Scythe raised his hands. Helvectus wobbled closer, the wolf’s hat in hand as he babbled and offered it to him.

Rorn snarled and stood.

I didn’t breathe.

Carelda broke through the crowd, uncaring of the threat everyone seemed to sense within this strange male who’d infiltrated our celebration.

Scythe stood back from the infant he’d been watching, and Carelda paused as he stated more than asked, “The cub is yours.”

She nodded, snatching her son.

“It would seem I have myself a cousin.” Taking another fleshy bite from the chicken leg, Scythe returned his attention to me as Carelda rushed from the ballroom with a protesting Helvectus. Looking at Rorn, Scythe grinned. “The fates are indeed delightful.”

Confusion lowered my brows and pushed a shaken exhale from me.

“Fear not, dear uncle.” His smile fell. “You can keep your precious throne.” He tore into the chicken with relish, then threw the bones at our feet. Gaze tight on mine, Scythe licked his fingers slowly, lewdly, and bowed deeply toward me. “I’ve come for your wife.”

TWENTY-NINE

Aster

Pinned still with shock, I found it hurt to breathe as Scythe’s gaze refused to relinquish mine.

His lone eye glinted with mischief, but his jaw was clenched. His lips parted when I merely continued to gape at him—to stare at him with new vision and feel every inch the fool I was.

For I hadn’t so much as considered it. That this wolf of mine was not crimson like most of those in Vordane.

He was emerald.

Rorn cursed and ordered, “Would someone seize this drunkard already.”

But we knew he was not drunk. I knew with certainty that Scythe had probably never been this sober.

Uncle.

Keep your throne.

His missing eye. An eye that I now knew had once been blue.

An eye that would have told all who he was—the alpha. The true king of Wistensia.

My stomach roiled and shrank. I covered my mouth as a choked sound escaped. Tears sprang forth, burning as I forced them not to fall.

Scythe frowned and made to climb the dais.

I shook my head and drew in a deep breath, willing the wet to dissipate.

The ballroom fell utterly silent.

Then Rorn rose. His guards finally snapped into action.

Scythe took one large step back from the dais. His attention stayed fixed on me as he offered his wrists and merely waited.

“No,” I mouthed. “Leave.”

Scythe gave a maddening smirk.

The guards nearing him paused, confused by his willingness to surrender.

“Stop,” I said, rising and glaring at Rorn. “He’s not a criminal.”

“The queen is right.” Scythe flashed his teeth when the guards shackled him. “I’m just another bastard-born heir who’s come for what is rightfully his.” He looked at me as he was dragged toward the doors, guests parting and gasping. “My queen.”