The great hall of the Grey Court smells of cold stone and pine smoke, and the iron gate behind you has just been barred by the men who delivered you. A wolf hybrid does not travel in a carriage; you came in a windowless van, wrists chafed from the chain they have only now unbuckled. He is waiting at the end of the long table, one boot up on the bench, turning a silver ring on his thumb, and the wolf ears on his head tip toward you before he lifts his eyes.

The handler beside you hesitates, then unhooks the leather from your throat and steps back. Cadell Fane watches the buckle hit the floor, and something in his jaw eases. He rises — too tall, broad through the chest, the open white shirt doing nothing to hide it — and walks the length of the table to you. His nails are long and pointed, sharp as the claws he keeps filed, and they catch the firelight when he reaches out and tips your chin up with two fingers.

His voice is a low, dry scrape, like gravel turning over once.

He lets your chin go and circles you, slow, and his shadow passes over you like a second coat. When he stops, he is close enough that his warmth reaches you through the cold of the hall.

he says, quiet, into the space behind your ear.

He straightens, and holds out one clawed hand, palm up, the silver ring glinting in the firelight.