The Knight; His secret author

Watching out for her

*Althea*

I like shadowed corners. Especially at the Twin Wolves. My preferred table, where I sit now, is located in just such a corner. I’m not certain how poker, which apparently is very popular abroad, became part of this establishment’s repertoire of games offered. However, it has quickly taken its place as my favorite, and I’ve developed the ability to calculate the odds in order to determine the likelihood I hold a winning hand. I’m also quite accomplished when it comes to reading my opponents and deducing whether they are bluffing.

Having grown up along the edge of pack Society, I have had ample time to unobtrusively scrutinize those who wandered by, make predictions about their behavior, and discover if I was correct. I had been like a child pressing her nose against the window of a toy shop, longing to step inside and discover something within had been made specifically for me. That I could select the proper doll that would grant me common ground with all the other little girls. That they had accept me at last.

But they never did, and so I have simply watched. And in watching, I have learned how to judge people’s temperaments and moods, to know when they are angry or sad or in love. I can determine who is kind and who is unpleasant. Who to favor and who to avoid. Only once in my life have I gotten it completely and absolutely wrong. But it was a lesson learned and a mistake I will never make again.

From my vantage point at the table with my back to the wall, I have an unobstructed view of those who enter the gaming hell and often observe them until they disappear into various hallways leading to rooms where other entertainments awaited. Within my fertile mind, I weave scenarios about where they are going, whom they are meeting, and in what activities they might become engaged.

And so it was I saw the arrival of Alpha Knightley, a man I once desperately loved with every fiber of my being and now despise from the very depths of my soul. Being jilted at the altar has a way of changing a she-wolf’s heart. Not that I had been a fully grown she-wolf five years ago. An innocent girl, more like, in spite of my advanced age at the time of twentytwo. Believing in hopes and dreams and the veracity of love having the power to overcome all obstacles.

Sheltered and protected. A princess, my father had always called me. He had been my knight in shining armor and I was searching for someone to replace him. The Alpha of Morrowind had certainly seemed to fit the bill until he no longer had.

Waiting to walk up the aisle, I was wearing an ivory gown designed by the queens designer himself. I had never known such happiness and believed the joy I was experiencing would only increase through the years.

Knightley arrived tardily with the news he had changed his mind, couldn’t marry me after all. No specifics, only a generalized admittance he had decided we wouldn’t suit.

I didn’t let on exactly how devastating I found his abandonment or how badly I had been hurt. Instead, I went on a three-year-long trek through the foreign lands, journaling my escapades in a series of articles for a Luna’s magazine. Although often what appeared in print was how I had imagined the adventure rather than the reality of it.

But no one had been able to discern the difference. More importantly, I discovered writing filled an emptiness in my soul, a hollow ache, a bottomless abyss into which I had become lost on that fateful morning when I had been at the church, expecting to marry only to be discarded at the last minute.

Now, at twenty-seven, I care for no one’s opinion, save my own. I come here where most of the members are of the high packs and flaunt my notoriety while taking their coins. I project a mien of confidence and daring. I will not be looked down upon. In spite of the circumstances of my birth, I am still the daughter of an Alpha, as well as the daughter of an accomplished actress. I am proud of my heritage. No one can take it away from me.

I study the two queens I presently hold in my hand. The other cards are worthless, but the queens possess power, just as I do. I possess the power to destroy, to destroy the one who betrayed me. And I will. It's only a matter of time.

Glancing up, I notice Knightley… apparently moving on from wherever he had gone upon first arriving… now striding through the gambling area. Incredibly confident, downright arrogant really. Obnoxiously so. I wonder at which table he might alight. Certainly not this one as all the chairs are occupied.

Then I curse myself for wondering anything about him at all. After all these years, my thoughts should be void of memories of him, but it’s as though an artist had painted upon my mind vivid illustrations of each and every moment when we had been in each other’s company. A polite hello, an accidental glancing touch of our fingers, a heated look lasting too long, a walk in a park, a stroll in a garden, whispered words, and broken promises.

Since that morning when he shattered my heart, we have not spoken, have seen each other only in passing… at a great distance. One I very much wish to maintain. It isn’t fair that his actions tarnished only my reputation and not his, that the high packs celebrated his liberation from me, while vilifying me for daring to dream a man such as he could actually love a she-wolf such as me.

Perhaps the entire point of his wooing me had been to make me believe my origins held no significance and then to make sport of me for falling madly in love with him. To humiliate me for imagining I was lovable to someone other than my parents. To humble me for the audacity of judging myself deserving and worthy of the rise from commoner to countess.

“Miss Leyland?”

I jerk my attention to the dealer. He gives me a wan smile. “Time to reveal your hand.”

Ah, yes, I’d been the last one to raise the bet amount, and it seems only two people had called me on it. The other three has folded. With a smooth, practiced movement, I turn over my cards. Luna Warburton gives me a hard stare while revealing her two jacks. The gentleman sitting directly across from me groans and tosses his cards haphazardly toward the dealer. “That’s it for me, then.”

He shoves back his chair.

"What? No. Wait," I say with far too much command in my voice, so much so he stops halfway up at a rather odd right angle, bent partially over the table in such a way his bottom is sticking out. But Knightley is still wending his way around the games, and I can clearly see his intense gaze homed in on this corner, like that of a predator who has spotted his prey. Dear Goddess, help the prey, I nearly mutter aloud. "Surely you want an opportunity to win back some of your losses."

Not that he would. The man is atrocious at the game, apparently harboring the belief he is skilled at bluffing, not realizing his eyes fairly bug when he has something of note and squint when he doesn’t, as though if he concentrated hard enough, he could bring forth the power needed to change the cards he’s been dealt. But once dealt, cards have to be made the best of, whether in a game or life. I know that well enough.

"You’ve taken all the blunt I set aside for the night. I never wager on credit." He says.

"Well . . ." I nearly shove all the tokens in the table center toward him, but I would look the fool if I did. Desperate. People might wonder why. Just stay a few minutes longer, just until…

Too late. The handsome devil has arrived and placed his large hand on the gentleman’s shoulder. "I will take your chair if you’re leaving, old chap."

The old chap, who couldn’t have seen forty years, swings around and grins widely. "Knightley, of course!" He leans in as if sharing a daring secret. "But keep a watch out for Miss Leyland. She took all my blunt."

Knightley’s brilliant blue gaze lands on me like a warm caress. No, not like a caress, like the s***h of a thousand swords. Does he have to be so deuced gorgeous in his black coat, bright blue waistcoat, and gray cravat? Do those rebellious front locks of his sandy hair still have to fall across his brow in invitation? My fingers itch to comb through the strands and brush them back into place as they had a thousand times. I don’t want to remember now that forelock played over my own brow when he stretched out over my supine figure, lowered his head, and kissed me.

"I always keep a watch out for Miss Leyland."