Chapter Thirty-Two
Bridget Winslow
Golden Eyes and Ancient Lies
Pain blooms behind my eyes as consciousness returns. Every heartbeat sends fresh waves of agony through my skull, but that’s nothing compared to the hollow void in my chest. The broken bond feels like an open wound, raw and bleeding, impossible to ignore.
I’m on my knees in the throne room, the same polished marble floor where they ripped our bond apart just hours ago.
No physical restraints hold me, but I can feel the weight of binding spells pressing against my skin.
The Mathairs’ magick wraps around me like invisible chains, familiar and suffocating.
Afternoon sunlight streams through towering windows, painting everything in false warmth.
The three white stone thrones loom on their dais, a reminder of the power these women have held for so long.
Helen paces before them, her silver braids gleaming, while Margaret and Emily rest on their seats with coiled menace.
“Such a waste.” Helen’s voice carries easily in the vast chamber. Her soft footsteps echo as she circles where I kneel. “You were meant for greater things than rutting with animals.”
Margaret’s laugh is sharp as breaking glass. “The corruption with her line runs deeper than we thought, sister. To bind herself to a wolf…” She spits the word like poison. “Perhaps we were too lenient in her training. Too lenient with her sister’s punishment.”
I keep my eyes fixed on the floor, studying the patterns in the polished stone. Anything to avoid looking at them, to hide the hatred burning in my chest.
“We can fix this,” Emily says softly from her throne. “Purify her mind. Start again.”
The words hit me like ice water in the face.
Memory wiping—a fate worse than death. They’d strip away everything I am, everything I feel for Bast, leaving nothing but an empty vessel for them to reshape.
My fingers curl against the marble floor.
I’d rather die with our broken bond than live without knowing him at all.
A distant sound catches my attention—something between a crash and an explosion. The stone walls vibrate slightly. I peer up through my lashes. The Delta Team shifts near the massive doors, their practiced stillness betrayed by subtle tension.
“The young ones will handle it.” Helen’s confidence fills the chamber like perfume, cloying and false. “A few rabid beasts cannot breach our walls.”
Another crash echoes, closer this time. Something is happening.
“A pack of fucking dogs thinks they can challenge us.” Margaret rises from her throne, moving to stand beside Helen. Her perfect posture reminds me of endless childhood lessons—back straight, chin up, hands still.
Wait. Dogs? She means wolves. Bast?
A scream pierces the air, young and terrified. One of the training class witches. Another follows, then another.
My heart twists with grief for these girls, raised like I was to be pawns in the Mathairs’ games.
But dread quickly drowns out pity—if Bast and the others have breached the outer defenses, the Mathairs will make them pay in blood.
I’ve seen what these women do when cornered.
They’d sacrifice every young witch in this castle before admitting defeat.
“Impossible.” Emily’s fingers grip her throne’s armrests, knuckles white. “Our wards—”
“Are holding perfectly.” Helen’s voice carries a sharpness I’ve never heard before. “Mira, take your team. Show these creatures who the Salem Court witches really are.”
Delta Team moves as one toward the doors. I’ve seen them fight before—seen them break witches stronger than me, seen them end bloodlines that dared defy the Mathairs.
Bast. Please. Be careful. I know he can’t hear me or feel me right now, but it helps to try.
More explosions rock the castle. Closer now.
“They have male witches with them.” The words spill from a young messenger as she bursts through the doors, face tight with terror. “They’re calling the leader Lawrence—”
“What?” Margaret’s composure cracks. Real fear flashes across her face before she can hide it. “Lawrence has been gone for twenty years. We made sure of it when—”
“When Meredith fled this court?” The laugh that tears from my throat sounds strange, almost hysterical. “Another lie you told us? Like everything else?”
Helen’s hand cracks across my face, the ring on her finger splitting my lip. Blood trickles down my chin, but I can’t stop laughing. Every crash, every scream, every tremor in the castle walls feels like victory.
“Our defenses are falling,” another messenger pants from the doorway. “The wolves—they’re so strong and fast and our spells are rolling off of them like they have armor on. And there are male witches—more than just Lawrence.”
A roar shakes the entire throne room, bestial and filled with rage. The massive windows rattle in their frames. Even bound and broken, I recognize that sound. My wolf. My mate.
Hope blazes through me like wildfire, fierce enough to chase away the hollow ache where our bond used to be. For the first time since they tore us apart, I feel truly alive—and truly terrified. Bast’s rage means he’ll stop at nothing to reach me, even if it kills him.
The Mathairs exchange looks I’ve never seen before—uncertainty warring with fear. They didn’t expect this. Didn’t think anyone would dare challenge their perfect order.
“Bring the others,” Helen commands, her voice brittle as frost. “If these beasts want to play games…” Her eyes fix on me, cold and calculating. “We’ll remind them why witches bound wolves to our will in the first place.”
The threat in Helen’s words makes my skin crawl and my stomach lurch.
