The Rejected Wolf Princess

The Tourney

Evie’s POV

“I don’t know why anybody bothers fighting against you,” I mutter to Ty as we close in on the balcony from which the royal family watches the tourney. This is where Ty will deposit me, of course, before proceeding into the pit. “You’re obviously going to win.”

“Well, I’m flattered, Miracle Princess,” Ty says with a wry grin, “but unfortunately His Grace had the foresight to agree with you and place me in my own category today.”

“Really?” I ask, peering at the royal balcony. As soon as I do, my cheeks burn red-hot. Tristan is there.

“Really,” says Ty, sounding annoyed, as he always does when the subject of Tristan comes up. “Your Lord Beloved is in the Nobles category; your lowly bodyguard is in the Commonfolk category.”

I know Ty is considered “commonfolk” now—maybe even “Rogue,” given the fact that he doesn’t belong to a pack that exists here in Meridian—but it still sounds strange to me. He’s from a noble family; the blood that runs through his veins once made him third in line to the throne of Meridian.

I don’t say that, of course. Ty doesn’t need me to defend his honor, just like I don’t need him to defend mine. “Well, good luck. Don’t slaughter too many commoners.”

“I don’t kill in these tourneys, Evie. I don’t kill needlessly.”

Bored of the conversation, and more than a little irritated that he has the nerve to call me “Evie” rather than “Highness” or “Princess” like he’s supposed to, I turn on my heel and walk away from him—and over to Tristan.

“Princess Everleigh,” Tristan greets with a low, sweeping bow. He reaches for my hand and kisses it. “We were starting to fear you weren’t coming. Do we have the traitor to blame?”

Ty gets called things like that a lot in Meridian—the traitor; the Rogue; the outsider, et cetera. I’ve never bothered to defend him, but I’d be lying if I said it didn’t get under my skin a bit. After all, Ty was a mere toddler when his grandfather was overthrown; he can’t have had anything to do with the turmoil that King Alexander brought this great kingdom during the war against the vampires of Archon.

“It was Marisa’s fault,” I say, ignoring the appalled expression on my lady-in-waiting’s face when I say it. “She didn’t get me up on time.”

“Marisa,” scolds my mother from her honorable spot next to my father. “The princess should be your first and only priority.”

“Of course, Your Majesty,” Marisa says with a shaky curtsy. “Won’t happen again.”

I make a mental note to thank my poor, sweating lady-in-waiting later on. Surely she understands that I can’t take the fall in front of my betrothed, right?

“I’ve saved you a seat next to me, if that’s alright,” Tristan tells me with a nervous smile.

I smile back at him, though, in truth, it’s a little silly; there is only one remaining seat, between my mother and Tristan, and it’s obviously for me. Still, his smile is so handsome that I’m willing to ignore that detail.

“Looks like they’re allowing Tyler to enter despite his tardiness,” Father says, watching Ty’s wolf enter the arena. It’s usually hard to tell who’s who from this high up, but Ty’s wolf is a different story. Like his name and bloodline, his wolf is red—just about the color as my hair—and even more massive than Ty is in his human form. I feel for his opponent, whose wolf is barely half that size and clearly trembling at the sight of him.

“Unfortunate for his competitors,” says Tristan grimly. “All due respect, Your Majesty, but are you sure the boy’s bloodline doesn’t serve as an unfair advantage?”

It’s strange to hear Tristan call Ty “the boy.” Tristan is only a hair over two years older than me, putting him at nineteen; Ty is twenty-two.

“Red Wolves are strong, but not invincible, as my father proved twenty years ago by overthrowing them,” Father reminds Tristan. “Besides, I’ve kept the nobles safe from him.”

I try to ignore the way that comment makes me feel—like my father somehow considers the lives of the nobles to have greater value than the lives of the commoners. They do, I suppose, technically speaking, but it doesn’t quite feel fair.

Then again, who am I to talk? I’ve barely ever set foot outside of the Crescent Castle. The only non-nobles I speak to are my ladies-in-waiting and Ty.

“Of course, Majesty,” Tristan says to my father with a formal bow of his head. “Thank you for explaining.”

He turns his attention back to me at that, much to my relief; there are much more interesting things to discuss than my mouthy bodyguard.

“We’ve gotten a new head cook at Castle Gibbous,” he informs me. “Not nearly as talented as the one you employ here, I’m sure, but I thought perhaps you’d fancy a visit one night to come and have a taste of something new?”

I glance up at him, surprised. It isn’t the first time he’s suggested that we spend time together, but usually that time is spent in the gardens, library, or dining hall here at the Crescent Castle. I’ve only been to Castle Gibbous a handful of times, and those were for balls.

“I’m sure she’d love to,” Mother says from my mother side, placing a rather heavy hand on my shoulder. “Wouldn’t you, Evie?”

I smile easily enough and start to nod, but my attention is torn from the conversation at hand when I hear a gut-wrenching howl of pain coming from the fighting pit. For an instant, I think it’s Ty’s wolf. It isn’t, though; it’s his opponent’s.

They have to take the poor sucker out on a stretcher.

I think of the way Ty insisted that he wouldn’t take lives needlessly and muse grimly to myself that apparently that doesn’t go for causing serious bodily harm.

“Princess?” Tristan asks, tearing me out of my reverie.

“Sorry,” I say quickly. “Of course—I’d love to. Things are a bit busy around here with the preparation for my birthday ball, but I’m sure we can find a time.”

“Don’t you worry about the ball,” Mother says, despite knowing perfectly well that I want to worry about it. My birthday balls are always the event of the year, and this one, being my seventeenth birthday and thus the year my wolf awakens, will be the biggest. “Enjoy your time with Lord Tristan.”

I smile demurely, and we work out a time next week for me to visit the castle. All the while, I keep one eye on the fighting pit, watching Ty’s wolf demolish his second, third, and fourth opponents with such ease, I doubt he’s even breaking a sweat beneath that thick coat of red fur.

My mind wanders to that fateful day I was set upon by vampires. It was the only day I’ve truly seen Ty’s wolf in action—excluding tourneys and training sessions, of course—and it was quite the sight to behold. To call Red Wolves “strong” is an understatement; they fight like beings of another world.

Finally, the Commonfolk half of the tourney comes to an end. Father heads down to the pit to present Ty with his gold medal. The applause is respectful—on behalf of Father, no doubt—but I make out just enough jeers to know that the people still hate Ty just as much as they always have for his parentage.

“I suppose it’s my turn,” Tristan says, rising to his feet. “Wish me luck, Princess.”

Mother kicks me hard on the shin, reminding me what she gave me earlier this week for this exact moment.

“Wait,” I say, rising to my own feet and pulling the bracelet off my wrist. “For luck.”

It isn’t just for luck, of course. It’s a wolf princess’ favor—designed by the faeries of Vila to stay wrapped around the wrist of the recipient’s wolf even after the human shifts. It’s a symbol—a statement to everyone in the stands that he fights not only for himself, but for me, as well.

With my favor, he’s pretty much guaranteed to win. To defeat him means to defeat me, and that would be an act of total disrespect.

“I’m honored,” Tristan says, slipping the favor onto his wrist and taking a step closer to me. It’s the closest he’s ever gotten to me, and it makes my heart pound with nervous, pleasurable excitement. He smells good—like flowers. Or is that the flowers in my own hair I’m smelling?

He reaches a hand out to me and gently strokes my hair with the back of his fingertips. “A beautiful favor from a beautiful princess.”

“A beautiful sentiment,” snaps a grumpy, all-too-familiar voice from behind me. Ty, of course. “Best get on with it, Lord Tristan. Don’t want to keep the nobles waiting.”