Her Wolf King
Chapter 3: The Wolf

A KEENING WHINE erupted from the throat of the wolf. Its paws were heavy on her shoulders, pinning her to the ground. The wolf’s claws. scratchy through the fabric of her gown, dug into Lenore’s flesh. She stared up at the canopy of branches, like black cobwebs against the pale, clouded sky. Struggling to breathe with the weight of the animal on her chest, she tried to move her limbs. But the cold that chilled them and the burden of the wolf on top of her paralyzed her.

I am going to die, she thought, as all urgency to live and willpower to survive vanished with her safety. I am going to die here, alone in this forest, all for the sake of a few lost apples.

She felt cold tears leak out of her eyes, roll down her cheeks, and freeze almost immediately. Her entire body shook with sobs, her vision blurring as her lashes clumped together with ice—

And then the wolf was gone. It disappeared just as suddenly as it had come, and in its place was a man. A wounded man, limping and bruised and so bloody it made her ache just to look at him. But his clothes were of fine material: a gilded—if slightly tattered—cloak in a rich crimson velvet, a jerkin with a ruby pin at the throat. The vest covered his long-sleeved tunic, donned over leather breeches. He held his hand against a bandage on his chest, as he staggered towards her.

“Please,” he croaked. Blood stained the soiled fabric of his bandage as he extended his other hand. Desperation was written all over his unshaven face. “Please help me.”

“You—you tried to kill me,” Lenore whispered, her body still shaking as she scrambled backwards, her spine pressed up against the hard stone of the cave wall. Every vertebra seemed to turn to ice. “You’re a wolf.”

Her words hung in the air between them, as tangible as her clouded breath before it vanished into the night.

“No.” He fell to his knees now, clutching his side. Each word was a groan; a growl. “I am cursed.”

Her mouth dropped open in shock. Had she hit her head? Was she really in this cave, with this strange creature? Perhaps her body had fallen asleep in some snowbank to be devoured by beasts like him. Meanwhile, her mind stayed present, dreaming up fantastical conjurings. “You wish for me to help you?”

“Would you stop saying the obvious, girl?” He sank into the snow, grunting in pain as blood stained the snow vermillion. “Please. My wound... I need it to be bandaged.”

She moved gingerly, shifting off of her backside and crawling through the trampled snow to him. Lenore’s hands were entirely numb by the time she reached the man, her breaths fogging and creating a haze in front of her wind-chilled face. She removed her cloak, shivering at the sudden rush of wintry air that came with its lack. Then she bundled it up to hold against his wound. The patch of fabric reddened in an instant. Then the whole of it, the entire cloak, began to glow with an unearthly, gold tint. Lenore gasped as the man transformed back into a wolf.

His head was bent though, his body in an almost submissive position. He showed none of the ferocity he had before, even as those green wolf’s eyes shone with a preternatural intelligence. Yet she could not bring herself to release her fear; she clutched it to herself as she had her cloak.

“Tell me your name.” His voice was a guttural, primal sound.

“L-Lenore,” she whispered, her lips trembling. Whether it was from fear or from the temperature, she could not be sure. “W-who gave you that wound?”

Would they be after her, as well, for helping him?

“My wife.” His voice was a low throaty growl. It was a sound she had expected from a wolf, but she had not anticipated the thrill that shuddered down her spine upon hearing it. The only thing that perplexed her more than it was his words. “What do you desire most in the world, Lenore? Tell me, and I will grant it to you as repayment for saving my life.”

She could have given any answer. She could have asked for any reward, but only one reply came to mind. Only one set of words would protect her. “My father always taught me to never trust a wolf. I may have taken pity on you, but my pity does not make me foolish enough to accept your offer.”

He cocked his head to the side, studying her with his green eyes. “A basket of apples, at the very least. To replace the one you dropped.”

The beast—no, the man—snapped his fingers and his gift appeared. Gleaming red apples, perfectly ripe with a sweet aroma emanating from them before a white cloth landed on top of the basket, draping over the round spheres. The basket itself was finely wrought and woven. Unlike her, it looked fit to bear many heavy burdens.

“Very well, then.” She bent to take the gift, her hair draping over her face and shielding her view of him. At that moment, he could have been any man. But whether she was blind to it or not, he was still a beast. “Thank you, wolf.”

“Call me Everett.” He paused, his tail swishing against the snow. “Remember that I always fulfill my promises, and you have yet to truly accept my offer. I shall see you again, Lenore.”

With those ominous words, he bounded away, footsteps noiseless and leaving not a trace against the pure, untouched snow until he disappeared into the darkness.

