Deal with the werewolf king

flesh was currency. Seventeen-year-old Elara didn't cry when they dragged her from her cage. That had been beaten out of her weeks ago, along with the instinct to beg. Her wrists were raw, a brac

voice, and it wasn't human. She stumbled out. The forest rose up around her like a cathedral built from rot and shadow. Trees with bark as black as blood clotted in snow. No birdsong. No moonlight. Just the stink of fur and old bones. He was there, standing under the bone archway that marked the entrance to his lands. The Werewolf King. Tall. Too tall. His hair was long and wild, eyes the color of amber lit from within by wildfire. He didn't smile. He bared his teeth. "You're mine now." Elara didn't answer. Her throat closed. Behind her, the cart turned and vanished down the path. No one looked back. The King's castle wasn't made of stone. It was built from bones. The ribs of great beasts formed arches; skulls lined the hallways like tro

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