The White Wolf's Wrath, page 2
And a far cry from my actual name, Emer. Emer Flynn was now a ghost, and with her went my long, curly brown hair. As we stood there, sequestered by the basin, Evelyn took the kitchen scissors to it after cleaning the blood off me, luckily in peace.
That was when I cried.
I cried over my shorn hair, once long, thick, and wavy, now a bob barely touching my chin. She had slowed down then, taking the length in front of my face before clipping it with scissors to give me bangs.
Before the tears had stopped, she’d taken my bundle of hair and shoved it up my skirts, wrapped in her apron. She tucked my hair into my corset strings with one hand and ripped my underskirt off with the other. Fashioning an apron out of my skirts to hide the blood, she finally stepped back and wiped my tears.
I had reeled it in then, though I could have cried for hours. But the time for crying was later. Right now, I needed to blend in.
She’d directed me to the bathroom to gather myself. Standing in the small room, I washed the remaining blood off my hands, then scrubbed at the splotches on my dress furiously, a fit of mania ensuing over the bloodstains. My breathing hitched, and I deflated, withering like a fire without air. Staring at the reflection in front of me, I examined the damage.
Not only was my eye red and swollen, purple veins exploding behind my skin and crisscrossing like lightning in the night sky, but I also had a split lip and multiple bruises. My hair was gone, the luxurious oak brown, so like my mother’s, short with the look of a fresh cut, rounder and sharper at the same time.
Frankly, it looked flattering. The bangs framed my dark lashes, making me look exotic and feral, and the bob accentuated my broad shoulders, making my otherwise muscular body shapelier.
But it was another battle lost, another name to mourn.
______
Grieving was something I did often now. Until nights turned into days, and the other way around, until I didn’t know which was which anymore, much less care about the distinction. They were all one lump of emptiness and sorrow, interjected with Evelyn as she floated in and out of my consciousness. I was never sure if I was awake or dreaming, nor did it matter really. Only Oisin mattered now.
The attack had been a few weeks ago—weeks without news of Oisin. The purple of my eye turned grotesque and yellowed with the fading injury. Then one day my vision returned, sometime after the swelling had disappeared.
Evelyn was relieved by that. I couldn’t say I noticed either way.
Men came and went through the kitchen and the manor, doors opening and shutting, conversations both loud and quiet, all in snippets of awareness amid the indifference that kept its grip on my existence. The winter days flew by and moved slower than molasses as I slowly took on more chores and failed at many of them.
I would have been queen; instead, I was scrubbing pots in the kitchen—a task my staff used to do for me.
It wasn't that I couldn't wash dishes or do a plethora of other things my status didn't require. There was just so much loss. The kind that made getting out of bed feel useless, food taste like sawdust, and my bones ache. If it weren't for Oisin, I wouldn't have continued.
But he was alive, if gravely wounded. I didn’t know his family’s welfare, but if I had to guess, the chances weren’t great. So I had to carry on; if mine was the last friendly face he saw, it was my duty to provide it.
In the weeks of our courtship, I found the adult Oisin to be soft-spoken but highly intelligent, not unlike his child self I had known. He was kind and considerate, gentlemanly. I couldn't say whether I was in love with him yet, but he had proven he would be a wonderful husband.
At the least, I was smitten. And I was determined to honor our parents and do right by Oisin. So, I would fight for our freedom and future while he couldn't.
I'd have fought to prevent this if I could have. I hadn't seen the battle, though that’s not to say I didn’t see anything.
My mother couldn't fight; my father had reminded me to stay with her. She needed me more.
She did need me, and I’d failed her.
Besides, I was no match for the White Wolf or his entourage. I'd have been cut down before I could even see one of those dragons that accompanied him.
Not only dragons but Fae, giants, and fantastic beasts I had no vocabulary to name. The battle had been merely a formality. Our clan didn't want to give in without a fight, but it was clear from the banner that waved above the approaching army that we were outmatched.
Outmatched, outnumbered, and outstrategized. The shield wall they had used was far superior to ours, covering their shins, bodies, and heads. And after luring us into the valley, they closed ranks behind us with a force that had hidden in the woods.
We would have been slaughtered where we stood if we hadn’t surrendered. Choking off our escape route also let the hooligans through to our manor, where I unsuccessfully tried to save my home.
I only hoped I wasn't recognized, neither by the men I had battled nor by any of the prominent men who now prowled the halls where I had grown up. Heaven knew what they would do with me now as a maid, much less a noblewoman. Some men would keep me as their prize if only they knew.
My face wasn't one to be forgotten, not among the nobility. Not for looks, though my thick, long lashes were striking against my fair skin. No, my brown eyes and hair were lovely, but the power my family wielded was unforgettable.
Had wielded. The word made my eyes burn.
No wonder the manor home was immediately targeted, nor was it a wonder that the White Wolf himself took it as his residence. My father had been a kingmaker in his own right, a jeweler of the finest quality; his coffers ran deep. Our home was bedecked in luxuries from worlds away, sparing no expense on our comfort.
