Chapter 2
Two weeks later, I ran through the forest, tired and sated and bruised from a misjudged leap in the dark, and cursed her with all the most dire imprecations I could conjure.
She had taken my clothes. She had come, in the night, after I had been and gone, and taken away my path home.
I could smell her there still, the lily-of-the-valley perfume she used mingling with fear and fright and conviction, a blazing fire to my wolf’s senses. Traitoress. My love.
Not mine anymore.
Someone else had come with her, someone whose shared fear was leavened with a strong spice of satisfaction: greed and desire slaked, s****l and political and envious yearnings now achieved. I knew his name, too. Sir Edgar of Harford. I’d never liked him: slimy, I’d thought. Nothing I could’ve made a formal a
