Curse of the Wolf King: A Beauty and the Beast Retelling (Entangled with Fae) Read online

  Curse of the Wolf King

  Tessonja Odette

  Copyright © 2021 by Tessonja Odette

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  Cover illustration and design by Tessonja Odette

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Epilogue

  Free fae prequel story

  About the Author

  Also by Tessonja Odette

  1

  Just breathe. They can’t hurt me from here. No one can.

  I release a heavy sigh, my breath fogging the window glass and obscuring my view of the enormous snowflakes that fall on the other side, floating from the vast white sky to the streets below. I press my forefinger to the fogged glass, tracing a circle, then several lines radiating out from its circumference. By the time I draw my last line, the image fades, taking with it my temporary sun.

  I let out another sigh, my brow pulling into a scowl. I despise snow. Almost as much as this town.

  I squint beyond the snowflakes to the bustling streets outside my home. A row of townhouses identical to mine line the opposite street. One family all but spills from their doorway in their haste to get outside, gathering their composure when they reach the cobblestone street. The father straightens his cravat, tips his hat, and mouths what I can only imagine are kind greetings to passing neighbors, who in turn stop to chat. Their words are too distant for me to hear from inside my townhouse’s parlor, but the delighted squeals of the children are loud enough to reach me. A boy and girl grin up at the sky as they bounce up and down on the balls of their feet, faces alight at the sight of snow. It’s almost enough to make me wonder if the falling flakes of freezing doom perhaps aren’t the worst after all. However, all mirth from both myself and the children is stripped away when the mother swats at them, prodding her progeny into silence and well-behaved postures before contriving exaggerated smiles for her neighbors’ sake.

  “Why, of course, Mrs. Aston,” I say under my breath, tone mocking, “you most certainly should strip the joy from your happy children while you can. Wouldn’t want their enthusiasm for life’s early pleasures to stain your well-kept reputation.”

  I shake my head and turn away from the window with a huff. Mrs. Aston, like everyone else in the town of Vernon, is yet another simple-minded, judgmental prude. I can’t believe I was ever so naive to think this place would be a fresh start. A place where I could escape the rigid structures of human society and just be…me.

  But no. There’s no room for me, not when society has already decided who and what I should be. A daughter. A woman. A wife-in-training. Quiet. Demure. Chaste.

  One would think moving to an isle ruled by the fae—magical creatures I once thought could never belong outside mythical stories—would provide a fresh perspective on social norms. When Father announced he was moving me and my youngest sister from Bretton to Faerwyvae, and to the Winter Court of all places, I felt a mix of emotions. Terror. Shock. Relief. And, yes, most pathetic of all, hope. I should have known better. For it turns out, the human towns in Faerwyvae are just as uptight as the cities in Bretton.

  If only I could go home. To my real home. Not here. Not even Bretton, but to the home of my childhood where the sun shone year-round, browning my skin as I played outdoors with my sisters, not a care in the world to dampen our spirits. That was joy. That was happiness. That was when our family was whole, and Mother was still…

  My shoulders stiffen. Shaking the ruminations from my mind, I stride to the fireplace at the opposite end of the parlor. I cross my arms and pop my hip to the side as I glower at the meager flames. An unladylike countenance, I’m sure, but considering I’m alone in my family’s parlor, I really couldn’t give a damn.

  I suppress a shudder, wishing the heat of the fireplace could more adequately warm the room. How is it that I live in a land filled with magic, and yet we’re still plagued by the same unreliable hearths I left behind? The Winter Court, more than any other court in Faerwyvae, should make proper heat a priority for its residents. Shouldn’t it?

  I grit my teeth, releasing a grumble of muttered curses.

  Saints Above, why am I so on edge today?

  As if in answer, my gaze is drawn to the tea table in front of the couch, where a well-worn book rests, taunting me.

  Oh, that’s right. Because I’m out of reading material. Again.

  I move to the couch and retrieve the shawl draped over one of the pillows, then wrap it around my shoulders. I pick up my book and settle into the cushions, smoothing the folds of my blue satin skirt close to my legs, wishing I’d worn wool hose today instead of silk stockings. Then I pull the cord of the tall floor lamp next to me, igniting a warm, subtle glow that lights my pages.

  We may not have leading-edge technology for heating, but at least we have electricity for light—or a form of it, I should say. Unlike Bretton, where light is generated by traditional means, here it comes from strange fae magic, traveling along ley lines, or some such.

  I flip past the title page of my book, which reads The Governess and the Rake, to page one. The familiar words set my nerves at ease as I begin to read. But as I make it to page three, I find my mind beginning to wander. As much as I love my book, I’ve already read it three times. I want something new. Need something new.