As the only daughter of a wealthy family, I was hard not to notice, especially when my throat was worth more than most people made in a lifetime because of the cost of jewels that graced it. Most men cared only for that, though—particularly these sorts of men. So I hoped I could remain anonymous and that no one had seen me at any functions before. Not that they would find any jewels on me now, or likely at all. Being our main source of income, we had hidden them in the preparation for war.
Not that there could be a ransom for me anymore. No one but Oisin cared. And Evelyn, but she wouldn't have any money to spare on me. But this kind of man could be cruel to women, no matter their status.
I was better off being invisible.
Chapter
One
There hadn’t been dragons in existence for centuries.
And I wasn't always a traitor.
But that all changed when the White Wolf came down from the north, bearing down on us with an army unlike any we had seen before.
Nothing was ever the same again.
I'd been a lord's daughter then, betrothed to the heir to the throne. Now, I was an orphan, my fiancé suffering from wounds he’d received in the battle for our freedom.
And I was a servant to the man responsible for my despair.
I was a prisoner in my own home—my old home—because now it belonged to my enemy, as did I.
The White Wolf, Whalen Walsh of the Dartry Mountains, was a name told to children when they misbehaved. I had heard it when I was a girl and he was still the young wolf, his namesake.
We weren't as young as we had been, but I was astonished at how young the infamous vagrant was when I first laid eyes on him. I had expected a man past his prime with a weathered face and gray hair.
How else would he have amassed such a reputation?
But the man who now slept in my parents’ bedroom couldn't have been more than thirty, close to my fiancé’s age. That was perhaps all they had in common, though.
Oisin was a fine warrior, but his primary occupation was as the prince of our territory. He’d spent much of his time reading about war strategies rather than engaging in actual war, until Whalen came down with his dragons and war was upon us.
Whalen was war incarnate, with hair and eyes as wild and untamed as a battle. But the latter was what sent a shiver down your spine.
You knew you were prey and he was the predator when you looked into his eyes. Like twin icicles, the blue was nearly white, equally cold, and emotionless.
How he sized you up in a glance and discounted you as inferior made you clench your teeth. But you couldn't do anything if you wanted to live.
His long hair was like a wheat field stained red with blood. Perhaps it was. The strawberry color of his hair was lighter than the red of his short beard that added to its mass.
If he bathed during the evening, he left it unbound to let the tresses dry. So many thick curls shouldn't belong to a man with his reputation.
Though if the locks didn't match it, his shoulders did. Sticking out from beneath his mane like mountain peaks, they were brutal and relentless enough to incite fear.
He had a woman with him who braided his hair intricately, a beautiful blonde who looked nearly as wild as him. There was an intimacy between them that made me think they were together. With his hair pulled back, you could see the full might of him that the furs he wore couldn't hide.
He was massive—all lean muscle, but a lot of it—twice the size of any man I had met before. His biceps were as large as my head, his hands as big as bear paws; he towered over the other men by head and shoulders, dwarfing them.
When you were close to him, you understood how he had gained his reputation. And he’d done that before he had dragons in his entourage.
Some rumors were ostentatious, like eating his enemies and making a throne of their bones. Others were previously thought to be impossible but now held a note of truth, like having giant’s blood or wrestling a bear barehanded and winning. Before, giants weren’t real, and no one was the size of a bear. Now, I couldn’t say that either of those things was false.
The one rumor that remained questionable was that he wasn't only deemed the White Wolf due to his name or his furs. That he would change shape like the tales we’d been told as children—men who could alternate between human and animal at will, a valuable ability in times of war that seemed to crop up in darker times.
Perhaps it was just a way to explain the ferocity of a warrior so adept at their trade that it seemed they were something more than human. Or a way to embolden frightened soldiers facing the opposition. Maybe even to frighten the enemy.
But that was before the other rumors proved true.
No one knew where the supernatural creatures came from or how they existed after so many years. My father had mumbled about a powerful witch and her dragon, oral histories he’d received from his elders and theirs before them in the form of stories told half in his cups around the fireplace. Legends of the magically gifted had been passed on for generations, but no human who lived now had ever seen them before Whalen came marching them south.
To what end needed to be clarified. Our story was very similar to the others: When the White Wolf came marching, you had no choice but to yield. He would stay only long enough to recoup before continuing. A force of nature, he would chew you up, spit you out, and leave you reeling, never the same again.
At least I would never be the same again.
So I did the only task I could competently do: wash the dishes. Bowls and utensils were piled on the counter, and I set to them as Evelyn prepared dinner.
That was the most grating part of the ordeal after my hair.
Strangers could sleep in our beds. We’d had strange guests before.
But it was galling that they would eat our food, too, when my parents were gone and would no longer eat. Evelyn would prepare an undoubtedly delicious meal for these mongrels while my family and loved ones went without.
Not that they knew the difference anymore. Except for Oisin.
Oisin was the beat of a drum, the pounding of my blood; every pump went Oisin, Oisin, Oisin. I branded his image in my mind—his fair skin, his chocolate hair, his midnight eyes. The way his voice was gentle and smooth, like honey and tea, with enough sharpness to make it masculine.
