The wolf prince of belfaire

“Are you sure about this?” he asked, eyes locked on mine, as if he could stare down the last scrap of his self-control. In my head and my heart I knew: there was nothing left to control. “Tristane, do you want me?” I asked, needing to hear it again. He didn’t answer. He lifted my hand and set it over his heart. It hammered against my palm—steady, hard, undeniable. The room carried a faint breath of hearth ash and warm linen; the world narrowed to that drumbeat under my hand. The beat told me what words didn’t. We were strangers who wanted the same thing, and in my naïve mind, that was all that mattered. I gave him the last assurance I thought he needed. “Listen to me, Tristane. I’ve never done this before, but I want you. I think you want me too.” I whispered as my hands slid up his chest and framed the handsome face that stunned me even in the dim room. “I want you and you want me, so we should take what we want.” I guided his mouth to mine, and the kiss slowed until thought fell away. Control left him; wildness flashed in his blue eyes. Heat rolled off him as our bodies met, and then my feet left the floor. With one hand at my waist he lifted me as if gravity forgot me. Cool stone brushed my heels as I rose, then my legs wrapped around him like an anchor; my mouth stayed on his. His fingers moved through my hair—silk caught and released—while he carried me to the bed with the strength I’d only heard rumored about the Prince of Belfaire. He set me down and tore off his shirt in one motion, the fabric sailing aside. I stared, caught by the sculpted lines of his torso. He kissed me until my mind went quiet and my body reached for more. I wore only a soft nightgown. Unlike his shirt, he handled the gown with care, easing it away to find nothing beneath. I lay naked before a man for the first time, and confidence rose when hunger overtook his eyes and the cords of his body tightened as he took me in. “You are the most beautiful—” he managed to groan before desire swept us under again. His mouth traced my throat, then found my breasts and worshiped them. Pleasure surged through me; breath broke from my open mouth. He stayed with me until I turned feral in his hands, then his mouth moved lower. He found the tender place between my legs and showed me a pleasure I hadn’t believed existed. Tongue, lips, and fingers worked a patient rhythm until heat built and broke; my body trembled and my legs turned weak, like clothes heavy with rain. I thought nothing could rise above that, but Tristane had more to teach me. He made sure the lesson would last. It was my first time, and yet I knew no other man would match him. I wanted him; in that moment I could imagine wanting only him for the rest of my life. We took what we wanted deep into the night. . . . My eyes opened expecting morning light, but darkness pressed against the curtains. The embers in the hearth gave off a thread of smoke and warm metal, and the sheets held the salt of our skin. Tristane was gone. I remembered him leaving the bed and walking out, silent, without a glance back. I had tried to make that memory a dream. I hadn’t worried then because I believed he would return. Now the truth landed: he had been gone a while. Somewhere in the palace, a bell counted two slow tones. I sat up and snatched my gown from the floor. Cold dread sharpened my thoughts. He had left through the main door. Bare feet met stone that held the night’s chill. I rushed to the corridor, fear crowding my chest. A draft slid along the stairwell and lifted the hair on my arms. Torch smoke hung in the air, sweet and acrid, and my steps sent small echoes down the spine of the palace. If my father or elder brother saw Tristane and learned he’d spent the night in my room, they would kill him. The thought stole my breath as I ran to the stairs that linked my rooms to the rest of the palace. Then I heard it. A wolf howled—a blade dragged across stone—loud enough to seem born inside the walls. The sound tore through the palace, a blood-raw note that prickled my skin and sent a chill through my bones. The railing under my hand hummed with the vibration. From the dark beyond the windows, birds beat into the air, wings clattering. Far below, a guard shouted, the words torn thin by distance. Something was wrong. I felt it, though I could not name it. I took the stairs toward the throne room, legs unsteady but moving. The corridor breathed against my face, cool and metallic, and the echo of my steps stacked and broke like waves as I descended. Hope flickered that nothing had happened to Tristane. I was wrong. I had been wrong from the start. At the base of the final flight I reached the great doors of the throne room. One palm settled on the iron-bound wood. The howl’s ghost still scraped the stone inside my chest. I drew a breath that tasted of smoke and old banners, set my weight to the latch, and pushed.