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CHAPTER TEN

WREN

W as it possible to be haunted by someone who wasn’t dead? That was how Wren felt, haunted by the scent of jasmine and tortured by a long length of leg. It was ridiculous, but more than that—it was frustrating .

Objectively, Neah was an attractive woman. But Wren had met plenty of attractive women in his time, had slept with a good share of them too, and yet none of them had occupied his thoughts quite like the shifter who sat demurely sipping her wine at the long table across from his.

She hadn’t even glanced his way when she’d walked in, wearing her own version of the dress Lady Zennon had worn to breakfast. On Zennon, the dress had been floaty and dreamy.

On Neah? It was pure temptation, the gauzy movements of the high slit in the side of the gown luring him in with the promise of a glimpse of the lightly sun-kissed skin beneath.

The dress felt like more of a suggestion of material than anything else, like if he looked at it the wrong way he might see more than he’d bargained for—except, he found he couldn’t think of anything else.

And still she sipped her drink, primly dabbed at her mouth with a napkin after she ate, and flawlessly selected the correct silverware for each course of food. Not so much as one look at him. Her king .

“You’re staring,” Gabe muttered and Wren blinked, wrenching his stare away from the woman who shouldn’t have held so much of his attention. Perhaps he’d been mistaken for looking at the woman on Neah’s left, the one who was supposedly his mate.

He’d heard the same stories they all had of fated mates finding one another, of puzzle pieces slipping into place and other halves fitting an empty hole, but with Lady Zennon… There was no spark. Yet . It could come with time, maybe.

“I’m the king. I can stare if I want to,” he griped, but looked away and refocused on the final course in front of them. The chef had outdone themselves that evening, each dish exquisitely prepared and beautifully seasoned, but dessert had always been Wren’s favourite.

Crumble was no exception and he dug in with gusto, savouring the tartness of the apples and plums mixed with the sweet oat layer atop, smothered in a thick creamy sauce.

It was the perfect late-summer dessert, in his opinion.

He would eat it for breakfast, lunch, and dinner if it had been deemed appropriate for a king to do such a thing.

Most of the court was in attendance, the room filled with those seeking attention from the king, or even his favour, plus many a suitor who hoped to catch his eye.

They’d kept his mate ceremony quiet, for the most part, with only a select few knowing who Lady Zennon was and why she mattered, but it was common knowledge that the ruling monarch often wed around their twenty-fifth birthday.

Of course, the court didn’t know that the real reason was because of the curse that plagued his family line.

Once dessert was over, Wren stood and a hush fell over the room nearly instantly as all eyes turned to him. Well, almost all eyes.

What could be so interesting to her? Once again, Neah was preoccupied by chatting to the male shifter on her right and her undivided attention on the young member of the court made Wren’s skin prickle.

“Thank you all for joining me tonight. I’m sure you’ll all agree that Chef Markhane did an incredible job feeding us all.

Now, if you’ll follow me, the festivities will truly begin.

” He tried hard to keep the irritation out of his voice and thought he’d been successful until Skye leaned in to murmur in his ear.

“You okay? You’re looking a little… orange.”

Fuck. “Fine. Too much wine,” he muttered and vowed to get himself under control—the last thing this feast needed was a tiger on the dance floor.

The doors at the back of the room swung open and the string quartet immediately began playing. Beckoning the crowd inside, he strode across the room and immediately grabbed a glass of silver fizzy wine, downing it in one gulp.

“Whoa, easy tiger.”

Wren rolled his eyes as Skye placed a heavy hand on his shoulder. Where Skye could be found, Gabriel usually wasn’t too far behind and, lately, where Gabe was Sonnet often followed.

Sure enough, by the time Wren turned both Skye and Gabriel were standing beside him with Sonnet lingering just behind Gabe—or maybe it was more accurate to say that Gabe was standing in front of Sonnet, easily adjusting when she moved, almost protectively.

The witch huffed under her breath when Gabriel repeated the movement, keeping himself between Sonnet and Skye, and Wren couldn’t help but find that very interesting. Not much came between those two—let alone a woman. They were more inclined to share than bicker.

Wren took another glass of wine and raised a brow at the disapproving look on Skye’s face. “What? It’s my party isn’t it?”

“What’s got you all broody?”

Long legs. Damp hair. Parted lips and the scent of honey. “Nothing,” Wren growled and Skye raised his hands, palms up. Sonnet, however, smirked. “Do you know something?” He stepped forward, eyes intent on the witch, and was surprised when Gabe blocked his way. “If she knows something?—”

Sonnet stepped out from behind Gabe, dodging him effortlessly as she sized up Wren. “I know a great number of things. I imagine we’d be here all day if I had to recount every single piece of knowledge I possess that you do not.”

Had… Had she just called him stupid?

“Sonnet,” Gabe muttered, looking pained as he reached for the witch’s arm, and Wren decided right then and there that he was better off not knowing whatever was going on between them.

“Do you know anything pertinent to me and my mate?” Wren said, attempting a calmer tone of voice even as his vision shrank down to capture every twitch Sonnet made.

“Everything I know , you know.” The words were confident, but measured, and Wren didn’t like the way her eyes sparkled, like she’d hidden some clue within the response that she knew he wouldn’t decipher.

Wren huffed, turning away and sipping the second glass of wine. “Fucking witches,” he muttered and his lips twitched when both Sonnet and Skye protested.

“Hey,” they said, and then grimaced at one another.

The moment of awkwardness was luckily averted by the presence of his mother and his uncle, stepping into their little circle with proud smiles.

