, sharp agony.
"It's shallow," she managed to say through gritted teeth. "He hit the old scar tissue. I'm not dying."
Conrad didn't listen to her words. He needed proof. His massive clawed hands reached out, tearing the thick linen apron away with zero effort. He pushed her rough tunic up, exposing the jagged, raised skin of her ribs where the spear had taken her six years ago. Just below it was a fresh, clean slice. Bleeding heavily but not fatal. Not deep enough to pierce the lung.
The immediate threat of death retreated, but the rage did not. Conrad pressed his large palm directly over the wound, applying brutal, necessary pressure. Fiona hissed, her back arching, but she didn't pull away. The heat radiating from his hand was blistering, fueled by the accelerated healing magic of the alpha bloodline. The pain spiked, then receded into a dull, throbbing ache as the bleeding slowed.
"You left the door unguarded," she whispered, her voice rough.
"Bran is outside. I smelled his blood before the door opened." Conrad said mechanically. He didn't look at her face. He was staring at the doorway, his muscles coiled so tightly they trembled. "They drugged my tea, valerian and wolfsbane. I was supposed to be comatose."
He finally looked down at her. The beast in his eyes was still fighting for control, swimming in the amber irises. "If you hadn't hit the first one, if you hadn't fought back, you would be dead on this floor."
"I survived three years in a slaver's pit, Conrad. I know how to swing a pipe." She reached up, her smaller, calloused hand gripping his thick wrist. "Pull yourself back. Look at me."
He blinked. The glow in his eyes flickered, dimming slightly.
"Who sent them?" she asked, her voice dropping to a harsh, practical whisper. "The queen?"
Conrad turned his head, looking at the first assassin, who was groaning on the floor, his jaw shattered, clutching his burned face. Then he looked at Vane, the northern captain.
"No." Conrad said. The human intellect was returning, cold and calculating, merging with the wolf's wrath. "Isolde is too pragmatic to order a sloppy assassination on her wedding night. She has nothing to gain from my death yet. This was an internal cleanup."
He stood up slowly. The bones in his hands cracked again as the talons receded into blunt human nails. He reached down, hooking his hands under Fiona's arms, and lifted her off the cold stone. He didn't put her back on the small cot. He carried her through the splintered doorway into his own bedchamber, setting her down gently on the edge of the massive, fur-draped bed.
"Stay here," he commanded softly.
He walked back into the antechamber. Fiona watched from the shadows.
Conrad grabbed the surviving assassin by the leather straps of his armor and hauled him up with one arm. The man screamed, a wet gurgling sound through his broken jaw. Conrad slammed him against the stone wall, pinning him there by his throat.
"I am going to ask you one question." Conrad said. His voice was entirely human now, and that made it infinitely more terrifying. It was quiet, conversational. "If you lie to me, I will not kill you. I will take you down to the kennels, open your veins and let the war hounds eat you starting from the ankles. Nod if you understand."
The man, choking, nodded frantically, tears of agony streaming down his dirty face.
"Who paid you?"
The man swallowed blood. He struggled to form words. "Lord Cedric. The advisor paid us in silver. Said to kill the stray."
Conrad didn't show surprise. He just closed his eyes for a fraction of a second. The betrayal was complete.
"Thank you," Conrad whispered.
He snapped the man's neck with a sharp, brutal twist of his wrist. He dropped the body onto the flagstones.
Conrad walked back into the bedroom. He went to a heavy oak chest at the foot of the bed and threw it open. He pulled out a dark iron broadsword. It wasn't ceremonial. It was nicked, dull in color, and stained with old blood. It was the sword he had carried at Crimson Ridge.
"Conrad!" Fiona called out, gripping the furs. "What are you doing?"
"I am securing my kingdom," he replied, not looking back.
He walked past her, his heavy boots crunching on the splintered wood of the doorway. "Lock the iron bolt on the inner door. Do not open it for anyone."