The cool dampness of the blue invisibility rune painted on her forehead made Arlene's brow itch, and she was glad to wipe it off with a rag, which she wetted with the water from her wineskin.

They reached the twin trees near the cliff face as the first light touched the ether with the sounds of pursuit too close for comfort.

Against all the odds, the wolf still lives, Arlene noted with relief, seeing the faint glow of her aura.

The elf moved ahead, and with a touch of her hand, a blue glyph formed on the solid granite. The silky tones of her native tongue turned the rock into a shimmering blue portal.

Taking one person through is difficult; three poses a challenge. At least we are no longer in werewolf country or the strip. The wolf now belongs to Lord Darren. We can transport her with no claim lodged against us. Although, if we had gotten caught stealing her, there would have been a war. For now, no one saw us, and without eyewitnesses, it cannot be proven how we came by her. It is a good thing the werewolves have no use for magic wielders, or we'd be in a pickle. My magic distorted our scents, and not even the most sensitive werewolf tracker would be able to recognize either Lord Darren or myself if they ever crossed paths with us again.

Arlene nodded at her master when the magic connected both ends, not allowing him to see that she was shaking with effort.

He spurred Ragnor into the light without hesitation, but she scanned the landscape before following him, making sure no one saw them.

The cliff returned to its previous state in an instant.

A glimmer of darkness blinked to life a moment after they disappeared. The shadows took the familiar form of the raven-haired woman wearing yet another revealing black dress that showed off every inch of her perfect body.

Artemis banged her closed fist against the solid cliff, her anger shaking the rock. How is this possible? she raged.

. She shook her head and stamped her foot. That is not good enough. I wanted to watch her die. Murderous fury turned her blue eyes dark in her elegant, austere face. Is this Terra's doing? Has my insipid granddaughter found some way to interfere?!

Her cry of frustration shook the trees and shifted the ground.

She changed into a swirl of black mist and evaporated as the first pursuers burst through the trees in their wolf forms. They yipped at the cliff face blocking their way. The scent of their prey lingered in the area while another strange and unfamiliar odor reminded them of fermented fruit.

A rider dressed in black leather armor thundered into the clearing on horseback, a red wolf embossed on his chest plate. Wolfgang brought the animal to a rearing halt. His slate-gray eyes scanned the cliff, and fury cascaded off him in waves.

The lycan king's power forced the transformed wolves to sink to their bellies on the ground and whine in pain.

Wolfgang blinked, briefly dazed as the anger disappeared from his cold, handsome face.

Another rider galloped into the clearing, passing him without permission.

The lycan king scowled. Arrogant pup!

The raging emotions, which had kept him from his sleep these last months, should have escalated, with his daughter having escaped the sentence he passed.

What is this vast emptiness that fills me with desolation and guilt?

For the first time since that day in the forest—when he fell off his horse during his morning ride—he noticed the absence of his wolf, Carius. He shook his head, and the last tendrils of darkness cleared from his mind.

What was it that the wolf said about a ball of darkness? Could he have been right? Did something happen to me that day? His hands tightened on the reins.

"Where did she escape to?" Marcus demanded as if he were already the king.

Wolfgang grimaced inwardly. The admiration he felt for this werewolf, since the first moment they met, seeped away, and with it, his unforgiving, all-consuming hatred for his daughter disappeared.

Why do these emotions feel unfamiliar, as if they never belonged to me? And, as Devon did, why can I now see this prince as the arrogant pretender beside the seasoned king? What single-minded blindness has taken hold of me these last few months?

I must not allow Marcus to realize his pretense no longer fools me. The man may be a prince of royal blood, but he does not possess the makings of a king.

His thoughts seemed lonesome without Carius to constantly speak with.

"I am still the king, Marcus. Someone used magic in this place. Can you not feel it? Smell or sense it?" Wolfgang asked.

The pup cannot. And this arrogant whelp wants to steal my kingdom? he raged.

"You useless fools! How could you let her get away? Find her, or I will kill all of you and wipe your families from this earth!" Marcus yelled.

The veins in his throat were visible beneath his skin as spittle flew from his mouth.

How dare this man take his anger out on my men as if it were his right? Their loyalties are with me. Wolfgang struggled to contain his dislike and prevent it from showing on his face.

No one had dared release a condemned soul from The Circle in a thousand years, and it had never occurred to him that someone would try, although some part of him even hoped Devon would escape.

"That is enough, Marcus. No sentries guarded The Circle," he reminded.

That stern tone brought the prince to his senses, but Wolfgang did not care. He could not bear the sight of this impostor who had raped, shamed, and tortured his daughter.

What magic made my soul so dark that I allowed those things to happen? I fear nothing in life. But whatever evil did that to me made me destroy the one person who loved me despite my shortcomings as a father.

Hatred for his faceless enemy stirred in his soul.

Was it somehow Marcus? Or does the prince possess a powerful ally?

The thought made the hair on the back of his neck stand on end, and a chill slithered down his spine.

"Let us return home. Someone may have escaped with Devon, but she will not live."

Wolfgang's gruff tone sparked mutiny in the prince's gaze.