Her mind blank and her body unfeeling with cold, Lenore did not know how she made her way back home. She only knew that she found herself in the bed the next morning, sans cloak but with the basket of unnaturally ripe apples sitting on the kitchen table.

•

Weeks passed, and slowly, Lenore forgot about the wolf. She forgot about that night in the woods. It became nothing more than a dream. The apples were sold for a fine price, while the basket remained under wraps so that she would not have to look at it. She remained in her father’s cottage, preparing for her wedding. There were invitations to be passed out, a dress to be made, and her husband’s family to contend with.

Mrs. Eleanor Stone, Kirk’s mother, was far lovelier than her son. She was gentle and motherly, which made Lenore regret that Kirk would be moving her into his house in town, not allowing them to stay with his parents. His father, Mr. Robert Stone, on the other hand, was cold and unfeeling, but at least he kept out of her way. Or rather, wanted her out of his way.

So she did her best to be happy. Lenore did her utmost not to live with that heavy dread of the future, yet every day that ticked by before she became Mrs. Lenore Stone added another burden to her load. She felt as though she were dragging a sled behind her, in the deep snow, watching as more and more ice piled on top of it until it collapsed, splintering, and she found that the ground beneath her crumbled as well. Leaving her plunged into icy water, gasping for air.

But that morning, as she was being swathed in fine silks and white satin, Lenore remembered. She forgot all about learning the inner workings of such a grand house, from when to instruct the maids to dust the railings or how best to serve five courses. And instead, she recalled the wolf’s green eyes, gleaming with human intelligence and beastly lethality. She abandoned the wedding dress wrapped around her body--like a shroud, she thought, readying her body for burial--and she brought to mind the red apples, shining like rubies and far more valuable. Because they were worth more than the few cents she had sold them for. They were worth a promise. They were worth a favour.

At the bottom of the basket, Lenore had found a ring. She wore it around her neck, a simple gold band with an emerald stone, on a chain long enough to disguise it from the Stones’ keen eyes. She touched it now, but she had never before slid it onto her finger. That had felt far too much like accepting a promise.

Inside the band, three tiny letters were carved. I. O. U. I owe you.

It felt like an oath. It felt like a threat.

Whatever it was, Lenore could not think of it now. She tried to put the thoughts away as Mrs. Stone oohed and ahhed over her wedding dress, as she embraced Lenore like the daughter she had never had. How could she break this woman’s heart? Her greying curls framed her heart-shaped face, her warm brown eyes filled with tears. Lenore patted her on the back, trying not to cry for an entirely different reason. It was her wedding day, and she was absolutely miserable.

Mr. Stone cleared his throat from the door of the boudoir. He would be the one leading her down the aisle since her father was too busy in the forge to do so. Or rather, she doubted he would clean up well enough among society folk to make an appearance. She didn’t blame him. Lenore did not want him to see his only daughter break into sobs at the altar.

“Are you ready?” He appraised her, his grey eyes moving clinically, but she was grateful that the bodice of the gown covered everything, even if its high, stiff neck made her feel as though she were suffocating. Sᴇaʀch Thᴇ FɪndNøvel.ɴet website on Gøøglᴇ to access chapters of novels early and in the highest quality.

“I am, Mr. Stone, sir,” she said, trying to summon a smile. She ought to be happy. She ought to be jubilant, rescued from the throes of poverty as she was. On more than one occasion during her stay, Lenore had overheard Robert Stone mutter something about her ingratitude and inability to ever look cheery. Trying to snap back that she was about to lose her entire family did not seem like a rebuttal that would earn her anything more than a slap across the face, so Lenore had kept quiet.

She always kept quiet. But silence would not save her today.

As the violins serenaded her down the flower-strewn aisle, she wondered, distantly, where they had found such beautiful flowers in the dead of winter. For a moment, she thought the days had flown by, and they were in the midst of early spring already. But then, she realized they crunched when she stepped on them with her boot-clad feet. They were dead. Withered. Dried-up.

Lenore felt she could relate.

The priest began his speech, his long homily on marriage and its sanctity, on love and its blessings, but it all drifted over her head. She wanted this ceremony to be over, but the thought of what came after it was enough to make her stomach curdle.

“Do you, Lenore Abrahams, take this man to be your lawfully wedded husband?” Finally, a question she could answer.

She opened her mouth to say, I do. Instead, she touched the necklace, its chain warm against her skin from never leaving her body for so many weeks. Then she pulled it out from beneath her gown, not caring that Kirk was staring at her with icy fury in his eyes. Lenore slid the ring onto her finger, and said, “I do not.”

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