Fury Bound (The Wolves of Ruin, #2) — Chapter no 16

16

MERYN

ll the Bonded jump to their feet so quickly, weapons drawn, that it takesA me a moment to realize what’s happening.

It’s the direwolves. They stream into the throne room en masse. There must be at least fifty of them, claws clicking loudly on the shining marble.

Their presence looms over everyone as they fill up the room—heads high, eyes gleaming, muscles rippling with their graceful movements.

The nobles draw back in fear. Gasps and whispers ripple through the crowd as they whirl around, craning to watch the procession as it overwhelms the borders of the room.

Some of my wolfish viciousness returns, watching the power shift. I have a flicker of satisfaction at their discomfort. Good, I think. Let them be the vulnerable ones for once.

Even nobles who attended the Trials were seated far away from the direwolves, watching the events at a remove. This is the closest most of them have come to the wolves, and certainly to this many. I’m proud to see that the common people temper their reactions.

Some of the wolves are the companions to the Bonded at the ceremony.

But I know others have not taken riders yet. Bounding playfully among them are four direwolf pups, one in each pack color.

Saela gasps in joy. “Cute,” she squeals.

“What is this?” I quickly ask Anassa.

It takes a moment for her to respond, but she sends me her emotions.

She’s awed, humbled. Deeply touched. “They have come to show their respect and loyalty to us as the royal pair.”

Tears spring to my eyes, and I weave my fingers through her coarse fur.

When the last wolf has entered, barely contained within the boundaries of the hall, Anassa moves to stand before the throne. She lifts her massive silver-white head, her muscles ripple, and she tilts her muzzle back in a haunting howl.

The sound is the ghosts of all our losses, the echo of the Sturmfrost Queens, and it moves through the throne room like a wave. It wakes the voice of the other wolves. They reply in kind, howling in unity. Their song echoes over the vaulted ceiling and rattles me to my core.

The nobles watch, speechless, as the wolves fall silent and begin to move as one. The direwolves bow deeply, first to Anassa, then to me. Then, as swiftly and surprisingly as they entered, the wolves file out of the throne room.

The Mother Priestess clears her throat, redirecting the crowd’s attention to me. “Long live the queen!” she calls out.

The assembly rises, nobles and Bonded and common people calling out in a unison far messier than the wolves’.

“Long live the queen!”

The words ring hollow.

Coronation day is endless, blending into night in a long blur.

When I first swept into the central ballroom, trailed by Anassa and Saela and Siegrid and the rest of my entourage, the light of the thousands of flickering candles and sparkling chandeliers struck me with its beauty.

Now, hours later, the dancing lights are like a thousand tiny pinpricks in my eyes, accentuating the headache that’s continued to throb dully at my temples.

Anassa left with the rest of the direwolves hours ago, instinct calling her to hunt. She told me she wanted to make a new coronation tradition for the wolves, since all the traditions from the Sturmfrost era had been forgotten.

Occasionally I get a flash of awareness from her as they bound through the snow, skirting around Mount Wolfsbane to the deeper forests—and

bigger game—beyond.

Lucky bitch.

Unfortunately, the recent coronation traditions from the Valtieres haven’t been forgotten. The tables in the central ballroom circle around a cleared area, where seven dancers from the city are engaged in a “special performance.”

That’s what Matron Alienor called it when she insisted we needed to have it, that the nobles would expect it.

The “special performance” is some sort of erotic striptease.

The dancers are all stunningly beautiful and talented. I’m in awe of their physicality. But… “Is this appropriate for a coronation meal?” Izabel says, coming behind me where I sit at the head table. The table has been covered in dish after dish of food. We’ve been eating for hours, one exquisite, absurd, rich thing after another.

We watch together as one of the dancers bends over, wraps her legs around her head and exposes her—thankfully, covered—crotch to a table of practically panting nobles.

“You took the words right out of my mouth,” I mutter as one of the other dancers goes onto her toes. The woman next to her grabs the first dancer’s dress and spins her. The first dancer pirouettes around the room, her dress unraveling as she goes until she’s in only pasties and glittering bottoms. She ends her move in the splits, and several of the noblemen whistle.

