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

Carthyrk

Rowan's fingers were frozen into stiff claws by the time dawnlight crept onto the barren heath. The unrelenting gusts had wrenched tears from her eyes which had then frozen on her cheeks.

She'd buried her head in Thrax's mane to keep warm and shut her eyes against the gouging winds. Riding bareback on a sprinting warg in the dark was not a recipe for sleep. And when the shushing and hissing of the winding Jorg had disappeared, the river veering off somewhere in the darkness, the night sounds had become more ominous. The constant warg chatter even more so, their paws like rolling thunder.

She couldn't feel her legs. She was numb except for her stomach lurching and rumbling with gnawing hunger.

"We're here!" The sound of Meera's shout stirred Rowan from her exhaustion.

She blinked sore eyes and lifted her head as Thrax slowed his gait to a trot. Up ahead, Carthyrk was emerging from the mist. She hadn't known what to expect of a warg village—perhaps clusters of crude little huts made of sticks and mud? Certainly, this was nothing like the great wen of Wrais (not that she'd ever been to Wrais), but Carthyrk was hardly a den of mud and sticks either.

It was a sturdy village, each house built high upon thick posts. A village in the sky! The timber longhouses were borne atop giant logs with spiraling steps. The roofs were covered in bright green sod and cheerful heath flowers. Every house had a surrounding porch, and every porch was connected on all sides to a neighboring porch by sturdy little bridges. Every house, therefore, supported another. It was...well, it was charming. It was an unexpected and peaceful scene. Beautiful, too.

Black Bridge Castle was a cold, rocky fastness of stone and iron compared to this warm greenscape of longhouses in the sky, big as forts. The sprays of bog flowers on the roofs were almost hilarious—so at odds with the terrifying warg reputation. And all the children running around like cubs, some on all fours, made the scene so...domestic.

"It's magnificent," said Meera, drawing Rowan's gaze. The girl sat astride Thresh as though she was born to ride wargs.

She wanted to tell Meera to close her mouth. Those admiring looks were like to fetch her bog bugs in her teeth. This was a temporary stop for Rowan and therefore Meera, too. Better that they kept aloof.

Meera glanced down as Thresh sagged into the grass. He waited until she had both feet planted on the ground, backing away, before he was rolling around in the grass with grunts of pleasure.

Rowan was so bemused by the sight of him acting so un-terrifying that it took her a second to realize Thrax was lowering himself into the long grass, too. She was only too happy to escape him.

Sweet merciful Maeda, it was good to be on her own two feet again. She retreated, her face tight with pain. Feeling was slowly returning to her battered rump and stiff legs, it was awful. Rowan shot Thrax a withering look, not that he noticed, though. The beast was luxuriating in the long grasses just as the other wargs were doing. The ritual continued as Rowan hobbled about trying to get blood back into her limbs.

When the wargs began to shift back to their human forms, Rowan stared at the ground. A shudder ripped through her as his bones snapped and popped—bones and skin rearranging.

Rowan was staring at her boots with a grimace when a pair of feet appeared in her periphery. They were large feet. Male feet. She knew who they belonged to—the humming in her blood grew louder every time Thrax drew too close. An animal magnetism that stirred her skin with goosebumps.

"Are you fully clothed yet?" she asked him without looking up.

He gave a snort and hooked his forefinger below her chin, lifting her face to his. She had to crane her neck quite a far way back to meet those tawny eyes. "Best get used to warg cocks, min skani. Clothes are only an afterthought to a warg."