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CHAPTER FIVE

WREN

H is mate was in the palace. His mate was in the palace. His mate was in the palace.

It was all Wren could think about. Somewhere within these walls was the person who completed his soul, who called to the tiger beneath his skin, whose heart beat in time to his.

And he was fucking terrified.

Lady Zennon had arrived with the dawn, while Wren had been sleeping. The ritual Sonnet had performed had taken a lot out of him. More than he’d expected. He’d slept for a full day and had risen to the news that his mate had arrived.

The relief was tempered by nervous anticipation and then soured further when he learned of the brutal attack Lady Zennon had faced—and thwarted.

Wren smirked into his tea as he lifted the cup to his lips. Of course his mate had taken on four assassins and lived to tell the tale. She would be a match for him in every way.

His mother sighed and patted the hardwood of the table between them, snapping his thoughts away from Lady Zennon and back to the present where the late queen had clearly been speaking while he’d daydreamed.

“I’m glad to see you looking well, darling.”

“Thank you, Mother,” he murmured, replacing the cup in the delicate saucer gently so as not to cause a clatter. He couldn’t say he particularly cared for the beverage, but it was what was expected, a genteel drink to mask the wild nature of the beast-king.

The urge to smirk rose again and he barely quashed it as his mother continued talking.

“Nasty business about the attack, has there been any luck in finding who is responsible?”

He frowned and shook his head. “Not yet.” Even if there had been any information, he wouldn’t have told her.

His mother was a beautiful woman, as elegant and graceful as the swan form she sometimes inhabited, but she was also a gossip.

While he’d have liked to believe that in a matter as serious as this she would have held her tongue, he couldn’t be sure.

Not when someone at the ceremony had to have been responsible for the attack.

Nobody else had known of his intent to retrieve Lady Zennon.

A circle of his closest confidantes and family members, and yet someone had tried to kill his mate before the guard could reach her—and likely would have succeeded if not for Lady Zennon’s own prowess.

The betrayal cut deep, like a physical wound that pulled when he moved and rubbed against his clothes. Or maybe that was just his tiger, prowling below the surface, half a heartbeat away from exploding from his skin to hunt down those who were responsible.

Soon, he consoled himself. When he found out who had done this, they would wish for death.

It would not come swiftly.

“Have you seen her yet?” The words were casual, but the interest gleaming in his mother’s amber eyes was unmistakable as she feigned nonchalance by tucking a strand of blonde hair behind her ear.

“No.” The short response didn’t invite further questions, not that his mother cared.

“She had a busy night, despatching our enemies,” he continued, the amusement he felt colouring his voice just slightly, but it was enough for his mother to award him with a look of disapproval.

“I imagine the Lady is still resting. Are we going to talk about the obvious?”

She sighed. “And what’s that, darling?”

Fortuna Ainsworthy was no fool, and Wren resented his mother for making him pull the words out of her. “That we have been betrayed. I would appreciate any insights you have for me.”

The chair scraped across the wooden floors of his mother’s parlour as she pushed back from the table and stood in a huff. “I don’t like what you’re insinuating.”

“Then let me speak plainly.” Wren stood too, his height dwarfing his mother’s impressive stature.

“The only people who knew of Lady Zennon’s import and location were with us during the ceremony.

Someone orchestrated this attack, probably in an effort to claim the throne after I fail to break the curse and am driven quite mad. Do you know anything about it?”

Perhaps he would later regret the ice that coated his words or the harshness in his eyes as he pierced his mother with his questions, but in that moment it was all he could do to keep his beast at bay when he knew that his mate had been targeted.

Fortuna stiffened and drew herself up to her full height, her head barely in-line with his chest as she bit out, “I know of no such machinations and you would be wise to hold your tongue before levelling accusations of that manner at family, my king.” Then she turned on her heel and marched away, the swaying of her purple silk dress wafting the familiar scent of his childhood in his face until he took a breath filled with temporary shame.

But it was a necessary evil. It had been entirely possible that this betrayal was not evil in its intentions.

The wrong word whispered in the wrong ear could spell disaster, even when intentions were pure.

Typically his union would be cause for joy, but it also put a target on his back—and his mate’s—until their bond was accepted and celebrated under Selene’s gaze.

Plus, there was still the small matter of informing Lady Zennon of why she’d been escorted to his palace. It was rare for mates to be rejected, but not impossible, and if that happened… Well, Wren would be well and truly fucked.

He’d checked on Sonnet not long after he’d awoken from the day’s rest and Gabe had told him that Sonnet had mostly slept the whole time too. No harm had come to her, which was good because he would need her for the bonding ceremony if Lady Zennon was receptive.

He found Skye outside of Sonnet’s room with his arms crossed and a scowl on his face, magic rolling off of him in waves that prickled Wren’s skin.

“Everything… okay?”

Skye grunted. “See for yourself.”

Worry swirling, Wren knocked on Sonnet’s door and waited for her to call him inside before opening it and finding her lounging on a small sofa with Gabriel.