“She’s really flexible,” Saela says innocently through a mouth full of venison.

She can eat regular food, another thing we learned from Aldrich’s research, although only blood will provide her sustenance. Food is just meant for pleasure. And for someone rarely exposed to these kinds of meals, Saela is delighted by all her options.

“Do me a favor,” I tell Izabel. “Find out how much Matron Alienor is paying these women and triple it?”

“Done,” she says. “I was coming to let you know that the greeting procession is about to begin.”

I sigh as a long line of nobles forms at the stairs to our dais. “On it, thanks.”

Siegrid’s work has been a victory—the nobles are lining up to greet me,

pay respects to their new queen. Everything is going as planned. If only their queen wanted to talk to a single fucking one of these sniveling dipshits.

I rise and step forward reluctantly, taking my place on the throne that’s positioned just by our royal table. Saela comes to stand at my side. She’s doing great so far, but I’ll need to send her to bed after this.

“Your Highness,” an older man intones, his voice a bit nasal. He moves slowly, and I swear I can hear his knees creak as he bends down to pledge his house’s allegiance.

“Lord Blumenfall,” I respond, thankful that Siegrid made me study the names, titles, and portraits of each lord or lady. “And Lady Heir.”

The younger woman to Lord Blumenfall’s right, also kneeling, stands and offers me a gilded box. “Our congratulations, Your Highness. We brought this as just a small token of our gratitude to have the rightful queen returned to us.”

I meet her eyes, looking for sarcasm, but her gaze is steady.

Perhaps these nobles genuinely are open to a commoner, Bonded queen?

As the lord’s only child, Lady Heir Blumenfall is set to inherit his estate and responsibilities when he’s gone. She’s solid-looking and flinty-eyed. Maybe in her fifties at most.

She notices me giving her the once-over and quirks an eyebrow, eyes glinting. “We look forward to getting to know you better, my queen.”

As she steps away, I cast my mind around for the name of the next lord who approaches, a tall and thin man with a wispy mustache, but it’s escaping me. He doesn’t offer it, either, and I can see his gaze grow calculating when he realizes I’m not sure who he is.

“Congratulations on this momentous day,” he says, voice dripping with insincerity.

“Thank you for being here,” I murmur, distracted by my effort to match his face to one of the portraits I studied.

He sneers at Saela behind me and then marches off without a farewell.

Saela and I exchange glances, but there’s no time to talk before the receiving line carries on.

The next couple is somehow better and worse: a young husband and wife whom I luckily remember as royal cousins of the Valtiere line, twice removed or something.

Despite the fact that I just recently decapitated one of their family members and snatched the throne from another, they’re bending over backward to fawn over me. The husband bows so deeply his head touches the ground, and the wife weeps as she grabs my hand and presses it to her forehead.

It’s transparently phony, the sycophantic worship, but I suppose I can’t blame them. They’re trying to persuade me not to lock them up for being distant relatives to the previous rulers.

I turn and grab my water goblet, taking a few quick gulps.

The Councilor of Sturmfrost, Gerhold Herzog, approaches next. The oily man is a necessary but unwelcome part of my Council Palast, and I spend our weekly meetings trying desperately not to engage in conversation with him.

Neighbors in the Eastern Quarter used to crack jokes about how he’d bestow royal contracts on folks who did him favors… especially beautiful young women. I believe the rumors even more now that I’ve had the unfortunate luck of getting to know him.

“You changed the coronation ceremony,” he says bluntly by way of greeting.

“I did,” I say, trying not to scowl. “Elements of it did not suit me.”

He sneers. “I beg to differ, Meryn.” I bristle at the casual use of my first name—from him, it’s an intended slight. “Those elements would have

suited you quite well.”

My face burns. This fucking pig.

My first order of business now that I’m officially crowned will be finding a suitable replacement for him, an appropriate steward of Sturmfrost who can be trusted to run our city well.

He must see the barely controlled rage behind my civil veneer, because he smirks and bows his head, taking his leave.

Noemi and her father, Lord Eisenfall, are next. Noemi’s gown is a showy, sleek, fiery red, almost matching the color of her hair. To call it a gown might be an exaggeration. It’s a garment made of crisscrossing straps that cover up just bits of her body, with very little left to the imagination.

