The Rejected Wolf Princess

Evie’s POV “Really, Princess, you must get up! The tourney will be starting any moment now!” I groan, throwing my goose down feather pillow over my head to drone out the voice of Marisa, my favorite lady-in-waiting. I may like her, but that doesn’t make me any more willing to wake up this early in the morning. “Do I need to remind you who will be in attendance today?” Marisa asks, sitting down on the edge of my bed. She’s by no means a plump girl, but she’s curvier than most of the ladies at court, and I feel the bed move with an unpleasant plop. I consider her question, frowning. I’ve never done the best job of keeping the nobles in this kingdom straight. I know the five packs, of course, and the Alphas of each one, but then there’s lords and ladies of each one, not to mention Lunas and Betas and so on, and that gets a little trickier. When I think of lords and ladies, my mind immediately goes to Tristan Gibbous, and I realize that he’s the one Marisa is referring to. I jolt out of bed so fast, Marisa nearly falls off it. “Tristan’s coming?” I demand, springing to my feet and over to the tub in the adjoining ladies’ room, where she’s already prepared this morning’s bath. I note with a frown that the water has gotten rather lukewarm, but I suppose that’s more my fault than hers. I strip my shift off and step into the clawfoot tub, gesturing impatiently for her to step over and help me. “I thought you knew, Highness,” Marisa says apologetically as she wets a sponge and starts to scrub at my skin. “Surely your mother or father mentioned it?” They probably did. Much as I love His and Her Majesty, I tend to tune out much of what they tell me these days. All Father wants to talk about is politics, given the “fragile” state of the kingdom (not fragile for us, mind you; Crescent City is in the heart of the kingdom, and well-protected), and all Mother wants to do is gossip. Not that I mind gossiping when it comes to handsome young lords like Tristan Gibbous, mind you. But Mother is more interested in talking about Lunas, whose names I can never keep straight. “Don’t wash my hair,” I say when she starts to wet it. My long, unruly red hair tends to have a mind of its own when washed; it’s better left alone as much as possible. She nods. “Then we’d better get you out so I can figure out what to do with it.” I grin in spite of myself, then hop out of the tub and allow her to slip a robe onto me. She guides me to the wardrobe, where she pulls out a gown. “I’d recommend this one, Highness,” she says as she pulls it out. “The green will bring out the color in your hair and eyes.” I glance skeptically at the gown in question. It’s pretty, to be sure—all of my dresses are—but I prefer pinks and purples to greens and blues. Unfortunately, pinks and purples don’t go so well with a pale, freckly complexion, red hair, and red eyes, which means she’s probably right. “Fine, fine,” I say, waving a hand. “Just make sure to use the Choker.” We call my tightest and most effective corset “the Choker” because of how utterly unable to breathe it renders me. Flattering as it is, I only request it on occasions like this—occasions where I will see my betrothed. “Lord Tristan is already smitten with you, Princess,” Marisa reminds me as she fishes out the corset in question and starts to tie it back. “I’d wager you could show up in a burlap sack and he’d still fancy you.” My cheeks redden at her comment, though I hope she’s right. Tristan has already told my father—and pretty much the entire kingdom—that his wolf burns for me, which means she probably is. Still, until we’re safely married, I refuse to leave anything to chance. It takes Marisa a while to finish with the corset, and another few minutes to get me into the dress. By that time, I can hear the trumpeting and commotion through the palace walls that announce that the tourney has begun. Unfortunately, I’d sooner not go to the tourney at all than go with my hair in this state, so I allow Marisa to guide me over to the boudoir, where she gets to work. Just before she puts the finishing touch of flowers in my hair, a knock sounds at the door. It’s loud and impatient, which means it can only be one person. “We’re almost ready, Ty,” I shout. “Be patient!” “I’m supposed to compete today!” he barks back. “I’m sure your hair looks fine. Stop obsessing!” Ty is, unfortunately, my bodyguard. It’s never been quite that simple to my father, who still resents Ty for his bloodline. Ty is from the Red Moon Pack, you see—the one that once lived and ruled in this very castle. Their last Alpha—Ty’s grandfather, Alexander Red—ran the kingdom into the ground, and my own grandfather, Collum Crescent, had no choice but to overthrow him and take the crown for himself. The Red Moon Pack has been exiled from the kingdom for twenty years now, but Ty was kept by my family as a ward to ensure that his would never rise up in rebellion against us. No one initially intended for Ty to become my protector. But Red Wolves are known to be immensely strong, and Ty proved himself at a young age to be every bit as strong as the legends suggest. When I was nine and he was fourteen, a band of vampires who had somehow slipped through the Umbra Badlands unnoticed tried to kidnap me. I was on a ride with Ty and a handful of guards, and the vamps managed to take out every one of them except Ty. He defeated them all—killed them all—and returned me safely home. He was rewarded with the honor of being appointed my official bodyguard, but his bloodlines kept him from ever being fully trusted by my father or the people. “You’re right,” I say coldly to Ty when I open the door. “My hair looks excellent.” Ty rolls his eyes, drawing my attention, not for the first time, to how unique the dark blue color is. I prefer Tristan’s, of course, but lots of people have light blue eyes. I’ve never seen eyes like Ty’s. “Whatever you say, Miracle Princess,” Ty says, backing up to make way for me to emerge into the hallway. “Let’s just get this over with.” Ty isn’t the only one who calls me that, but he’s the only one who says it sarcastically. Ninety percent of the things that come out of his annoying mouth are sarcastic, honestly. The point is, they call me the “Miracle Princess” because my dear parents, try as they might, never managed to have any children besides me. They had plenty of miscarriages and stillborns that drove my mother to a point of hysteria, but none of those siblings ever made it past infancy. Which means it’s very important for me to marry Lord Tristan Gibbous, who will take the Crescent name and rule the kingdom of Meridian when my father passes on. Which, like I said before, is fine by me. I just hope my wolf agrees.