Page 1

CHAPTER ONE

WREN

“ F ucking fuck!” He shook out his hand to ease the sting, squinting against the dusty darkness in the tunnels that had them all stumbling around like blind idiots. If the witch would hold still for just two seconds, then maybe she’d know that they weren’t there to harm her.

It was difficult to communicate that while being struck with her sparks of silver lightning though.

They’d hunted her down over the course of weeks until his men had received word that the witch had been spotted in the forest that precluded the shore.

If she left his kingdom now there was no telling when they’d be able to find her again, and he didn’t have time to waste.

Not with the curse breathing down his neck.

“I don’t have time for this,” he muttered, following the sound of the witch up ahead around the curve in the tunnel.

How she’d known the tunnels were here, he wasn’t sure.

There were not many secrets that his kingdom held that he did not know about and yet she’d managed to evade them for an impressive amount of time.

Louder, he called, “For the last time, Sonnet. We’re here to— Ouch!

” The pain sparked his anger, the beast within snapping at the reins and Wren decided he had no reason to hold it back.

The change was a warm cascade over his skin.

Heavy paws hit the dirt floor as his senses sharpened, the tunnel no longer appearing pitch black.

A metallic scent tickled his nose and he chuffed, suddenly understanding why the witch hadn’t utilised anything more than sparks to dissuade them from following.

She was injured, which meant she likely didn’t have much more magic in her reserves since it depended on the life energy of the user.

He moved quickly, his stride long between his paws, and he caught up to the witch easily.

She spun, silver eyes widening as she lifted her hands between them and only the faintest flicker of magic answered her call.

Blood coated her side and the pallor of her face was chalky, panic overtaking any logic she may have had until Wren knocked her to the ground with the press of one large paw.

Perhaps it was the pain that jolted her out of the panic, or maybe being face-to-face with a tiger knocked the sense back into her, because she stopped trying to fight and instead breathed a sigh of relief. “Your Majesty.”

Sensing it was safe and that the witch was at last in her right mind, Wren let his beast fade away in favour of the man.

With barely a thought, the magic of the change reproduced his clothes and he offered the witch a hand, frowning when she grasped it weakly.

She couldn’t die. Not when he needed her.

She was the only known lunar witch left of her line and, consequently, the only one who could perform the spell he needed.

“Sonnet,” he acknowledged. “What trouble have you got yourself into now?”

The infirmary was largely empty, affording the witch privacy as his team of healers worked to cleanse and erase the wound that stretched from her hip to her ribcage.

Sonnet had fallen unconscious on the journey back to the palace and Wren could only pray to the Goddess that the witch pulled through.

“Thank Selene you found her when you did. The worst is over now.” Gabe clapped a hand on Wren’s shoulder, making him grunt.

He wished he could believe that his friend was right, but the ceremony he needed Sonnet to perform was only the first step in thwarting his curse.

Gabe sighed, like he could see the doubt churning in Wren’s mind behind his eyes.

“Come, let her rest. There’s nothing you can do here while the healers work. ”

That much was true at least.

Wren accepted Gabe’s hand up as he stood from the uncomfortable wooden bench that lined the outside wall of the infirmary.

He’d been out on the hunt for weeks and was desperate for a bath, whiskey, and bed.

Not necessarily in that order. He didn’t like to spend so much time away from court, but needs-must and this wasn’t a task he could let fall to anyone else.

Only his most trusted soldiers had accompanied him in an effort to keep their task under wraps.

If he hadn’t needed Gabe and Skye to be his eyes and ears at court, he’d have brought them too.

He followed Gabe out of the room and into the stone corridor, their footsteps muffled by the green runner that wound through the halls. Wren must have looked worse than he’d thought if the unusual tightness of Gabe’s jaw was anything to go by.

“Tell me,” he said quietly and Gabe nodded, scrubbing a hand over the blond stubble on his jaw before heaving a sigh. His amber eyes were weary when they met Wren’s.

“More of the same. Whispers mostly, that the king would rather be out fucking and hunting than looking after his court.”

Wren snorted. If only that were true.

The hour was early, most of the palace hadn’t yet stirred as the sun began to stream weakly in through the windows that lined the corridor.

But still, he was careful to guard his words lest someone be lurking unseen.

In a kingdom full of shifters, you couldn’t trust anything you saw—sometimes the fly on the wall was a grown man in disguise.

“Someone is going to a lot of trouble to sow discord,” Gabe continued, the early morning light washing over him and dyeing his white skin momentarily gold. “But whoever it is, they’re being careful.”