It reminds me uncomfortably of the balls held during the Bonding Trials.

I blink in surprise at it; she struck me as demure when we first met.

Her attire looks drab in comparison to the wealth draped across Lord

Eisenfall. His suit is a gaudy velvet, his sword hilt is studded in rubies, and precious stones glint from rings on every finger. Noemi stands slightly

behind him, her head bent.

“Lord Eisenfall—you’re Noemi’s father?”

The lord scoffs. “I sired Noemi, to be sure, but we don’t claim bastards as our children or heirs, not in Eisenfall at least.” His gaze skims over me and my sister disapprovingly. “But yes, Noemi belongs to Eisenfall.”

My already pounding head grows hot at his words, and I look between Noemi and this man. A father who makes it sound like she’s a thing he owns rather than a daughter.

Lord Eisenfall plays with the jeweled hilt of his sword as he speaks, his tone lazy. “We do consider it a point of pride, of course, having a Bonded to

display as one of our own.”

What the fuck?

I glance back at Noemi, who looks away as if she’s embarrassed.

I need to make a good impression on this asshole along with all the other disgusting leeches in this room. But my mouth doesn’t listen to my brain.

“As your new queen, I find it’s a point of pride to have so many dithering nobles to display as my own.”

I extend my hand in what I hope is a queenly way, keeping my face as blank as possible as Lord Eisenfall studies me, clearly unsure how to take my words.

He leans in and kisses it, and I immediately want to go wash.

After they finally go, the Mother Priestess steps up. I didn’t see her shrunken form behind Lord Eisenfall’s towering one, and she takes me by surprise. I assumed she might have left after the ceremonial portions of the coronation were complete.

That zealous intensity has returned to her eyes as she glides up the stairs to the dais, moving toward me until she’s uncomfortably close.

“Mother Priestess,” I say uneasily. “Thank you for presiding over the ceremony.”

Instead of responding to me, she turns toward Saela and reaches out a hand. My sister takes a frightened step backward. It immediately sets alarm bells off in my head.

“You have two?” the Mother Priestess hisses, moving closer.

She’s focused on the opal necklace Saela wears around her neck. The

other Goddess Tear. She lunges forward as if to yank it off my sister’s neck.

“Mother Priestess,” I snap, and the woman straightens, a peevish look on her face. “You forget yourself.”

“No, you forget yourself, Your Highness.” She holds up her hand, displaying the opal ring. “You have said it yourself—you are not a true believer. You are not worthy of carrying one Tear in your family, let alone two. They are sacred symbols of the goddess. They belong with me.”

Anger floods me, and shadows begin to stir in the corner of my eye.

Fuck, fuck, fuck.

Not now. I cannot lose control.

Taking a deep breath, I say, “I have an open mind about the goddess, as I told you. If you find me so unworthy, perhaps you should have declined to oversee the ceremony. And I believe my family’s heirlooms belong in my family’s possession.”

I nod toward Siegrid, who approaches swiftly.

“Siegrid, the Mother Priestess is exhausted and needs to retire for the evening. Can you personally see to it that she reaches her chambers?”

Siegrid bows to me, then grabs the Mother Priestess’s arm, leading her

away.

“Well, that was weird,” Saela mumbles.

“No kidding,” I say. “Speaking of exhausted, are you ready to head back to your room?”

Saela nods gratefully, and I wave down Helene. After the two of them depart, I slip down the stairs past the other waiting nobles, ignoring the questioning eyes that land on me.

I need air. This cavernous room is suddenly stifling.

There’s a side door behind a table overladen with chocolates and pastries, and I make for it as fast as my heavy gown and stupid dress shoes allow. It opens onto one of the balconies that overlooks the castle grounds.

Letting the door close behind me, I make my way over to the banister.

The cold stone is delicious against my overheated skin. A scent of snow is in the air.

It’s only a minute or two before my solitude is interrupted. The door opens with a burst of warm, damp air from inside.

Maybe it’s his tread against the solid stone of the balcony floor.

Or maybe it’s a subtle change in the back of my mind, Anassa’s

awareness shifting, blending with my own, giving me an almost wolfish intuition.

