Chapter Three
“Witches Are Not to Be Spared”
Kill her.
The words filled his mind for the tenth time that evening. His gaze darted from the blade hanging from the wall to the witch sleeping in his bed. She lay on her back as though in some kind of trance, her arms folded across her chest. Her eyes were shut, her lips slightly parted as she gently snored.
The cabin was still dim. Outside, the wind howled as the storm continued to rage. Over the past few days, it had persisted, making it impossible to step out of the cabin. And the culprit was still unconscious.
Kill her.
The thought occurred to him again, but August barely registered it this time. The sight of her lying there, almost completely nude, was enough to start a fire in his loins. His arousal strained against his trousers in defiance of the simple order his mind had given him.
He knew exactly what he had to do. If he took her out now, there was less of a chance of things spiraling out of control.
You’ve seen what she can do, said a little voice in his head. She came out of an accident unscathed and created a storm moments after. She’s powerful. And dangerous.
At least she was bound now. His gaze fell to the Kane insignia on her hand. Branding her with the mark had been a smart decision. She wouldn’t be practicing any magic for a long time. Or until he killed her.
You could have done that since, said the voice. You’ve had multiple chances. If you hadn’t hesitated out there—
She was using a protection spell!
It wore off. You know that. You made her bleed.
I did.
You could have killed her where she stood. You should have. But you didn’t.
I didn’t.
Instead, you knocked her unconscious and brought her into your cabin. Your home. A witch.
I couldn’t stay outside. The storm was growing worse. I had to get back here as soon as possible.
But you brought her with you. You spared her. Have you forgotten what happened to your mother? To Alaina?
A memory flashed through his mind just then in a series of images and sounds. A look of horror on a woman’s face. A bellow of rage. An explosion of light. He shunted the memory aside, feeling as though he’d been punched in the gut.
That Valentine’s Day had been years ago, long enough that the memory of it shouldn’t hurt so much. Yet it did. Each memory of the day tragedy struck was like a wound being reopened.
And now salt was being poured into that wound, he thought, his gaze still riveted on the woman lying on the bed. Another witch had crossed his path.
He dropped to a crouch next to her sleeping form. She’d lowered her arms, affording him a better view of her torso. Her full breasts rose and fell with each breath in an almost mesmerizing rhythm. August found himself swallowing at the sight of her curvy hips. Dainty, long legs stretched toward the foot of the bed, twitching now and then.
Desire surged in his chest, and he felt his trousers tighten as his arousal grew. August bit his lip until it hurt. Maybe taking her clothes off hadn’t been such a great idea after all.
He’d stripped her almost completely nude to make sure she didn’t have anything dangerous on her person. He hadn’t found any runes or talismans, but her clothes were still somewhere else in the cabin. August could not pretend she wasn’t a tantalizing sight.
Don’t be stupid, he told himself. You only feel this way because you haven’t been with a woman in a long time.
So long. He swallowed, clenching his fists against the urge to pry off the remaining stitches of clothing she had on. One swift motion, one tug, and those delicious-looking breasts of hers would be bared completely to his eye. And if he slipped those panties down her legs…
No. His jaw clenched.
Maybe he should put her clothes back on.
He forced his gaze back up to her face, desperately ignoring the turgidity in his trousers and the thoughts of that warm, sweet spot between her thighs. She looked barely past her youth, her blonde hair spilling past her shoulders. But she was no youth. What was that she’d told him the other day? I’m forty-three years old. This was the work of magic, no doubt.
He supposed it should disgust him, make him taste bile. But if anything, the sight of this woman was mouthwatering.
Focus, he chided himself. She’s just another witch. You’ve met lots of them. Killed lots of them.
The thought only strengthened his resolve a little, but it was better than nothing. He had met a great number of witches in his lifetime. Coming from a long line of witch hunters, descending from one of the first shifters on Frost Mountain, he’d spotted his first witch at the age of twelve. A moment later, the witch had been lying in the snow, her dismembered head rolling downhill.
Remember, his mother had said, casually wiping the blood off her blade, You must never hesitate to strike first. Witches are not to be spared. Their kind are dangerous. You must kill or be killed.
The Kanes had always been special. It was one of the first lessons he’d learned from his mother. Their bloodline wasn’t simply made up of wolf shifters. The Kanes were special people, gifted with foresight. August had no idea where it had originated from, but the way he saw it, it wasn’t much of a gift. The visions came only when a witch appeared on Frost Mountain, like a reminder to take action and stop them. And who liked to be reminded that witches were nearby? If anything, it was a curse.
Growing up, he’d learned that it was a commonly held belief that there were no witches on Frost Mountain. He knew that to be false. All kinds of people, creatures, and objects ended up here, and witches were no exception. The only reason people seldom came across their kind was that witches had learned over time to hide their presence. That, and the fact that witch hunters had been tracking down and eliminating their kind for centuries.
August was no different. He knew to stop witches before they became full-blown threats to the lives of the millions, perhaps billions of innocent people of Frost Mountain. Witches were responsible for the horror that was this world. When they showed up, terrible things occurred. Villages were destroyed. Chaos erupted. People were killed.
The memory filled his mind again, but he shut it out before it could take root.
Witch hunters like him lived to prevent tragedies. And most of the time, he had been successful at stopping the witches who would have brought harm.
The one time he’d hesitated, a heavy price had been paid.
And yet, he’d hesitated again.
Without really thinking, he reached out, taking a few strands of her hair between his fingers. He’d taken down dozens of witches in the past without hesitation, but there was something different about this one. He could feel it. No wonder he’d hesitated to kill her earlier.
Is that it? The voice inside his head had become snide. Or is it because of the way she makes you feel?
Her very presence seemed to be igniting parts of him that had been cold for so long that he’d almost forgotten what it was like to feel this way. He brought his hand to her face, tracing a finger along her jawline. Her lips were still parted slightly. He wondered what they would feel like against his.
No, he thought. I can’t be feeling this way about a witch. Especially not after… after Alaina.
She was a witch. Or was she? The reason he had to kill witches was because of the danger they posed. But the woman lying half-naked in front of him looked anything but. She was still bound, after all. He’d rendered her incapable of casting even a protection spell. Right now, she was little more than a regular woman, a woman the sight of whom brought an excited tremble to his fingertips and filled his mind with thoughts that hadn’t occurred since… well, since a long time ago.
He should kill her for who she is, for all the tragedy she must have caused to others before now, for the danger her kind posed. But he couldn’t kill her in here, not in his cabin.
“If I’m going to kill you, it’ll have to be outside,” he muttered. “Once the snowstorm you created settles.”
Nothing is stopping you from killing her now, said that snide voice. Stop making excuses.
He ignored it, gazing down at the witch’s face. The cabin was silent except for the sound of her gentle breathing and the thud of his heart as he inched closer. He studied her features, his breathing quickening with excitement.
What am I doing?
It didn’t matter. He didn’t care.
As he aligned her face with hers, he held his breath, feeling hers brush his lips. Her eyes were still shut. His gaze flickered to her slender neck. He could choke the life out of her now, perhaps burn the body in his fireplace. Nothing was stopping him.
But killing her isn’t what you really want to do, is it, August?
Before he could dwell on that thought, the witch’s eyes snapped open.