  I slam the cover shut and return it to the table. Bringing my thumbnail between my teeth, I make my way back to the window to look out at the streets that have grown even busier in my short absence from my post.

  My heart races as the bodies that swarm the streets grow denser, the chatter of excited pedestrians compounding with horse hooves, carriage wheels, and the rare automobile until it becomes an audible roar of sound.

  I’m transported to a similar street in recent memory, one crowded with sneers and whispers. Eyes that burn with hate and scorn. All directed at me, as barbed as if they were lashes upon my flesh.

  I bite the inside of my cheek, which helps me recover my bearings.

  Just breathe. This is here. This is now.

  Damn it all to hell, I really need a new book. Otherwise, my mind will be the death of me. But new books mean leaving this room. Walking in the saintsforsaken snow…amongst all those people.

  I swallow hard.

  We�
�ve been living in Vernon for three weeks now. The first week was almost a respite. Being a newly opened resort town near the mountains of the Winter Court, Vernon welcomed us as one of the first families to take up residence. The shops were new and stocked to the brim with untouched goods, which thankfully included a bookshop. That became my immediate haven, and I confess, I spent my weekly allowance during my first trip there. The second week brought more new families settling into the empty homes, including the nosy Mrs. Aston. Still, I continued to escape into my books and replenish my wares as soon as one story was finished. The start of this week, however, brought a flood of residents, some permanent, others visitors. All bursting with anticipation for what is considered a momentous event—the start of the Winter Court’s social season.

  I once was excited by social seasons, but now I dread them. Dread with a capital D and a string of colorful curses. The kind a lady should never say. Shit. Damn. Hell.

  I really, really need a new book.

  Clenching my fingers into fists, I stare out at the streets one more time and give myself to the count of five to feel afraid.

  One.

  The bookshop is just a few blocks away.

  Two.

  No one here knows my past.

  Three.

  They don’t know me at all.

  Four.

  And if I have anything to do about it, no one ever will.

  Five.

  With a deep inhale, I straighten my posture, swallowing my fear. Then I suck in my stomach, aided by my tight-laced corset, and throw back my shoulders. I pat my black tresses, ensuring every wavy strand is secured in its fashionable twist at the nape of my neck. Lifting my chin, I press my lips into a haughty smile, the first ingredient that makes up the mask I must wear. The persona I present to the world. The kind that keeps me strong. Confident. Impervious to pain.

  A lie, yes.

  But one that I, Gemma Bellefleur, wear so well.

  2

  Head held high, I exit through my front door. The chilly air immediately strikes me, teasing the warmth from my thick wool coat. My sable collar brushes my cheeks as I pull it higher, wishing it were tall enough to cover my ears. At least my wide hat protects me from the falling snowflakes that continue to float down from the sky.

  Sound is amplified tenfold from what it had been behind the safety of my parlor window, sending my pulse pounding. And yet, my smile doesn’t slip. I give way to not a single flinch as an automobile roars by, sending pedestrians hurtling out of its path. Part of me begs to rush back inside, back to the warmth of the fireplace, to the quiet of the parlor, but I shove that part of me into the recesses of my mind and focus on the task at hand.

  Just breathe. Just smile. Just pretend.

  With a deep breath, I descend the front steps to the sidewalk below, my low-heeled boots crunching into the dusting of fresh snow. The snow here is always fresh, never accumulating higher than a quarter inch on the streets, no matter how much has fallen the day before. It must be magic that keeps it that way.

  “Miss Bellefleur!” a voice calls from across the street.

  Mrs. Aston gives an enthusiastic wave, and I curse my reactions for being so automatic. If I hadn’t made eye contact, I could pretend I didn’t see her. But it’s too late. She’s already crossing the street toward me. I manage to suppress a groan, although I’m sure I can’t keep my full displeasure from my eyes. To counteract it, I force a smile.

  “Miss Bellefleur,” she says when she reaches me, “is your father home? I was hoping to have you and your sister over for dinner tonight.”

  Bodies weave around us on the sidewalk, making my breath hitch. I hate standing still in a crowd. Hate it. I can almost hear whispers, jests, snide comments laced beneath the roar of footsteps, pitched within the blare of an automobile horn—

  I blink a few times, breathing the memories away. This is here. This is now. I refocus on my outer composure and recall Mrs. Aston’s question. “No, my father is not home,” I say and leave it at that.

  “Oh, but I must have you over. You simply have to meet Gavin. He’s finally arrived in town.” Her eyes are alight with excitement, her smile oozing saccharine sweetness.

  “Gavin,” I echo flatly.

  Her grin falters. “My eldest son. You recall I told you about him when I was last over for tea?”