“Well, hopefully this should be the last hunt I’ll have to go on for a while.” Then they would have no reason to complain or spread rumours.

The entrance to his chambers was a welcome sight and he nodded in greeting to the two guards who stood sentry before he turned to clasp Gabe’s shoulder.

“I need to rest, will you and Skye?—”

“We’ll keep an eye on your witch,” Gabe confirmed, voice pitched low enough that the human guards wouldn’t have picked up the words. “Rest, brother.”

Wren smiled, the look fleeting as Gabe nodded and walked back the way they’d come.

Gabe wasn’t a brother by blood, but he had grown up with him and Skye and the three of them were close.

The doors opened quietly beneath Wren’s palm and the familiar scent of his rooms tickled his nose and relaxed his body automatically.

The hearth was cold but Wren couldn’t be bothered to heat it, instead he wandered to the small golden cart in one corner of the room and poured a healthy measure of the amber liquid into a crystal glass.

He sat down heavily into one of the plush armchairs arranged around the low, large oak table as he sipped.

He had his witch and had collected all but one of the ingredients Sonnet would need for her spellwork.

This curse had been in his family for generations, so he was well versed in what it would entail.

Lunar witches like Sonnet were beyond rare, they specialised in matters of the soul—a magic that many felt was too powerful to be allowed to exist. As a result, they had been hunted.

His family had done what they could to protect the witches, but they were a stubborn lot and Wren was forced into secrecy; any hint of his curse could be perceived as a weakness that the court and their adversaries may pounce upon.

Worse, Wren wasn’t sure that he could blame them for questioning his fitness for the throne if they discovered the truth.

He’d only learned of the curse himself that same year.

The ceremony Sonnet would perform could only be done during the cursed’s twenty-fifth year.

Now he had less than a year to find and bond with his mate, or the curse would take effect.

The only comfort was that Wren wouldn’t know that he’d failed if that happened.

Trapped in his animal form, Wren wouldn’t know much of anything.

He couldn’t say the same for the kingdom and the throne.

The chaos would leave them weak, scrambling for his replacement, perfectly poised for their enemies to close in.

He swallowed back the last of the drink, frowning in the darkness at the morbid turn his thoughts had taken.

The glass thunked as he set it on the table, the sound loud in the quiet of the room as he stood and walked to the drapes and tugged them open until a small slither of light cut through the gloom.

His parlour space was where he did his best thinking, aside from when he was in the bath, it was also where he spent the most time with Gabe and Skye. Normally accompanied by drink and cards as they worked to clean out his coffers.

Dust motes swirled in the small beam of light, returning some warmth and brightness to the room as he turned and walked into his adjoining bedroom.

A balcony waited to his left, the drapes shut to keep the sun out while he slept, but despite the security risk he often liked to sleep with the doors open, enjoying the smell of fresh air that carried the scents of the forest below up to his room.

He pulled open one drape, leaving the one closest to the bed closed to keep it in shadow, and opened the door, breathing deeply and enjoying the hint of earth on the air.

The bed took up most of the room, carved wooden posts forming the vague shape of trees and birds guarding the bed below like a woodland canopy.

A copper tub sat in front of the empty hearth, steam curling up from the water within and he hesitated, gaze flitting between the promise of the bed and the heat of the bath calling to him.

His simple tunic and trousers hit the ground, discarded next to his boots and the small horde of weapons he’d had hidden on his person.

The need to be clean was too strong to be ignored and he slipped into the water with a groan.

After the rough sleeping of the hunt, endless days spent in the underbrush of the forest and the odd tavern, the opportunity to soak in the bath was heavenly.

One of his attendants had even added his favourite jasmine oil to the water and the scent had his eyes falling closed.

Water slipped over his nose and he spluttered, jerking upright and blinking the moisture out of his eyes. Fuck. He’d spent all this time trying to break the curse, only to nearly drown in his bath.

Wren dunked his head and reached for a bar of soap, lathering his hair and body and rinsing quickly in the rapidly cooling water. How long had he been asleep? He wasn’t too pruney yet so he had to assume it hadn’t been a long time.

A large towel had been placed onto the fabric seat of the wooden chair beside the hearth and he reached for it as he stood, toweling off roughly and pushing the dark fabric over his hair so the semi-long strands wouldn’t drip down his back.

There was also a small pot of cream on the chair, scented similarly to his favoured jasmine, and he scooped up a portion with two fingers before working it across his face and hands.

Spending so much time outside would leave him with weathered skin as thick as a bore’s hide if he wasn’t careful.

Mostly dry, he stumbled over to the bed and promptly collapsed atop the sheets face first. He was asleep before the sun finished rising.