The ground trembles beneath my knees as another explosion rocks the castle. Closer now. So close. Through the windows, I catch glimpses of chaos in the courtyard below—flashes of spell-light and massive wolves tearing through ranks of younger witches.
“My queens!” One of Delta Team bursts back through the doors, blood streaming from a gash above her eye. “They’re protected by some kind of shield spell. We can’t hold them…”
“Enough!” Helen’s voice cracks like a whip. “No more excuses. No more failure.” Her hand tangles in my hair, yanking my head back. “Get her up. It’s time these creatures and the traitors with them remember their place.”
The pain barely registers through the electric thrill of understanding—Helen’s control is slipping.
I’ve never heard that edge of desperation in her voice, never seen the Mathairs pushed this far.
Even as fear pulses through me at what they might do next, a wild spark of satisfaction burns in my chest. They’re afraid.
The knowledge makes me smile despite everything.
Rough hands grab my arms, hauling me to my feet. The binding spells tighten until breathing becomes difficult.
“You think this is funny?” Margaret appears in front of me, something glinting in her hand. A ritual knife, its blade etched with ancient runes. “You won’t be smiling when we put these animals down—”
A howl cuts through her words, closer than any before. The sound carries such primal fury it makes the Mathairs’ magic flicker. My heart pounds against my ribs, recognition singing through my blood.
Bast.
“Move,” Helen commands, shoving me toward the doors. “Let’s show these beasts what happens when they forget who their masters are.”
I thrash against their grip, magick or no magick. My heel connects with someone’s shin, earning me a vicious slap that makes my vision blur. But I don’t stop fighting—they won’t use me as bait for Bast. I won’t allow it.
They drag me through familiar halls despite my struggles, past tapestries depicting lies about our history. When we emerge onto the upper steps leading down to the courtyard, my bare feet slip in something wet. I look down at the lifeless body of a young woman.
I’m walking in her blood. Bile rises in my throat and I look up from the ground.
The scene beyond the steps steals my breath. Bodies litter the immaculate lawn—young witches who never stood a chance against real predators. Several wolves lie still on the grass too. They’re not Bast. The fur is a different color. Some of Lawrence’s people have fallen as well, but not many.
I watch with surprise as a group of witches, men and women, move with deadly grace between the massive wolves, their combined power tearing through everything in their path.
And there, in the center of it all, a reddish-gray wolf the size of a small horse. Blood stains his muzzle, but his golden eyes lock onto mine the instant we appear. Even without our bond, I feel his love. His fury. His promise of vengeance.
Bast.
The sight of him seizes my heart—my fierce, beautiful mate, fighting his way to me.
But terror freezes the breath in my lungs.
The Mathairs will make him suffer, force him to watch me die.
Or the other way around. I want to scream at him to run, to save himself, but I can’t tear my gaze from those golden eyes.
“Enough!” Helen’s command thunders over the carnage. “This ends now.”
Margaret steps forward, pressing the ritual knife against my ribs. The blade is cold through Bast’s borrowed T-shirt—the only piece of him I have left. “Stand down,” she commands. “Or watch her bleed.”
The entire courtyard freezes. Wolves bare their teeth, growls rumbling deep in massive chests. Lawrence’s witches hold spells crackling at their fingertips. But no one moves. No one dares.
Bast’s golden eyes never leave mine. In them, I see everything we’ve lost—our bond, our future, our chance at happiness. But I also see determination.
“Did you really think you could challenge us?” Helen’s words slice through the deathly silence. “That you could waltz into our Court and take what belongs to us?” Her laugh is cruel as winter frost. “She belongs to us.”
The blade digs deeper, and I can’t hold back a gasp of pain.
Bast’s massive form tenses, muscles bunching beneath blood-matted fur.
I see his desperate need to reach me warring with the knowledge that one wrong move could mean my death.
But some wild, desperate part of me still searches for a way out, still believes in the impossible.
We’ve already survived them ripping our bond apart. Maybe we can survive this too.
“That’s right,” Margaret purrs against my ear, twisting the knife slightly.
“They might look like monsters, but they’re all so predictable when you threaten what they love.
” Her voice rises, carrying to every corner of the courtyard.
“Drop your spells. Shift back to human form. Submit, and maybe we’ll let her live. ”
I want to tell Bast to fight. To tear them apart regardless of what happens to me. But I see the hesitation rippling through his eyes—that horrible moment of choice. Of knowing that any action might mean losing me forever. But if he shifts, he’ll be vulnerable. They all will.
Don’t do it. Don’t do it. Please. Don’t.
And he doesn’t.
“Guess he doesn’t love you enough,” Margaret says softly, and then she shoves the blade all the way in.
Pain explodes through my abdomen as steel parts flesh and muscle. Warm blood soaks my shirt—Bast’s shirt—spreading like a crimson flower across the fabric and flowing down my legs in warm rivulets.
The pain is white-hot and my vision blurs.