Every dish I washed, every pot I scrubbed, I chanted, Oisin. I said it when I had no appetite and Evelyn forced me to choke down bread and broth. I prayed for him at night on a threadbare blanket on the floor in Evelyn’s room, a level below my lavish bedroom.
And now, as I scrubbed a stubborn pot, I said his name as one of the men who had taken over my home and my land scoured the kitchen, complaining that Evelyn was shorting them of meat. They tore through the kitchen prior to raiding the cellar, then returning.
Outside the window beyond the sink, a bird called out, flapping its wings in its retreat. I didn’t need the warning to know trouble was brewing, but I thanked the spirits anyway. The hair rose on the back of my neck as I tuned in to the conversation behind me.
“What is this?” their leader said, slamming a slab of cured ham onto the table.
He was a short man with small black eyes and a bald head. When they made their way to the cellar, I had peeked to confirm he was one of the men I had battled.
He had entangled with me before a blow knocked me down, and he continued past me while I engaged the next person who came running up. It seemed as if he’d run away so he didn't have to deal with me.
Men like him were weak; they made up for their smallness by trying to dominate those around them. They deemed themselves gods among men so they could feel better about their inadequacy, but they convinced only themselves.
I kept my back to him for fear of exposure as the smell of the ham permeated the air. His other two companions flanked the kitchen, all masculine male idleness itching for a fight.
“Ham, sir,” Evelyn stated matter-of-factly.
I had to bite my lips to stop the laugh that threatened to bubble past them. That asked for more trouble than I wanted, but so had Evelyn’s response.
“Don't act smart with me, woman. I know what ham is. I'm asking why, if you have all this meat, you are not feeding it to us.”
“Are you planning on acquiring more, sir?”
“Am I planning on getting more? Why, so you could steal more for yourself instead of feeding us?”
His anger made him stupider as he stalked closer to Evelyn to put his ugly mug in her face. Sweet Evelyn, with her delicate white hair and striking hazel eyes, was a kind soul but not a pushover. I peeked as she stood to her full height, half a head over the short man, her rounded figure straightening at the insult.
“Why, sir? I don't eat meat; I have no taste for it. I only ask because when you finish this ham, that's the last of the meat, and I know how you boys enjoy it so,” she finished, her voice oozing with sarcasm.
And she called me dramatic.
The man didn't miss the intended insult as he raised a fist to strike her. I didn’t remember moving, but the chef’s knife in the sink, waiting to be washed, was in my hand suddenly and pressed against the man's throat faster than I thought possible.
I couldn’t recall grabbing it, but there it was, coated in water and soap as my hand was, traveling down my arm to splat loudly in the echoing silence that followed.
I maneuvered my back to the sink to watch both of the other men lest I be stuck in the back with a knife myself. The man in my arms floundered like an idiot, a fish out of water, but I pressed the knife harder against his throat until he stood still.
The water made it hard to grip the knife, but I asked for strength and found a stronger position. Clarity swept through me, replacing the cobwebs with a deadly sharpness that brought every instinct to life.
“Were you about to hit my lovely cook here, sir?” I growled the last word so he knew what I thought about him.
More flailing around, trying to strong-arm out of my grip. But I knew Evelyn, and her knives were never dull. When I pressed the edge just so, his sharp intake of breath sounded as blood welled up beneath the blade.
“Did you not hear me? I asked you a question. Are you harassing this poor woman you see in front of you?”
The miserable worm finally nodded his affirmative, too spineless to mutter the word. His pals looked peeved but unwilling to help. That was the trouble with men like this: Put their back against the wall, and their cowardice took over. They would lie, cheat, and steal to survive for what they wanted.
It made them weak and unpredictable, which also made them a liability.
I was preparing to launch into a diatribe about his manhood when the kitchen door swung open to reveal the White Wolf himself, his thick furs secure around his massive shoulders, making him larger than life. His eyes locked on mine, and I felt the full force of his dominance in them, but I wouldn't balk. He smiled then, and the look was nothing short of predatory.
“I thought I smelled blood,” he said by way of explanation. His deep voice was smoky, smooth, rich, and fiery.
“Aye, you'll smell more of it if you don't keep your men in line,” I snapped.
I didn’t know if his look was one of approval or if he was about to disembowel me, but I was drawing a line in the sand. Even if it got us both killed, I’d rather die on my terms than live on theirs. I could be their slave for Evelyn and Oisin, but I wouldn't tolerate any abuse, not even for Evelyn.
“And how do you suppose I do that, miss…?”
“Sarah,” I replied, quickly supplying the fake name. “And I would kill this one immediately; he's not worth the trouble he brings.”
He waved a hand in a go-ahead gesture, never breaking eye contact with me. So I did.
I gripped the man's hair with my free hand and slid the edge across his throat, cutting off his pleas for help swiftly. As I let him slump to the ground, moments from his last breath, I squared my shoulders again.
“I'll cook and clean, but I'll not tolerate disrespect. We will be treated honorably,” I stated with as much authority as I could invoke.
“Is that so?” Walsh said, looking at me intently.
My heart pounded so viciously in my chest that I thought he could see it through my clothes. Breath was hard to come by, and the shallow pants I managed rasped through my lungs like broken glass.