His uncle shared only a passing resemblance to his father, but it was enough that seeing his face was still a gut punch since his father had died on a hunting expedition with his brother.

Wren didn’t hold it against him though, Castor couldn’t help the family resemblance, and he’d been nothing but kind to Wren his whole life, stepping up when he needed advice, supporting him when being a king felt impossible.

Wren smiled, reaching out to clasp his uncle’s hand. “Your arrival is a gift.”

“Oh? Trouble in paradise?” Castor grinned at Skye and Sonnet who blanched, looking impossibly more horrified than before.

“No matter, let’s let absence make his heart fonder, my dear.

” He winked and led Sonnet away with an arm around her shoulders, pausing at the buffet table filled with wine and nibbles just a few paces away while Gabriel watched them intently.

“You look lovely, darling.” His mother kissed each of his cheeks and beamed when she pulled away. Her face was already flushed from the wine at dinner and when he caught his uncle’s eye he nodded minutely toward his mother, relieved when his uncle nodded. He would keep an eye on her.

“As do you, Mother.”

The music shifted, signalling the beginning of the first dance of the night, and Wren drank the last of his wine.

Typically, it was tradition for him to hold the first dance and he knew the court, as well as his mother, would expect nothing less that night too.

He cast his eyes around while his mother chattered, and then paused.

Lady Zennon and Neah stood off to one side, sipping their flutes of wine and ignoring the looks they were garnering from interested suitors and gossiping nobles. The young shifter from dinner had spotted them too and when he began to approach, Wren didn’t think. Just moved.

His long legs ate up the short distance between them as he kept his eyes on Lady Zennon, barely noticing when the young shifter faltered at the sight of his approach.

And yet, when he arrived, his hand sought out another.

Lightly calloused, long fingers that looked like they could play the pianoforte, and golden eyes.

“Dance with me.” The words were more demand than request and Neah blinked at him, looking down at the hand he had clasped in his.

“But—” She looked to Zennon and he felt a momentary flicker of hesitation before pushing it down and squeezing her fingers lightly as the young shifter regained his confidence to approach.

“Now.”

Neah thrust her glass at Zennon, who looked only amused as Wren practically dragged Neah into the centre of the room. His hand found her waist, her skin burning hot through the wispy material, and one of her hands fell to his shoulder, and then they began to move.

“Shouldn’t you be dancing with your mate?” The words were sharp and Wren cocked his head, leading them effortlessly as he tried to make sense of the look on her face. Was that concern in her eyes? Fear? He couldn’t be sure.

“I may dance with whomever I please,” he countered and she frowned, a flash of anger in her eyes that he attributed to protectiveness for her friend until she replied.

“Even if your dance partner is unwilling?”

He dropped her hand so quickly that she startled. “By all means, walk away.”

Her jaw clenched, mouth hardening into a fierce line as he waited for her to make her choice. She glanced around them at the shocked onlookers, but for once he didn’t care. Let them watch.

She slipped her hand back into his and their dance resumed, her dress fluttering about his legs as they twirled silently, eyes locked in a battle of wills despite his being none the wiser as to what they were fighting about.

“Zennon—”

“Does not seem to mind that we are dancing.”

This time she growled. “Are you going to keep doing that? Cutting off what I say?”

He let her finish speaking and then smirked. “No.”

“But why are we dancing?” Her brows furrowed and he missed a step, so focused on the minute movement.

“Why not?”

“But—”

“You seem awfully preoccupied by it,” he mused. “Why is that? We’re dancing, caritas , yet you act as if we were being seen doing something far more primal.” The rasp of his voice surprised him and when she shivered, he knew it wasn’t from cold. “Who are you?”

At that, she blinked. “You know who I am.”

“I’m not so sure,” he murmured and wariness made her mouth flatten as he spun her around to the song’s final crescendo. Her hair was a wash of gold tumbling around her shoulders as she followed the movement effortlessly and curled back into his arms for the final beat.

Their breaths heaved, her scent invading his senses, and for half a second they didn’t move. Until a titter broke out and Neah yanked herself away before dipping into a shallow curtsy. “Thank you for the dance, my king.”

He inclined his head as the dance floor filled in around them, other couples flocking to the scene now that Wren had done his duty in opening the dance.

He remained silent as Neah walked away, not sure what he might say if he opened his mouth, nor did he trust the way his body responded when she’d called him my king , as if the words were a claim rather than an honorific.

Following Neah at a more sedate pace, he noticed her spine straighten when she sensed his pursuit and then relax when he turned his attention to Lady Zennon.

“May I have this dance?” He held out his hand and his mate took it, a small smile on her face as they walked to the centre of the room. “I hope you didn’t mind me dancing with your friend. Only, she is an intriguing character and as she is close with you, I find myself wanting to know her better.”

“Of course, it’s no trouble, my king.”

“Wren,” he corrected and she smiled as he guided her into the first steps of the dance.

“Wren,” she said, and her smile was pleasant, sweet, and she was malleable under his palms. He felt overly aware of every step, every breath, not wanting to crowd her, or lead her too strongly as he felt her delicate form.

The dance was over quickly and he found that he’d spent more time concentrating on his footwork than he had appreciating the woman in front of him.

But his nerves made sense—this was his mate .

He wanted to make a good impression. Of course things had flowed easier with Neah, his steps coming easy and sure, the space between them warm and fraught, the stakes were different.

He bowed his head and Lady Zennon smiled. “Save me another later?”

She nodded. “It would be my pleasure.”

His eyes found Neah, watching them closely even as her face was inscrutable. “The pleasure is all mine.”