Chapter 7 7

Fiona needed air. The palace felt contaminated with Icy's presence.

"Yana, walk with me," Fiona said.

They headed toward the stables. It was the furthest point from the main house, a place Bradley rarely visited because he hated the smell of horses.

As they neared the old hay barn, Fiona heard a sound.

Crack.

Then a whimper.

Crack.

"You filthy little rat!" A man's voice.

Fiona signaled Yana to be quiet. They crept around the side of the barn.

In the dusty clearing, Lenny, the head of palace security-and Bradley's personal thug-was standing over a boy.

The boy was curled into a ball on the ground. He couldn't have been more than seventeen. He was skinny, dressed in rags, covered in stable muck.

Lenny raised a heavy leather belt and brought it down.

The boy didn't cry out. He just shuddered.

He looked up.

His eyes.

They were amber. Golden, like a wolf's.

Fiona's breath hitched.

She knew those eyes.

In her past life, two years from now, a rebel leader known only as "Wolf" would rise from the slums. He would lead the riots that nearly toppled Bradley's regime. He was ruthless, brilliant, and unstoppable.

And on the night Fiona died, as the car sped toward the cliff, she had seen a motorcycle chasing them. The rider had tried to shoot out the tires of her car to save her. It was him.

He had tried to save her then.

Now, he was just a stable boy being beaten to death.

Lenny raised the belt again. The buckle glinted in the sun.

"Stop!"

Fiona stepped out from the shadows.

Lenny froze. He turned, seeing her. He lowered the belt, but he didn't look scared. He looked annoyed.

"Your Highness," he grunted. "This doesn't concern you. Just disciplining a thief. Caught him stealing horse feed."

"Stealing feed?" Fiona looked at the boy. He was starving. "He's eating oats?"

"He's a stray," Lenny spat. "No ID. No name. Just a waste of space."

"Put the belt down," Fiona said.

Lenny sneered. "With all due respect, Princess, security is my jurisdiction. Go back to your tea party."

He turned back to the boy.

Fiona didn't think. She moved.

She walked up to Lenny. He was a foot taller than her, a wall of muscle.

She swung her hand and slapped him across the face.

The sound was like a gunshot.

Lenny stumbled back, dropping the belt. He touched his cheek, staring at her in shock.

"You..."

"I am the future Queen," Fiona said, her voice low and dangerous. "And you are a servant. If you ever raise a weapon in my presence again, I will have your hand cut off."

Lenny's face turned purple. He wanted to hit her. She could see it in his eyes. But he knew the penalty for striking a royal.

"Get out of my sight," Fiona ordered.

Lenny spat on the ground, glared at the boy, and stomped away.

Fiona turned to the boy.

He was staring at her. There was no gratitude in his eyes, only suspicion.

"Can you stand?" Fiona asked.

He didn't answer.

She reached out her hand.

He flinched, expecting a blow. When none came, he looked at her palm. It was pale, unblemished.

Slowly, hesitantly, he reached out. His hand was rough, calloused, and dirty.

He grasped her fingers.

Fiona pulled him up. He was surprisingly heavy, dense with hidden muscle.

"What's your name?" Fiona asked.

"Don't have one," he rasped. His voice was unused, rusty.

"Then I'll give you one," Fiona said. "Wolf."

His eyes widened.

"You work for me now, Wolf," Fiona said. "Not the Palace. Me. Do you understand?"

He looked at Lenny's retreating figure, then back at her.

He nodded once.

High above, a tiny drone buzzed silently, recording everything.

In the Regent's Estate, Demian watched the screen.

"She's building an army," he murmured, a smile touching his lips. "Clever girl."