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“And what did he say?” Lydia asks, examining her nails in boredom. She glances up a moment later, delicately lowering her hand to the armrest.
The messenger’s face blossoms red as he lowers his gaze. “You—your Majesty,” he stutters, his cheeks inflamed so far they are almost the color of blushing roses, “please forgive me for uttering such obscenities, but he said—he said—um—he said—I will never serve her, not the—the—the—the Red Harlot.”
The room fills with a collective gasp from its occupants as Lydia’s eyes flash with barely contained fury. She grasps the armrests and pushes herself to stand with a sudden motion, the crimson cloth of her gown flowing outward with an elegance befitting a queen. At her quick rise, the throne room all bows in her direction.
“What did he say?”
The messenger is shaking. “Please, Your Majesty,” he begs, “I wish not to repeat such vile language.”
Lydia raises her chin, eyes bright with unseemly rage. She lifts a hand, snapping two fingers together.
It does not take long for the call to be answered.
The crowd gasps, some of them screaming, at the far side of the room near a set of doors. The bodies part quickly, spreading out an open path to allow passage for a big black beast as large as a bear to come prowling through the throne room with its nostrils flaring, teeth bared, drool running down the hairs of its chin. Its eyes are not natural; they, too, are as red as the crimson of her gown, but brighter in that they seem to glow like the moon at night.
The beast walks all the way up to the throne, its eyes set upon their queen.
“Show this traitor,” Lydia orders the beast, “what it means to defy me.”
A low growl emits from the monster’s throat, its teeth bared together, white and many. When it rears back to roar in accord at the ceiling, the crowd cowers to the floor. The beast clamps its teeth before loping off in the direction it came, people screaming to move out of the way.
While they love their queen, they fear her beast.
Lydia sits down again, her chin raised with a small smile upon her lips.
-
He comes back looking different from how he left. This time he is a man instead of a large beast covered in black fur, his shoulders draped in the skins and furs of various animals. Their skins hang as low as his ankles with some reaching past them, the edges stitched together in a makeshift pattern that resembles a cloak as it billows behind him while he walks.
There are few people in the throne room, but they are silent as he approaches the queen with a brown burlap sack in hand. The bottom is stained deep red. It drips onto the tiles as he walks.
He makes it to the throne and carefully lowers the sack near her feet.
“The traitor’s head,” he says, eyes glinting with a hint of mirth, “Your Majesty.”
Lydia lifts her chin, breathing in deeply. She cannot hide her satisfaction. Every servant she has had has always failed her in the past. They had been too lenient or too kind. They had let her enemies get away with murder, and then asked her to be merciful in return. A merciful queen was a dead queen. A merciful queen with no sense of dealing out justice would not survive long in this world.
He understood that.
He understood better than any of them.
-
It was nightfall when her carriage had broken its wheel. Lydia glanced up at the moon. A full moon, she thought, hastily turning away to look around her surroundings.
“We have too hurry!” she demanded as the driver sparked a light in the lantern and three of her guards helped him. They would see if they could temporarily fix it or if they needed to get the extra wheel in the back. She traveled nowhere without an extra. Too many foes, so few she could trust . . .
“Hurry!” Lydia ordered, raising her voice. She had gotten out of the carriage. Though she was small, her added weight would only make the task more difficult for them.
Then, one of her servants screamed.
-
There is a trail of blood near the corner of his mouth. Lydia touches her own chin as she looks at his. “Whose blood?” she asks, hoping he did not bite anyone. He knows the rules. She does not allow for that.
Delicately, he touches his chin. Pulls his fingers away, examines the blood. “One of his sons,” he recounts to her, eyes rising to meet hers, “became overzealous as he stumbled upon the . . . harrowing scene of his father’s death.”
“Did you bite him?”
“I tore his throat out,” he says calmly.
-
Lydia stumbled as she backed into the carriage, her legs unsound amid her fear. The great beast with glowing red eyes drew closer and huffed, its hot breath rancid with blood and death. Lydia wanted to shut her eyes and run. The thing sniffed at her, nuzzling into her neck as its drool dripped onto her chest above the bodice. A low rumble filled its chest and it drew back, nudging her chin with its wet muzzle.
It pulled back, staring at her, and seemed to growl. Lydia knew this was it. She was dead. She closed her eyes, hands gripping the carriage behind her.