But somehow, I don’t have to turn and look to know it’s Stark.

I swallow hard but keep my gaze straight ahead, watching the trees of the courtyard shiver in the frigid wind. Stark is quiet as he moves to stand beside me at the balustrade. I don’t look at him, but I can feel his movement, sense the heat coming off him, his arm resting inches from mine as he leans on the banister and looks out.

Neither of us says anything for a moment, and the silence settles over me like a comforting blanket. It’s odd to be in his presence and also so… at peace.

Eventually, I sense his gaze on me, and I turn to meet his dark eyes, pools of night in the dim light.

My breath hitches, that tension between us from yesterday returning in full force.

What would it be like to take him up on that offer? To tattoo him somewhere intimate and learn the feel of his skin with my tongue?

“Hiding from your scary subjects?” His teasing, low voice interrupts the moment. But his gaze holds mine, and I somehow know there’s concern behind the question.

“Only until they all go to bed?” I laugh weakly. He just stares at me, as if he’s drinking in every detail of my appearance. “Can you blame me? A bunch of ass-kissers who normally treat the Bonded like garbage, suddenly falling all over themselves to tell me how happy they are for me, how glad they are to serve the rightful queen. Honestly, I’d rather drive nails into my eyeballs.”

That gets a snort from him, though his gaze never drops. “Ass-kissers or not, you need them to show their support, even if it’s a total farce.”

“I know,” I sigh.

“Their wealth, the soldiers from their fiefdoms, their influence over their subjects, it’s all—”

“I know,” I bite sharply, my irritation spilling over as I turn to face him fully, leaning in. “I might act like an idiot most of the time, but I’m not a total imbecile.”

The clouds overhead are thinning, and the moonlight outlines his hair, the angles of his cheekbones, making him look like a hero from one of

Saela’s storybooks—or a villain. He looks different tonight, I think, although I can’t pinpoint why exactly. Something in the set of his face.

“You look beautiful,” he says quietly. Maybe I’m making it up, but I could swear there’s a longing in his voice.

Is it just our wolves’ mate bond influencing him? Or… something else?

A yearning that has started to build in me, too. One that confuses me so much I rush to shut it down.

“Glad to hear I didn’t show up to my coronation looking like shit.”

He grimaces but steps closer, until his breath heats me. Until I can smell his amber musk so deeply that it twists inside me and ignites my veins.

“Sorry. But when I saw you yesterday, you looked like you hadn’t slept in a month.”

His hand comes up to my face, and for a moment, I think he’s going to cup my cheek, tilt my face toward his. Instead, his fingertips lightly brush the spot under each eye, where I know under my makeup I’m boasting circles as dark as a bruise.

I want to be insulted, but he’s right. I have barely been sleeping. I’m too afraid that I’ll somehow end up back in that shadowy realm, trapped with Killian, unable to escape him.

Maybe it’s time to ask for help, to tell someone other than Anassa the truth. I know I can trust him.

But as I open my mouth to explain, the door behind us swings open again, knocking against the stone of the wall and bouncing back.

We both swivel to look at the new arrival: Siegrid. She gives us an assessing gaze, then smiles.

I step away from Stark, not wanting her to read into whatever this is.

“It’s time for the traditional toasts,” Siegrid says. “I don’t think they’ll get started until our monarch returns to her table, however…”

She somehow imbues the word monarch with respect and irritation and weariness all at once. I almost admire the way she manages to make the words sound like an insult without technically saying anything negative about me.

So much for my heart-to-heart with Stark. I feel a sinking disappointment in my chest, but I know Siegrid’s right. “Far be it from me to keep the nobles from their next glass of emberwine,” I quip, moving toward the door before looking back at Stark. “You coming?”

Siegrid bustles me back onto the dais. A server darts forward to hand me a glass of sparkling emberwine as soon as I’ve reached my spot at the head of the table.

The glass is made of shining crystal, intricately engraved with twisting vines and, at its center, the Sturmfrost crest. I study it, wondering how old it is, if one of my ancestors might have held this very same glass at a coronation of her own.

Siegrid begins the traditional coronation toasts. I catch a few words of her clearly rehearsed speech; “the true royal line” and “tradition embracing necessary change as we move our country forward” and other carefully worded phrases.

