Curse of the Wolf King - Tessonja Odette Page 0,60

much.”

“Thank you,” I say. “It’s very important.”

“Very well.” He turns to face me and reaches inside his jacket to retrieve an envelope. “Here’s my bill for this week. There won’t be much more to do next week, so whatever grand event you’re preparing for can probably commence.”

I take the bill from him, my pulse quickening at the mention of the grand event. In other words, phase two. Everything has happened so fast, I’ve hardly had time to plan Elliot’s first meeting with Imogen. “Wonderful,” I say. “I’ll see that you are paid as soon as possible.”

He nods with a warm smile, then takes his leave. As soon as he’s gone, I rush to the new bureau—one of rich mahogany—and take out a new piece of paper. There I start my list of ideas and tally everything I’ll need to execute my phase two plan. I’m so engrossed in my work, I don’t even notice the figure that stalks into the room.

“Where is my chair?” asks a gruff voice.

I whirl to find Elliot standing before the fire, glaring at the elegant furnishings that have been placed around the hearth.

It takes me a few moments to compose myself, blinking away the numbers and calculations that dance over my eyes and turn my attention to the king. He’s back to walking with his staff instead of his prosthetic, but his clothing is new. Unsurprisingly, he doesn’t wear a full suit, but at least he’s chosen a nice pair of trousers, the leg neatly folded and pinned on his amputated side, as well as a crisp white shirt and open waistcoat. “Take your pick,” I say, recalling his question.

He frowns at the two new chairs, then his gaze flicks to mine. I’m surprised how much more prominent his eyes are now that his hair has been trimmed. Luckily, Foxglove was able to salvage far more hair than I expected, with the back falling to the nape of his neck and the top a little shorter, parted to the side where it sweeps away from his face in a light wave. Most of his hair is dark now with just a hint of gold at the ends. The close trim of his beard reveals all the angles of his striking jaw and cheekbones. “Where’s my old chair?”

I grit my teeth. He may look something like a gentleman, but he’s the same old wolf on the inside. I rise from the bureau and approach the sitting area, quirking a brow. “Have you even bothered to try any of these chairs? I asked Foxglove to keep your comfort in mind when selecting these furnishings.”

“What was so wrong with my chair that it needed replacing?”

“Oh, I don’t know. Perhaps it was the fading, the stains, the tears, and—oh, yes—the white fur coating the seat.”

“I liked sitting on it as a wolf!”

“And you’ll like this one too,” I say, extending my hand toward one of the chairs. “Although, next time you’re a wolf, we must have the seat brushed of fur afterward.”

He furrows his brow, a hint of worry creeping into his tone. “Do you think your scheme to break my curse will take longer than the next full moon?”

“It’s hard to say. I doubt it will take much to get Imogen to fall in love with you, or at least be desperate enough for your hand that she thinks she does. But these things can still take time. Plus, there’s the matter of getting her to actually make the sacrifice that will break your curse. We can’t broach the subject until we’re certain she has her whole heart set on you.”

His jaw shifts back and forth, shoulders tense. “What if it takes too long?”

I skirt between the couch and table to bring myself closer to the king. Infusing my voice with as much calm as I can, I say, “It won’t. We have almost three months. This will work.”

“What if it doesn’t?”

“It will.” My words come out firm, hiding the flicker of doubt that’s never far beneath the surface whenever I consider this plan. As much as I want my scheme to come to fruition, there’s a chance it will fail. If life has taught me anything, it’s that even the best, most certain things can go horribly wrong. Painfully wrong. Life has a way of pulling the rug from under my feet just when things seem perfect. It happened with Mother. Then again with the viscount—no. I will not think of him. What matters is that any