A moment later, a hand was on her chin. “Don’t be frightened,” he crooned, running his thumb along her jaw. “I have no desire to hurt you.”
Lydia’s eyes flew open.
-
“His other sons,” Lydia inquires, remembering there are four of them altogether. She is not fond of things unaccounted. It was something he’d taught her, after all. “What has become of them?”
“They have submitted to Your Majesty and disbanded the few rebels their father was attempting to raise,” he answers. He looks over his shoulder. Men march in, walking with a young boy in between them. “The mother swore an oath in good faith and on paper to no more traitorous acts committed against Your Majesty.” When the boy reaches him, the guards leave the boy at his side. He rests a hand on the boy’s shoulder. “She even sent her youngest son to live at court as proof of their good word.”
Lydia knows why the boy is here. She swallows past a catch in her throat, rising from her seat. She approaches them both, kneeling before the boy.
“And what is your name?” Lydia asks, taking his hands in hers.
“Isaac,” the boy says, glancing warily between them. He is no more than nine.
“Isaac,” she repeats, smiling at him. “You are welcome here, and you are in good hands. I will personally make sure that you feel at home here at all hours.” Lydia touches the boy’s face. “Would you like that, Isaac?”
Slowly, he nods his head.
“Good,” Lydia replies. She rises, snapping her fingers. “Take him to get washed. Find him some clean clothes. Make sure he is fed as well. I will see to him later.”
She returns to her throne. All eyes are on her, but most especially his. They bore into her as they always do, looking past skin to the blood and bone beneath with a hungry gaze.
“You have done well here, Peter,” she tells him. “I will see that you are properly rewarded with a lump sum of your choosing as it seems that lands and titles are of little relevance to you.” She waves her hand dismissively in the air.
At this, his eyes gleam with a mischievous quality. Peter bows for the first time in her company, his eyes catching hers again before he says, “Your Majesty.”
He turns away from her, the skins of his cloak flowing behind him as walks off.
-
She gasped at the sight before her. “You’re naked,” she managed to breathe out, unable to take her eyes off of his form.
He chuckled low against her hair, his fingers toying with the curls. “Sadly, the power of shifting does not allow for clothes.”
“You . . . you . . . you were that beast?”
He pulled back from her, all seriousness. “Yes,” he said. “I am that beast. I’m a werewolf. The most powerful of our kind, an Alpha . . . and as I said, I have no desire to hurt you. You are the queen, are you not?”
Lydia lifted her chin, feeling a little of her power return to her. “Yes,” she responded, “I am your queen. If you have any sense at all, you will remove your hand from me at once and you will bow.”
He removed his hand, but he did not bow. “I bow to no one,” he said. “I do not recognize your laws. These are my lands, and I am the king here.” He observes her with interest. “I am willing, however, to make an exception on certain grounds.”
Lydia knew she should be the one making the demands, not him, but she did not have the power to shift into a monster who could eat a full person alive. “What grounds?”
He smiled. It was not a friendly smile. It was feral, hungry, and insatiable. “Under your rule,” he said, gesturing at the forest surrounding them, “we have flourished here almost untouched by the outside world. My family has grown strong. Our pack reaches for miles and miles in any direction . . . ” He glanced back at her. “I would be willing,” he added, stepping closer again, “to show my gratitude.” He grinned. White teeth. “For a price.”
Lydia knew better than to ask. She knew better, and yet what choice did she have?
“What price?” she whispered.
He stepped closer until she could feel his breath on her lips, his fingertips a mere whisper across her cheek. “Nothing you will miss,” he assured.
-
She calls for him. She always calls for him. He does not call for her. The wine is heavy on her tongue, but she has not had much of it. It is only there to calm her nerves.
Peter enters the throne room with two guards in tow. He glances at them warily, though not in fear. It seems more like confusion. They guide him inside, and then they turn away from him, shutting the doors behind themselves after they leave. He looks even more confused by that. The guards have never left before.
Lydia reaches for the wine, pouring another glass.
“He called me a harlot,” she says bitterly. “A harlot. Do you know what a harlot is?”
Peter does not answer her. He only stares in silence.
“A whore,” Lydia answers for him. “A whore. Who will spread her legs for a man given the right price.”
