The morning mists that clung to the mountain lakes of the Bavarian Alps spread up to the tips of the ferns, trapping the landscape in the illusion of a wildfire. The air was fresh; the cold had never bothered Claude, having grown up in the snowy landscape of Maradova. He was perfectly content to welcome the brisk dawn barefoot on the decking of the cabin. It reminded him of the palace, waking to eat breakfast on the balcony, nursing away whatever trouble he’d found himself in the night before. In those days he’d had the whole world at his fingertips, and he wanted it back. The palace, the adoration that gave him unlimited control, everything owed to him as the rightful king of Maradova, and he knew the country would not be whole while that mangy lying pack was in charge. The country needed the true wolf to lead the pack.

Holding the princess’s letter up to his nose, he could smell roses. It was the one thing that threw him each time. The delicate scent did not fit with his memories of the palace, as if his brother’s daughter had been grown from a different garden. He folded the letter away. ‘I’ve always detested roses.’

A soft tapping on the glass screen of the decking let Claude know that Ingrid had arrived. The sound was muffled, as if she didn’t want to disturb him, even though he’d requested her presence.

Without looking behind him, he gestured for her to come.

‘You wanted to see me, Master?’

There was always a neediness to Ingrid’s tone like a mewling cat, a hungry longing for his favour that both pleased and irritated Claude depending on his mood. In truth, he didn’t want to see her at all, after what she’d done in Tokyo, pushing too hard at Jamie until he had been forced to throw himself to the ground just when Claude had him in his clutches.

‘Did you bring what I asked for?’ He still didn’t turn round, focusing on the writing set he’d laid out on the table.

Ingrid was clearly trying her best to stay composed, but Claude could always sense the quirks and twitches, glances and fidgets that most people would miss; they were as clear as the mountains before him, screaming the person’s weaknesses.

‘Here.’ Ingrid laid a wooden box beside him on the table. Claude could tell that she was desperate to have his attention, but looking at her right now would only annoy him, so he waved her back a few steps. ‘I’m going to make it up to you,’ she uttered, a venom in her voice that he knew was only poisoning herself.

‘You are,’ he replied simply, and this time he did turn to look at her, locking on to those furious grey eyes with sharp focus that made the girl flinch.