Mated to the Warg, (Wargs of the Outland, #1)

The Uninvited Guest

Present day...

It was Rowan's wedding day. Yet instead of feasting and dancing at Merritt's side, she'd been summoned to her mother's council chambers like a wicked child. Instead of smiles, her face was fraught with worry as she reached the heavy oaken door and tapped her knuckles lightly against it.

"Enter!" Her mother's voice boomed from within.

Her stomach hollowing, Rowan entered.

Elgret Thorneblood, the High Lady of West Gate, stood facing the window. Her back was narrow and her frame small, yet she seemed like a mountain to Rowan, impassable and imposing. Beside her, the marshal and the steward were speaking in troubled tones at her granite back.

Rowan licked her lips and forced her feet forward. "Mother?" The word left shards on her tongue, making her mouth ache. "You wished...to see me?"

The High Lady's hands clenched at her sides. "Yes." The word gusted out, chilling Rowan's heart. "We have a problem..."

Rowan pawed at her skirts, her fingers stiff and clammy. "Have I...have I done something to displease you, Mother?"

"What?" Elgret turned on her heel to face her daughter, a grave frown around her mouth. Those cold, grey eyes narrowed.

The steward cleared his throat, seemingly to resume whatever conversation had been interrupted by Rowan's arrival. "My lady, there is every chance our runner did indeed deliver the wedding invitation before he...well, before he..."

"Before something ate the boy?" said Elgret, shooting a pointed look at Silas. "You might as well say it aloud, old man. He's dead."

Rowan's stomach lurched with horror. "Who...who's dead?"

The High Lady's gaze flicked upward, her mouth pinching. "Haven't you been listening, child?"

Rowan opened her mouth but nothing came out.

Silas glanced briefly towards Rowan in her wedding finery. It was a dismissive glance—she was nothing but an ornament to him. Rowan was used to those looks.

Elgret's thin nose flared. "Our runner never returned. And Master Silas here— "with a bitter sneer aimed at the steward— "has only just informed me that Thrax never received the invitation to your wedding."

Rowan flinched. It disturbed her even to hear the wargrex's name. Thrax. It sounded like cracking bones.

"Even you can understand the contention such an oversight will fetch me."

Rowan's eyes slipped to the floor. "Yes, Mother."

"My lady," Silas murmured, his throat bobbing, "what I said...what I meant was that the wargrex likely has received word of your daughter's wedding. His silence is nothing new. The wargs have never before deigned to leave Carthyrk to break bread with us, everyone knows they spurn human contact. It's been years since they—"

"That is beside the point." Elgret's eyes were sharp as cold iron. Rowan knew the point rankled her mother—the wargrex's habit of ignoring all friendly overtures and invitations with friendly disdain. "You yourself informed me of his demands that day long ago. We've never failed to deliver an invitation. Not to Mothersnight, not for any feast or festival. Not until now."

Silas wrung his hands, his throat bobbing loudly. "My lady, I truly do believe—"

"Do not placate me, old man." Elgret's words trembled with quiet rage, her lips pinching tight. "Better that we'd postponed the wedding than insult him. You should have informed me days ago!"