Peter remains silent. He knows she is only venting steam, but she has chosen him to vent it at. “You know they only say that because of me,” he finally says.
Lydia closes her eyes, swallowing past the lump in her throat.
“Yes,” she croaks, clearing her throat. “I know.”
-
“What is your price?” Lydia asked, fearing his answer. “I cannot agree to something if I do not know what it is.”
He let go of her chin, pulling away. “Protection.”
Lydia’s breath caught in her throat. “Protection?”
“You protect my people,” he said, “and I will protect you. It will cost you nothing. Make sure they are not burned in their beds while they sleep. Keep them safe from harm. There were once hunters in these lands. They came after us like it was sport to hunt babies and women as well as our men. You ensure their safety. In return, I will ensure yours against any enemy who seeks to topple you. You will have all of my wolves at your back. Myself included.”
“That is all?” she asked, still breathless.
“What more could I ask for?” he said, shrugging. “This is something substantial you can offer me and my people. I will even present myself at your court if it will make you feel better.” He stepped closer again. “I will even kneel, if it means so much to you.”
“I agree,” Lydia said quickly, heaving out a deep breath.
He looked surprised at such a quick answer. “Very well,” he said. “You may camp here for the night until your guards wake up.” He glanced over at them, strewn out across the ground. “Apologies for knocking them out. It was better than killing them.” He moved to walk away. “My pack will guard you throughout the night to ensure you are all safe—”
“Wait!” Lydia called out. “Stay,” she said next, wondering where the words were coming from. This was all so sudden. She didn’t even know who he was. “If we are to be friends, then break bread with me.” She hesitated, and then added, “Come to the castle with me in the morning, so that I may introduce my savior to the court and let them know that you are our friends, not our enemies.”
Lydia had heard stories about the woods, of course, but during her reign she had ordered for the forest to be left untouched and to its own devices. After her decree, there had been no more disappearances. No more deaths. The hunters were dispersed in time, and some of them were executed for killing innocent people, claiming them to be great beasts known as werewolves. Lydia hanged them all.
Superstition and fear, she had called it, but the people still believed in it. They acted like fools every full moon. Violence, raids, and attacks were all more likely to occur, hence her earlier fear. She suffered no talk of werewolves, though. This must have been the source of his gratefulness, her inadvertent help through disbelief.
He seemed to be considering her offer until he glanced down at himself. “Well, at least let me put on some clothes first.”
-
“There is no truth to the rumors,” Peter says, unfazed by the conversation. “They only say that because it’s the one possible scandal they can accuse you of. I save your life in the woods and come to court to do your bidding, a wild beast under your control. Naturally, they think of the worst.”
His payment is sitting on the table next to her. A bag of gold. Lydia protects his people, but she must offer him physical payment as well to attempt to keep the rumors at bay.
She snatches up the bag of gold and throws it at his feet. It clangs on the ground. “Take your payment,” she says. Unshed tears burn behind her eyes. “Leave.”
He does not pick up the bag of gold. Peter does, however, turn away from her to leave.
“Wait,” Lydia calls out, and he halts.
He does not turn back around.
“Take off your cloak,” she demands next.
With his back still to her, Lydia sees the way Peter lifts his chin. She can imagine the tightness in his jaw. He turns around slowly to face her, removing all doubt from her mind of his expression.
“I do not think—”
“You’re not paid to think,” Lydia retorts, and she can see the way Peter bristles in response, his shoulders rising beneath the furs. She rises up from her seat. “You are paid to do as I command.” Lydia stares him down, the wine giving her some of the courage. “Take off your cloak,” she repeats.
Out there, he may be in charge, but in here, she is the one with the power. They have an agreement where she offers him and his people protection while he does the same for her, but she can end that agreement. She can bring the hunters back. It will stop the rumors. It will devastate his lands, his pack. In the woods he may be a formidable killer, but in here he was hers to do with as she willed.
As Lydia looks him in the eyes, she sees that Peter knows that.
He unclasps the hook at the front of his cloak. With a single push, the weight of it makes itself fall to the floor. He wears simple garments underneath it, but still of high quality. He doesn’t dress like a vagrant or a beggar. It is neat, tidy. A pair of nice pants with a tunic, boots, and belt. Lydia observes this with satisfaction and lifts her finger, crooking it as she beckons him to come closer.