The two were laughing, Sonnet practically breathless as Gabe wiped tears from his face and attempted to catch his own breath.

Wren stepped inside and approached before looking between them, bemused. “Is this why Skye is outside, sulking?”

Sonnet shrugged. “I told him he could come in.” She peered into the space behind Wren and called, “This nasty little witch doesn’t bite. Unless he wants me to.”

If he didn’t know better, Wren might have thought Sonnet was enjoying taunting Skye—a thought that was evidenced by the smugness on her face when Skye growled from the hall.

“Where are my manners?” Sonnet stood and curtsied.

“How are you, my king?” The words had an undercurrent of humour, like she was placating rather than respecting him.

The witches mostly governed themselves, having a hierarchy separate to Wren’s crown, but it still felt a little like being mocked as a child playing at power rather than having it.

And that, his beast did not like.

He let his tight control slip for half a second, stripes rippling along his skin and claws showing at his fingertips before he let a mask of civility fall back into place.

Sonnet paled but stood her ground and Wren could admire that tenacity even as he demanded obedience.

“I’m well, thank you. I hear that you slept for nearly as long as me?”

“The spell took much from me,” she said, nodding and Skye snorted from the hall, making her eyes narrow. “Oh for the Goddess’ sake, either get inside or close the door. You won’t become affected by my dirty magic just by standing here.”

Skye’s form filled the doorway, his blue eyes practically beacons as they fixed on the witch. “You’re lucky I let you live, that Wren needs you alive.”

“Indubitably,” she said, pressing her hands together and widening her eyes. “My gratefulness knows no bounds. Would you like me to get on my knees to show you my gratitude?”

Magic sparked at Skye’s fingertips and Wren watched, intrigued. He’d never seen much active magic from his friend, but this witch knew how to push his buttons.

“You dare?—”

“That’s quite enough,” Wren said mildly and Skye fell silent.

“It’s not polite to threaten our guest,” he continued and Skye’s jaw clenched.

“And you should know better than to taunt your king,” he added to Sonnet and saw the first trace of true anger on her face at his insinuation that she owed Skye her fealty.

“He is no king of mine.”

Sensing they stood on a precipice that could implode at any second, Wren decided to change the subject.

“Close the door, would you, Skye?” He sat down in the armchair that faced the sofa where Sonnet and Gabe had been laughing only moments ago.

“My mate is here,” he said quietly, as soon as the door shut.

“You seem surprised,” Sonnet remarked, settling back down onto the sofa at a less than demure distance from Gabe. “Was that not the point of the ceremony?”

Wren ignored her sarcasm as he cast his eyes over the room.

It was plain, compared to his anyway, but likely better than any bed she’d have slept in for a long time.

Unlike the suites reserved for high ranking company, Sonnet’s room was a parlour and bedroom all in one.

A hearth sat opposite the bed, with the sofa, two armchairs and a small ovular table surrounding it.

It was clean, comfortable, and warm. It seemed unlikely that they were qualities Sonnet had found much time for while in hiding for her survival.

“Yes,” he allowed, and said nothing more on his nerves.

Not while Sonnet was there, anyway. “I have a proposition for you,” he said, the idea forming slowly as his gaze came back around to the witch’s.

Skye had lowered himself into the armchair opposite Wren but his eyes didn’t stray from Sonnet’s, as if he expected her to pounce at any moment.

“You must be tired of running all the time.”

Suspicion made the witch’s nostrils flare, but Skye had caught on far quicker to Wren’s intentions and was now glaring at the king. “No. Absolutely not.”

Wren ignored Skye’s protests. He could say what he wanted, but this was still Wren’s palace, his kingdom, and unless Skye was willing to fight his oldest friend it would stay that way.

“What are you saying?”

He smiled at Sonnet. “I want you to help me find a way to break this curse on my bloodline. Permanently.”

The witch’s eyes gleamed. She was interested. Good. “And in return?”

Wren shrugged, leaning back casually and crossing one leg over the other as he spread his arms across the back of the chair. “Safety. You may stay as long as you wish and, for so long as you remain, no harm will be allowed to befall you.”

“Wren—”

“What if I can’t find a way to break it?”

“ Wren— ”

“Well, let’s cross that bridge if we come to it.”

Sonnet grinned and stood, shaking his hand firmly. “I accept.”

“No! Wren, I cannot allow this.” Skye had stood when Sonnet had and Wren looked up at his friend calmly. “Her magic… It is dangerous. Unnatural. I will help you break this curse, I swear it, but?—”

“Excellent,” he said smoothly. “You can work on it together.” Now they both looked horrified, mouths dropped open in protest even as no words escaped their lips. “We have bigger problems than magical bickering and, frankly, you do not allow anything, friend.”

Dominance. His beast would accept nothing less.

For a moment, they watched each other, eyes held, until Skye nodded. “As you wish.”

Only then did Wren stand. “Good. Now, I think it’s past time that I meet my mate.”