“…with the full support of the Bonded warriors and myself, the Sovereign Alpha, behind her…”

If only I believed I had the full support of the Bonded warriors.

Hopefully, after tonight, my friends’ families—and the others like them— will start to come around.

I look out at the sea of faces, each table standing with their glasses held aloft, waiting for Siegrid to finish her remarks.

Turning back toward Siegrid, I see Stark slip into place by her side, and my exhaustion recedes just for a moment.

“To Queen Meryn!”

The words repeat and echo throughout the ballroom. I lift my own glass, smiling and nodding like I heard a word of what was said. Sitting back down, I place the cup carefully to the side. I don’t need anything to dull my nerves tonight.

Conversation resumes around the room, and the hundreds of conniving eyes thankfully shift away from me. I sigh again, and then a hand slips over my eyes.

“Who’s your favorite packmate,” comes Izabel’s voice. I manage a half- hearted chuckle as she lets me go, grabs herself a chair and scooches in next to me. Siegrid looks on disapprovingly from her end of the table, but I can’t bring myself to care.

Tomison is with Iz, and he takes the chair next to her. “Great party, Queenie.”

I laugh. “Thanks, Tomtom. You two having fun?”

Izabel pulls a face. “Not really. As your events planner, I’m duty bound

to say this has gone perfectly and everything is just right.”

Tomison chuckles. “But as your friends: This party is creepy.”

“Oh, you didn’t like the display of the ten roasted peacocks? The tiny cakes that looked suspiciously like breasts weren’t to your taste? Or is it the nobles using their drunkenness as an excuse to do… that?”

I gesture to the ballroom floor, where several older, inebriated nobles have cornered young commoners and Bonded, forcing them to dance.

Technically, they’re keeping their hands to themselves, but it’s revolting to watch all the same.

Izabel sighs. “See? How did they even manage to get into that state?

You’d think my position as planner would get me a few more perks. I can’t even get the servers to bring me a glass of emberwine. What gives?”

Before I can reply, she spots the crystal goblet at my plate. “Great, here’s where it’s all been hiding. Time to get properly drunk and see if that makes this occasion any more tolerable.”

I roll my eyes and lean over her toward Tomison. “The woman you’re courting is a terrible influence. You know that, right?”

Izabel looks affronted. “Courting? Him? I have no idea what you’re talking about. In fact, I’ve never even seen him before. Who is he?” She takes a deep sip of the emberwine.

“That’s not what you were saying last night,” Tomison purrs, his mouth close to her ear. “You seemed to know my name very well when you were

screaming—”

Izabel chokes on her drink.

I hold up a hand. “Stop. I beg you. It’s like I’m hearing my parents talk about sex.”

Izabel’s laugh gets stuck in her throat. Another choke. Her dark eyes go wide, and she looks to Tomison first, panic setting in.

Then she grabs my hand, wheezing.

All the blood drains from my body.

She struggles to her feet, and Tomison and I both bolt out of our chairs

so quickly they tumble over.

He puts a hand on her back. “Iz—”

The goblet slips from Izabel’s fingers and rolls across the floor, bouncing once on the stairs before shattering into a million pieces on its next impact.

She looks to me, eyes filled with terror, as she takes one step backward.

Her knees give out, and she crumples to the dais. Her mouth is open, screaming without sound.

Cold panic tears through me, ice filling my veins.

“Izabel!” I shout, falling to the floor beside her, frantically searching for something I can do to help. Tomison does the same, cradling her head in his lap.

She begins to convulse violently. Foam froths up at her mouth, red from the emberwine. Or, I realize with horror, from blood.

“Get—call the wolves—” I reach out with my mind, trying to focus, hating to look away from Izabel for a second, even internally. But if Asteio is here, she can heal Izabel. “Anassa!” Through the bond, I sense as she turns and sprints in our direction, but she’s leagues away.

It’s going to be too late, I realize dimly. Whatever was in the drink—the drink meant for me—has taken over Izabel’s body.

The party continues on all around us, clinking glasses and polite laughter.

No one else sees it—how the world is ending before our eyes.