He reaches her, and an overwhelming desire overcomes Lydia to get the rest of his clothes off and feel his skin hot beneath her hands. She isn’t sure if it is only the wine or if those feelings have always been there underneath the surface. He is pleasing to look at, but she doesn’t reach out to touch him.
“What if more people say that?” Lydia asks, sitting back down on her throne.
“Then I will rip out their tongues,” Peter answers her, “and they will never utter those words again.”
His words should make her happy, and they do, but the desire to touch him only grows stronger. Lydia glances up at him, their eyes meeting. Her hands clutch at the armrests. “You said you are a king, are you not?”
“In my own way.”
Lydia feels a flush creep up her neck. She crosses her legs beneath her dress. “Do you desire me?”
Peter tilts his head, his eyes becoming hooded as they survey her form. “You are very desirable,” he answers her, his voice lower than before.
She leans back in the chair. “Yet you have not tried anything.”
Peter’s eyes rise to hers, narrowing slightly. He seems amused by this. “You are a queen,” he says, as if it is the most obvious thing in the world. “One does not try with a queen.”
-
“I don’t even know your name,” Lydia said, smiling at him over the fire. He had cooked a rabbit he caught himself and showed her which plants were good for herbs and safe to use. She knew so little about cooking. It was nice to know some things.
He laughed, bright and clear. “Peter,” he told her, grinning as he looked at her. The corner of his eyes crinkled. “My name is Peter.”
Lydia observed him thoughtfully. “Peter is not a very fearsome name.”
He laughed again. “No, it’s not.”
“Do you find me funny, Peter?” She was only teasing, but he took it seriously.
He looked at her, and then he shook his head. “Not in that way, if you mean what I think. You do know how to make me laugh, though.” He ate some of the rabbit. “You should meet my nephew,” Peter offered next. “He finds nothing funny. Maybe you could make him laugh as well.”
This was news to her. “Do you have other family? Children? Cousins?”
“Children, yes,” he said. “I have three.”
“And their mother?”
Peter paused at that. He was silent at first. “They have different mothers.”
Lydia raised her eyebrows. “I see,” she said. “Werewolf families are much different from our own.”
“Not really,” he disagreed, looking at her. “We just don’t believe in marriage.”
“Or monogamy?”
Peter gave her a look. “I was with their mothers at different times,” he explained further. “Besides, we are talking a lot about me. What about you?”
-
Lydia grasps her dress, pulling it up further to reveal her legs beneath it. “I am not giving you permission to try,” she says slowly, letting her fingers glide over her skin. “I am giving you permission to do as you please.”
He stares at her legs. His chest rises and falls more visibly beneath his tunic. “Is that the wine talking or you?”
“Me,” she whispers. “I’ve had very little wine.”
Peter seems to consider it. He reaches out, fingers brushing her knee. He glides them a little higher along her thigh. She closes her eyes, her own chest rising and falling faster beneath her gown.
They are in the throne room. Anyone could walk in and see them.
He dips in close, hand along her cheek before it slides into her hair, and his lips are searing against hers—hungry and demanding and yet still somehow able to worship the moment in full. Lydia grasps the sides of his face, kissing him back with much the same ferocity, and then it’s over.
He has pulled away.
“Sleep off the wine,” Peter murmurs against her lips. “Sleep off the anger. Sleep off the bitterness you feel. In the morning, if you still want me, ask for me again.”
He leaves her.
Lydia watches him walk away in stunned silence. He scoops up his cloak before he reaches the doors, throwing it over his shoulders and fastening it in place, and he exits the room without ever looking back.
-
“You look young for a queen,” Peter told her.
“I am young,” she answered, “but I am good at what I do.”
“You will have a lot of enemies.”
“Excuse me?” Lydia drew back, surprised at his frankness.
“Young, unmarried queen of insurmountable beauty,” Peter said, but there was nothing mocking about his tone. “They will either try to marry you or they will try to kill you.”
Lydia pulled her cloak tighter around her shoulders. “No one will try to kill me.”
He glanced over at her. “If I’m around, they won’t.”
-
In the morning, Lydia finds her head is pounding. Maybe she did have more to drink than she thought she had, or maybe she just didn't eat enough food or drink enough water and it resulted in a headache. She grasps her temples, squeezing her eyes shut to block out the pain.
