I had been hauled from the procession by Fenris, stumbling and disheveled.
The wolves behind him were howling with laughter, shoving each other's shoulders.
"The great firstborn she-wolf of the Thornheart bloodline, willing to be a kept wolf for our Fenris. Aren't you ashamed of dragging your bloodline's name through the mud?"
"Even as a kept wolf, she'd need Fenris's approval first."
"Come on, Fenris. The girl's clearly head over heels for you. Just take her in. She threw herself at your gates. It's not like you're losing anything."
Another roar of laughter.
I swallowed the humiliation and looked at Fenris without thinking.
He gripped my chin, tilting my face up, and gave my cheek a few patronizing pats. His scent hit me then, close enough to choke on: woodsmoke and iron filings and something bitter underneath, like old blood that never fully washed out. It wasn't the scent I remembered. "Briar Thornheart. Three years apart, and you've grown quite the thick skin."
"The kept-wolf thing was a joke. You really couldn't tell?"
I didn't understand. He was the one who said he would mate me. He was the one who told me to wait three years.
He broke his word. What had I done wrong?