How did this pretender fool me? His confusion left him gutted, and his heart ached with loss and guilt.

By the Creator, what have I done? his soul cried out as he finally saw the truth and realized the part he played in this unspeakable scheme.

"You got what you wanted."

Something in the timbre of his voice made the prince look at Wolfgang with a frown—as if the man picked up on the change in him—and undisguised disdain showed in those unreadable gray-blue depths.

"My king, would you give up so readily?" the whelp dared ask.

Wolfgang brought the full power of his alpha to bear, something he had only done twice before.

However, this time, I will not regret it. This whelp deserves death for what he did, but I dare not harm him. There is no proof of his deeds, and if I act against him, the other kings might think me mad and revolt against me. No, I will need to tread carefully in dealing with him, but he must pay.

The werewolves stopped whining, unable even to blink or breathe.

The prince possessed no resistance against his brief display, and the High King of the Lycan Empire made his point without words.

Marcus nearly toppled from his steed, but the fleeting glow of satisfaction changed nothing inside Wolfgang. Memory served him stark details of the night Devon came to plead with him for mercy for the people under her care—the true mark of one born to rule. She risked her life to ask him to spare the members of her household, insisting that they were innocent of any wrongdoing. Yet his jealousy of the love she had for Lya, who raised her; Hank, who she saw as a father figure; and even Bertrand, who taught her of the world beyond their kingdom, blinded him to their plight.

How had such mild emotions turned into powerful forces that made me choose not to intervene? Why did I allow men and women to be executed for loving my daughter? Despite everything, Devon never lost her integrity or compassion.Yet I hated her for it, he admitted, floored by the memory.

Devon Elizabeth Declan Creed had defied him for the first time in her existence—she had challenged his power—and the impressive sight of her anger had sparked pride in his heart.

Unfortunately, he was her father, and she did not have it in her to harm him.

That night, I thought her love was a weakness. I overpowered her with my will, driving her to the ground without moving a muscle. When she stopped resisting, I called the guards.

He had watched as the last glimmer of trust drained from those striking eyes that reminded him of the waters of the Angeran Caves—bottomless azure depths that seemed to glow as shafts of sunlight illuminated the crystal formations under the water. It must have been the worst moment of his daughter's life, but he saw only the "hubris of her defiance."

Devon's actions had cemented her guilt in his eyes. It had convinced him that she was everything Marcus said she was—a traitor, kinslayer, and a power-hungry murderer who would not wait a century or five for her father to die or abdicate.

The dried-up remains of his heart shattered.

How did the prince convince me she wanted to seize power without a husband to shackle her or a father to rule from behind the throne?

The idea made no sense to him now.

The horse, sensing his troubled emotions, was restless and unsettled, shifting beneath him.

Wolfgang never thought himself capable of the hatred that had overtaken him and obliterated everything except the dark need to destroy his daughter.

Why did I want to make her suffer until she wished she'd never been born?

The evil inside me had transformed the memories of the daughter I had raised into lies—a woman with the mask of a dutiful daughter to disguise her wicked heart with its dark intentions.

Something drew his gaze to the deep shadows under the trees, and he had the strangest feeling someone was watching him, but his senses told him there was nothing there.

I, the great Wolfgang, High King of the Lycan Empire, could not resist the malevolence that transformed me into a monster.

When his daughter was little, he would stare into her eyes for hours, transfixed by the innocence and love he saw there. Then something happened, and sometimes when Devon looked at him, he saw hints of a stranger. He was never quite able to work out what bothered him about her.

She is mine, though—there is no denying it. There is also no disputing Elizabeth's blood even though her mother's irises were never the same shade of mesmerizing blue as Devon's. There is also no trace of my slate-gray eyes in my daughter's.

Was.

Never had a word pained him so much.

On rare occasions, however, there was something more in Devon that transcended the traits of royal lineage, a dormant power not born of vampire or wolf blood.

Since he returned from the forest that day, he saw a threat in that latent potential that drove him to the edge of insanity without him knowing why.

Wolfgang urged his chestnut stallion into the forest, and he missed Alexander. Armarus did not have his predecessor's arrogant streak or fire. Now he finally understood what it did to Devon to lose her Balfrie because of Marcus' cruelty.

Why did I allow the prince to harm the horse my daughter loved so badly that I had to kill it?

Then it struck him: Lya, Hank, the others, Balfrie, Alexander, and . . . Devon—technically, their blood was on his hands.

No. I was nothing more than the instrument of their demise. His gaze wandered to Marcus. Is he an instrument or the architect?

Even as the thought occurred to him, so did the answer. Marcus doesn't have the forethought to have planned all this. His back straightened, and his eyes turned gold.

I miss Carius. What am I without my wolf? Who am I without its guidance and wisdom? Is that why this evil took him from me? Because I am easier to influence and manipulate when the wolf isn't acting as my conscience?

The moment the horse stepped past the boundary marker and into Wolfgang's domain, dark tendrils tested his defenses.

Aware of them like a blind man seeing the light for the first time, he opposed them with quiet determination. I may be unable to thwart this dark magic, but I will resist it with every fiber of my being.