When she finally gets out of bed, she calls for orange juice and bread and tries to fill her stomach with something. A few hours pass before she feels up to wandering around in public, though she is grateful for nothing important today that calls for her attendance. She isn’t sure if she can survive such a thing today.
Lydia goes for a walk with her servants, and it is not until she sees Peter outside talking with men near the fountain that she remembers, in full clarity, everything that passed between them last night. For a moment, the heat of embarrassment crawls up in her cheeks until she remembers she has nothing to be embarrassed about.
She may have had some wine to encourage her, but it is nothing Lydia does not want beneath the surface. It wasn’t as if he had turned her down either. He had surprised her. He may have been half-animal, but he possessed more chivalry in that moment than she had been prepared to accept, hence her surprise.
Lydia approaches him, smiling and greeting everyone there, and there is nothing even on his face to indicate he remembers last night himself until she says aloud, “Peter, will you walk with me?”
She says goodbye to everyone else, always smiling, and instructs her servants to walk ten paces behind them as they leave and head toward the gardens.
“I have a feeling,” he finally says, sounding a little amused, “that you remember last night.”
Lydia does not deign him with an answer at first, still a little discontented that he had turned her down. “I do,” she answers resolutely, giving him no indication that this will go pleasantly.
“How drunk were you?”
“How drunk do you think I was?” Lydia asks, curious to hear his guess.
“Plastered,” he replies cheerfully.
Lydia cannot hold back her grin. “Three fingers,” she says.
Beside her, Peter stops. “What?”
Lydia stops, too, turning around to face him. “Three fingers,” she insists. “I had three fingers of wine.” She holds up her hand, indicating the measurement. “You hold your hand up to the glass and pour it three fingers high.” Lydia lowers her hand. “That’s how much wine I had.”
Peter looks to be in disbelief. “What are you saying?”
She turns around again, resuming their walk, as a smile plays on her face. Behind her, she hears Peter’s footsteps resume as well. Somewhere behind him, too, her servants continue to follow, blissfully unaware of the conversation taking place. “I am saying,” Lydia tells him, making sure to keep her voice low, “that if you were to visit my chamber tonight, I would like to see just how far your hands are willing to go.”
Lydia cannot see his face. She wants to turn around and look, but she does not, will not, come off as desperate.
His answer does not disappoint.
“Only my hands?”
Ahead of him, Lydia fights off a smirk by biting her lip.
-
Peter woke her with a gentle shake of her shoulder. Lydia opened her eyes. She blinked blearily until her vision cleared to reveal sparse treetops and clouds above a sunless, pale blue sky.
“Your Majesty,” he said in a soft voice, “it is morning.”
Lydia pulled the blanket closer, rising from the ground. “It is morning already?”
“We were up late talking, but yes, it’s morning.”
Lydia sat up all the way. She blinked again. “You called me Your Majesty.”
“If I’m to serve you,” Peter answered her, putting out the fire, “don’t you think I ought to call you by your proper title? I mean, I could just call you Lydia, but I don’t imagine it would look good to your people, now would it?”
“No, it wouldn’t,” Lydia agreed, sounding faraway. He held his hand out to her. Lydia stared at it, and then looked up at him. She took his hand, and he helped her to stand.
She let her hand linger in his before he pulled it away.
-
She dismissed all of her servants on the grounds of being safe. My enemy has been taken care of, and tonight, you all may rest as I do. Lydia brushes her hair in a mirror, gazing at her reflection as the moon hangs low in the sky outside and offers her a little extra light that the candles don’t offer themselves. She will not wait all night for him, but it’s barely been an hour.
A knock comes at the door. Lydia lowers her brush, turning to look.
When she opens it, she is greeted with the sight of Peter in full furs. He walks in, and Lydia closes the door behind him. She doesn’t bother with peeking her head outside the door. She turns the lock as he unfastens the catch on his cloak, and he removes it, hanging it up as he turns to face her.
“Is this what you want?” Peter asks slowly, approaching her.
“If I wanted something else, I’d ask for that,” Lydia answers him. She has always been a woman who’s known what she wants.
He doesn’t question her. He is right in front of her now with one hand in her hair and the other on her cheek. “Good,” Peter says against her lips.
This time when he kisses her, he doesn’t pull away.