  “Ah.” I nod. Now I know what this is about. It’s the social season’s most heinous of activities. Matchmaking. Time for a swift exit. “My father and sister are in the market square. I’m sure you can speak to him when he returns.”

  I take a step to the side, but she mirrors me.

  “Oh, but did you hear about Miss Weathersbee?” She lowers her voice just enough to feign discretion, although hardly quiet enough to truly avoid being overheard. “I was most surprised when I heard. She’d taken a walk—unchaperoned—with Mr. Evans. And—”

  “Mrs. Aston,” I say, allowing some sharpness to infuse my tone, “I doubt this is any of my business to know, considering I am acquainted with neither Miss Weathersbee nor Mr. Evans.”

  Heat flushes her already heavily rouged cheeks. She purses her lips, then returns them to her false grin. “Miss Bellefleur, I was simply leading up to tell you that they spotted a wolf. Two of them! Right on Whitespruce Lane at the edge of the woods. I merely wanted to warn you.”

  I grit my teeth. That’s how some of the vilest rumors start, the kind that are cloaked in a way that makes the news seem prudent to share. I’ve heard it all before. I’d be a terrible friend if I didn’t confess, or I only say this because… There’s always a reason. Always a way to rationalize why one must invade another’s most private moments.

  I curl my fingers into tight fists, feeling the stretch of my kid gloves. It takes all my restraint to maintain my composure. At least my irritation has overridden my fear. I can hardly see the bustling bodies that continue to shove past us. When I speak, my words come out calm. Collected. Just like my outer persona. “We do live in the Winter Court, Mrs. Aston. Spotting wolves at the edge of the forest is hardly news worth spreading, regardless of the gossip you’ve so neatly tied to it.”

  I expect another blush, but she’s nonplussed. In fact, she seems encouraged, her smile brightening. “They could have been fae wolves.”

  “Here?” I say with mock concern. “At the heart of a fae court? Why, never in all my days would I have thought such a thing possible.”

  This time, she seems to catch the hint. She folds her hands before her with a huff. “We don’t see many fae here, Miss Bellefleur. This is a human town, after all.”

  “Vernon has only been open for a matter of weeks.”

  “Which means every sighting of a fae is news!” She places a hand on my arm, her words taking on a condescending tone, her cadence slowing. “Gemma, dear, you are new to Faerwyvae and are not yet versed in our ways. The fae may rule us and they may mingle with humans freely in some cities, but very rarely here in the south. The northern cities near the palace of the seelie king are where most high fae live, and the lesser fae, like the wolves and bears, tend to stay away from towns like ours.”

  I plaster a smile over my lips and tilt my head. “On the contrary, I have been told all of this. I’ve also been told the fae take offense to the terms high fae and lesser fae and prefer the terms seelie and unseelie, so I suggest you forgo repeating the former.”

  She waves a dismissive hand. “That’s only if they hear you use such phrasing. It’s not likely I’ll offend anyone here. As I’ve already said, there’s hardly a fae living in Vernon. Unless, of course, you count Mr. Hamish’s new wife. Have you met her yet? She looks like one of us, but they say she’s half pixie! Can you even imagine?”

  There’s really no getting through to this woman, is there? Then again, based on our previous encounters, I shouldn’t have expected this conversation to go any different. “I must be going, Mrs. Aston.”

  Again, I step away, only for her to shadow me.

  “Where ar
e you off to? Perhaps we can go together? We’re on our way to meet Gavin. I’m sure an early introduction—”

  “What a kind and generous offer,” I say without warmth, “but I must be on my way alone. Good day.”

  She opens her mouth to object, but I’m already taking my leave—with haste this time.

  The bookshop, like always, is nearly empty.

  As soon as the door closes behind me, I feel like I can breathe. More than that, I can finally let my guard down. Here I can be myself. Here I can find quiet.

  I head for the bookseller, Mr. Cordell, who nods at me with a warm smile as I reach his counter. He’s an older gentleman, perhaps twenty years my father’s senior. His hair is gray, his eyes a watery blue. I return his smile, this one genuine, unlike the one I wear among the other townspeople.

  “How many today, Miss Bellefleur?” Mr. Cordell asks.

  “That depends. Anything new?”

  He pretends to ponder, squinting at me as he taps a finger to his chin. “Well, I have plenty new. But the kind of books you’re after…”

  “Don’t hold out. Tell me!” I say with a laugh.

  With an exaggerated sigh, he reaches beneath the counter and takes out a rectangular bundle wrapped in cloth. He barely has a chance to push it across the counter toward me before I gather it up and tear off the wrapping. I can’t contain my excitement as I read the title. The Governess and the Earl.