Total pages in book: 53
Estimated words: 48193 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 241(@200wpm)___ 193(@250wpm)___ 161(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 48193 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 241(@200wpm)___ 193(@250wpm)___ 161(@300wpm)
Still, I don’t let my guard down.
Even if I’m only gathering florals.
As I search for more, the wedding itself looms far larger in my mind than any of the dangers to be found near this place.
I dread the upcoming event. As a wolf shifter who will never have a fated mate, I’m more than disinterested in the gathering.
Long ago I was cursed. No wolf will ever be mated with me. Without a wolf to be my fated mate, there is no companionship in my future. I’ve lived a lonely life in that respect, but the curse was not without a benefit. Without love, I’ve become one of the most highly trained and deadly forces defending the Crown.
Perhaps it was the curse that instilled this hatred of weddings in me. Perhaps—along with that decree for the rest of my life—they planted a seed of disgust that grew until it was full-blown derision.
I despise the very thought of love. And what is a wedding but the very pinnacle of love? The love between the married couple, yes, and of all the guests who have come to witness their union, and of the land they will rule. It will be a day overflowing with love. Flooded with love. The scent of it will be so thick in the air that it could suffocate a man like me.
A shifter like me.
The wolf that dwells in me does not disappear when I am in the form of a man. My heightened senses are with me always. I will never see in the dark the way a human does or scent the air the way a human does. I will always see the subtle nuances in the shadows and smell everything around me in the detail necessary for a lethal hunter.
An aggravated sigh leaves me. Even I’ve grown tired of my reluctance to do my part and accept that this is a wedding I must attend. Once I’ve completed the task I was asked to do.
Scenting the forest around me, I search for more of the fragrant blooms. Damp earth and budding leaves and half-dried bark surround me. With the moon high and the day of mundane activity wearing on me, I prepare to rest, although I do not wish to. So searching for more is what I do, even with my eyes heavy.
I’m used to sleeping in my traveling pack and can do without a tent on warm nights, but I tossed and turned for hours last night, my eyes hardly closing, and now I’m racing toward the end of this task. By the time the sun is high in the sky, I’ll be gone. Back through the portal and to the palace to complete my service.
I’ve already collected hundreds of stems for the wedding over the past few days, but I will not take the chance of sending too few. Forty more, perhaps, or fifty. The sack itself is of a special kind, lined with the ability to keep the flowers, or fruits, or what have you, fresh and protected. Supposedly the witch in this very land cast a spell on it a decade ago. As I gaze through the forest, vaguely interested in her whereabouts, my heart races. The whispers of her are more and more like fairy tales. I’m not sure what to believe. All I know is that I am to collect the flowers and leave her be if I were to stumble upon her.
What a life to live. Alone in a land all to oneself. Perhaps she is cursed as well.
I move along the path in the growing dawn, every muscle in my body on the edge of readiness. I’ve spent a lifetime honing my natural skills in fighting, and now they are part of me. I keep my limbs loose, yet prepared to respond on a moment’s notice.
Although I am so obviously alone and the very idea of this task being given to me is comical.
If I thought at all about the florals I’m collecting, each one would remind me that I will never have such a ceremony. I will never have a mate, and I will never have that connection which is stronger and more elemental than love.
I don’t think of such things at all as I use my athame to cut this stem, then that one, just below the first leaf. I don’t leave a path of destruction behind me. Each flower will have ample time to grow back and bloom again. That, too, is important to this ritual. The florals cannot have been gathered carelessly, with their roots pulled from the dirt. Their flowerings must be the only part taken so that life still dwells in them. The princess was as specific as she was excited.
It is gentler work than I am used to, of course, but I do it with a soldier’s precision. The florals are fragile, in their way. It does not take much force to slice the blade of the athame through the thin stalks. The athame has a handsome silver hilt, warm from being held in my hand for so many hours. It was carved and blessed to be true in its aim and strike as it must. It does not take a strike to gather a floral. Only a soft press, and the first leaves and the flowering come away without a fight.