Page 22 of Stolen Thorn Bride

There was an almost perceptible backing away, as everyone else in the bailey seemed to recall they had somewhere else to be.

“I’ll bid you both farewell, then.” Miach sounded desperately relieved, probably to have Dechlan’s ire focused on someone other than him.

This was not over between them, but Dechlan was in no mood to speak further on the subject. Not now. Not until he’d cooled off. Not until he’d figured out how to get himself and his bondmate on the road for the Northwatch with minimal casualties.

“You will learn as we go,” he told the human, and was rewarded by a look of surprised apprehension.

“How?”

“The same way you learned to walk, I imagine,” he returned dryly. “By doing.”

Her shoulders seemed to slump, and she gave a small, defeated shrug.

“Fine. But if that horse throws me off and eats me, the consequences are on your head.”

“Horses,” he replied, taking a deep breath for the sake of his patience, “do not eat meat.”

“Yes, but this isn’t a normal horse, is it?” she retorted. “It’s an elf horse. How am I supposed to know what they eat?”

“Next, you’ll be suggesting that I eat children,” he muttered under his breath.

“Well, do you?” she muttered back as she strode past him.

He didn’t stop her. Might as well get the next part over with, because he doubted she would be pleased to discover that she’d been entirely wrong about the horses.

Elf “horses,” in a sense, did actually eat meat.

His bondmate took one look inside the stable and whirled around, face white as milk.

“No,” she said. That was all. Her arms and legs seemed locked in place as she stared at him, almost as if unwilling to believe what she’d seen. “I’m not… I’m not… that thing…”

Interesting. Apparently, itwaspossible to reduce her to a state of incoherence.

“Thatthingis called a dreadwolf,” he said. “And they are completely safe.”

Not that elves didn’t use horses. But warriors typically favored the dreadwolves, which were similar enough in shape to regular wolves to explain the human’s fear. They were also larger, faster, and stronger than horses, could hunt their own food, and were deadly companions in battle.

The dreadwolves that awaited them were not of his own stable—his own favorite mount had been lost in the battle that nearly cost him his life. But they were faithful, well-trained mounts from the king’s own pack, and Dechlan had no qualms about entrusting them with his bondmate’s life.

She, however, seemed to have considerable objections to their very existence.

“I’m not riding that,” she said flatly, her eyes wide as she stared at the silver dreadwolf he’d had prepared for her. “Look at it! It’s huge! Its teeth are longer than my hand, and it could crush my head like an eggshell!”

Dechlan took the wolf’s harness and ran a gentle hand down his furry neck. “This is Aral,” he told her. “Like all the other wolves here, he was raised by elves. Bonded with them from birth. Dreadwolves are intensely loyal and fiercely protective of those they care about. Aral was chosen for you because he is gentle, forgiving, and has a bit of a sense of humor. He is far smarter than a horse, and far less likely to kick you, trample on you, or panic and run away while you are riding him.”

His bondmate swallowed hard. Her lips pinched together, and she took a deep, harsh breath through her nose.

Then, to his complete surprise, she marched up to Aral, face still white, and reached out a trembling hand towards his nose.

The human was no coward. Her legs shook, and her whole body seemed poised to run, but she held her ground as the enormous wolf lowered his shaggy head and dropped his huge, wet nose right into her palm.

Sense of humor indeed. The dreadwolf almost seemed to be laughing as the human’s eyes shut tightly, only to fly open when Aral’s slobbery pink tongue scraped across her hand.

A breathless whimper escaped her, but she remained still as he finished with her hand and took one completely unnecessary swipe at her face, leaving it damp but wearing just a tiny hint of a smile.

When she buried her drool-covered hand in Aral’s neck fur and made its softness double as a towel, Dechlan decided that the worst was probably over.

It took an alarming amount of time to explain to her how to use the harness, then what to do with her arms and legs while mounted. Fortunately, Aral was as patient as he was gentle, and set his feet more securely each time she seemed near to toppling out of the saddle.