“At least tell me you’re a good… um, warrior,” she whispered and he grinned.
“The best,” he told her truthfully. “That’s why I’m king.”
At his words, she gave him a sad smile then got up on her toes to place her lips against his.
“Come back to me safe, my handsome wolf,” she murmured there.
He wanted to kiss her then but he couldn’t. If he did, with her so sweet in his arms, he wouldn’t have been able to stop.
Instead, he touched his forehead to hers, gave her another squeeze, let her go and walked out of the room without looking back.
Outside by his SUV, he embraced his mother, took off the wedding band Sonia had given him and handed it to her.
“Keep that safe,” he growled so low even Sonia, standing at the window upstairs, tears falling from her eyes and watching him, didn’t hear. “I’ll want it back the instant I come home.”
Regan nodded.
He swung in his SUV and, for the first time in his life before a battle, his mind wasn’t on the coming fight.
It was on his queen.
Little did he know her mind was on him as well.
And she cried long after he was gone. Long into the lonely night, in her lonely bed, in her lonely room, in her lonely house that even the company of the twinkling lights on her tree and her stuffed wolf couldn’t abate.
Callum’s queen cried not because he was going to battle (entirely).
She cried remembering the last two days they shared. Days that cracked through the bitterness that had built around her heart. Bitterness he had broken through with his tenderness and generosity and had given her hope that her dream had finally come true.
Bitterness that slammed back with a vengeance when that dream died the minute he took off the ring he seemed so proud to wear but, as observed from an outsider who had no idea why he did so, obviously was not.
Indeed, as observed from an outsider, it appeared he didn’t care about the ring or what it meant at all.
If he did, he’d understand, like her claiming chain, that he was never to take it off and, if he was truly proud to wear it, he never would.
* * * * *
“Sign it,” Callum growled, standing over Nikolas, the only chief of the rebellion left alive. He was on his knees, naked, wounded and bloodied, before his king.
Callum was also bloodied, both from his own healing wounds and from the blood of his victims, but he had taken the time, and given it to his warriors, to don clothes.
He had not allowed that courtesy amongst the scores of defeated wolves who were all now kneeled in front of him.
He might have done, if they had not slain his brother Calvin.
And he might have done, if they had not slain his father.
And he might have done, if the battle he’d waged on three fronts in the mountains, and on simultaneous fronts in four other territories, had not taken eight days to win.
And he might have done if he’d had more sleep in those eight days, which he had not as he’d only had an hour here or there and exhaustion had settled into his bones.
And he might have done if he’d not been so f**king hungry, not having the time to eat as he didn’t have the time to sleep.
And he might have done if the loss of wolves on both sides had not been so great simply due to their stubborn refusal to admit defeat because their surprise attack had indeed been a surprise, a resounding one. The enemy had been caught unaware, had never recovered and they should have admitted defeat days ago. In fact, within f**king hours.
And, lastly, he might have done if he hadn’t been so long separated from his queen.
But, because of all of that, and because he was King Callum, far more impatient and intemperate than his father, especially weary, hungry and angry, their humiliation ran alongside their defeat.