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

Solatium

Rowan jumped as one of the guards flew into the hall. He stumbled over his feet as he reached the dais, out of breath and visibly discomposed. "The...the Wargrex, my lady!" But he barely had time to finish announcing their guests of honor.

A warg prowled into the hall a moment later. Then another, and another. After five, she stopped counting. Wargs both in wolf form and wargs that looked like men. If men could look like mountains. Their canine ears and their size, notwithstanding their rustic clothes, were all that distinguished them from the humans around them.

They were spreading out around the hall. Rowan sank into herself, trying not to be seen by the many fierce yellow eyes moving steadily over every gaping face, devouring every detail. A wolf passed close to her, lips pulled back slightly from wet white fangs. It was only a half snarl, but she nearly fainted at the sight of its teeth. Nearly screamed at the proximity and size of the wolf. Warg, not wolf. It was a beast of a creature with a shaggy roan pelt, its limbs and paws a darker, muddier rufescent. She quickly lowered her gaze, shrinking deeper into her veil, and pressed herself against Merritt when those bright yellow eyes met hers.

She didn't need to see anymore. Black, brown, grey, or fox-red—what did it matter? They were merely varying shades of the same snarling horror. A warg was a warg.

Those that weren't in wolf form were somehow just as feral and brutish-looking. Giants themselves, towering above the men-at-arms. They were dressed in oiled leathers and gleaming furs. Practical vestments, unlike the silks and foppish flowery nonsense she was dressed in. They wore no weapons. They had no need of swords and crossbows, their teeth and muscle were lethal enough. One had only to look at them to know that the humans of West Gate were pitifully outmatched. Even with their nixrath blades and arrows. Not that the High Lady would dream of pitting the strength of her army against the likes of these behemoths, even outnumbered as they were.

Rowan dared another glance, this time her eyes sought their leader out. The wargrex. Which one was he? The silent question was answered soon enough as the last of the wargs entered on two legs. There was no doubt, this was the wargrex.

He was unmistakable. It wasn't that he was larger, or fiercer-looking per se. Like the others, his clothes were unpretentious and without adornment. The only thing different about him was that he was wearing tusks and fangs and saber-like claws as ornamental shoulder pieces. A collection of fierce creatures he'd vanquished?

Despite the chill night, his arms were bare, his muscles like carved rock. She wasn't sure what it was about the wargrex that attracted every human gaze, including her own. But it was him. He dominated the room with little effort, his strides broad and powerful as he closed the distance between himself and the High Lady of West Gate.

A strange sensation washed over her. She pinched her eyes shut, reeling at the intense feeling of familiarity he evoked. The recognition she felt—it left her shaken.

When she opened her eyes again, she saw that the wargrex had stilled. His eyes were prowling over the hall, searching the crowd as though looking for someone.

Rowan melted behind Merritt, not wanting those fierce yellow eyes to land on her. She couldn't explain why, but she heeded the sudden wild instinct warning her that he was searching for her. Which was impossible. After a pause, she peeked around Merritt and saw that the wargrex was facing the High Lady again, but the hard thews in his shoulders and arms bunched with tension.

Elgret stood as he reached her. Even the added height of the dais gave her no advantage over him. She was forced to look up at him. Way up.

Still and all, she managed to appear calm. With a confidence she surely must not have felt, the High Lady smiled and greeted the wargrex as though he was merely a guest late to the feast.