Big Papa (Wolves of Iron Valor MC #4)

Chapter 1

Aspen

Iwasn’t supposed to cry. Mama always said tears were for the weak, and if there was anything a Waters woman wasn’t, it was weak.

Still, I let the tears stream down my cheeks anyway, hot and stinging, as I sat on the edge of her narrow bed and held her papery hand in mine.

She’d wasted away over the past three weeks, her once-strong arms gone to twigs, her golden skin gone the color of spent beeswax.

Now, she looked less like the wild, laughing woman who’d raised me, and more like a shadow pressed thin beneath the handmade quilt I’d outgrown in the eighth grade.

She could barely catch her breath, but she tried anyway. “Baby, come closer. I want… I need to talk to you.”

I leaned in, ignoring the pain in my knees against the wooden floorboards.

Our little cottage wasn’t anything spectacular, but my mom had made it a home.

And I’d known it could have been so much more, but she wasn’t about expensive personal possessions.

It was cozy and filled with the scents of dried lavender and old recipe books and more love than the walls could contain.

Moonlight from the lone window slanted across her bed, setting the dust motes to drifting.

I could see my own reflection in the glass: complexion white as snow, black-haired, my eyes that impossible green.

Mama always joked I looked like a Halloween cat.

I wish we had time for jokes now. But we didn’t now that she was dying, and the coven was waiting like vultures to pick over her carcass.

She coughed; a wet, rattling sound that left a red fleck at the corner of her lips. I pressed the damp handkerchief to her mouth, then dabbed it away. I didn’t recoil. I was used to blood.

“You’re so beautiful, Aspen,” she whispered, and I believed her, even though most days I had to remind myself.

“You should rest,” I murmured, stroking her hair back from her forehead. It was still soft, still the color of molasses, but the roots were snowing in with gray. “Wyrdmother Elaina said she’d come by at noon tomorrow to check on you. Hopefully she can heal you.”

Mama’s lips twisted in a bitter smile. “That old bitch would sooner slit my throat than heal me. Don’t be fooled, Aspen.”

The word bitch hung in the room, thick and forbidden. Mama wasn’t shy with her opinions, not even now. But it scared me, the way she talked about the coven lately—like they were enemies, not family. Like they were wolves waiting at the door.

“I’m not a child,” I said, and I wasn’t. Twenty-five felt a hundred years old these days.

She squeezed my hand; her knuckles bird-brittle under my fingers. “No, you’re not. That’s why you need to listen. It’s not safe here, not anymore.”

My chest constricted. “Then we’ll leave, Mama. We can go to Atlanta or Savannah. Nobody’ll think to look for us there.”

She smiled again, softer this time, and brought my hand to her mouth to kiss it. I felt her breath, warm and sour and fading.

“Listen to me,” she said, and her voice was so clear it cut the air.

“I’ve kept things from you. I thought I had time to tell you; to teach you.

But I no longer have the luxury of time because of this curse.

And that’s exactly what this is. The thing that is killing me it’s not sickness; it’s a punishment.

Because I voted against the Wyrdmother those weeks ago.

. When the Council had to vote regarding King Bridger Hardin and Queen Savannah Calloway’s mate bond being a true fated mate bond, I advised the Wyrdmother that the bond was genuine, not some trick.

She didn’t want to hear it. And when I stood up for what’s right, the coven turned.

There was a reason other than truth that caused the Wyrdmother to vote against them, Aspen.

It was something other than justice. I realized then, nothing was sacred. Nothing was safe.”

She coughed again, and I felt a small, hot panic rising in my gut.

“You’re part of that world,” I argued. “You always said—”

She cut me off with a look. “I knew that not everyone was honorable, honey. But in matters of great importance, I had to believe that honor counted. When I saw that the Wyrdmother was willing to lie to sever a loving couple’s true fated mating bond, that was when I knew she was a leader I could no longer support.

She could read my thoughts. She knew she’d lost me, and she could not let that stand.

Before I could get our house in order, she’d somehow worked a curse that I could not break.

I know this is overwhelming, darling, but there is more. ”

She asked for a drink, and I held the glass to her lips before she continued.

“When I realized I would not recover, that’s when I sold the herb shop.

I knew I had to make provisions for you.

Because there is one other thing you must know.

I know I always told you I didn’t know who your father was.

I’m so sorry my darling, but that wasn’t true.

I was trying to protect you. I still will not tell you who he is, but I will tell you he is not human and he is not a witch.

It is enough for you to know that he is ‘other’ and you are in danger because of who he is. ”

“What am I?” The words crawled out of my throat. “I’m not even a proper witch. I can’t cast, Mama. The other girls call me Dud. I thought… maybe magical ability skipped a generation, or…”

She shook her head. “Magic doesn’t skip generations, baby. It gets diluted sometimes. Mixed with other blood. But there’s nothing wrong with your magic, sweet girl.” She tried to sit up, and I eased her forward, propping her with a pillow.

I wrung my hands. “What am I supposed to do?”

She closed her eyes, and I thought for a moment she’d gone, but then she squeezed my hand, just enough to feel.

“Lift the loose floorboard beside my bed. You’ll find my grimoire there and a large brown envelope.

In the envelope are the deed and keys to a small bakery in the town of Dairyville, Texas.

There is also a phone and credit card. Pack your belongings right now and prepare to leave as soon as you’re done.

Open that bakery and find a new life and happiness for yourself.

If you have any problems or run into trouble in Dairyville, seek out the Iron Valor Pack Alpha Bronc. He is honorable and will help you.”

I let the words sink in. The Iron Valor Pack? The one wolf pack everyone knows? The devils in leather, no one dares to cross? I’d sooner have stuck my hand in a blender than go to them. But Mama’s eyes, even dying, left no room for argument.

“Promise me,” she whispered.

I nodded, tears falling again. “I promise, Mama. I’ll go.”

She smiled, so faint I might’ve missed it, then relaxed back into her pillow, her hand still clutching mine.

“Good girl,” she said, softer than a prayer.

“Now go. I think this curse was set to last a specific number of days and if I’m right, I’ll be dead by morning.

You don’t have to see me die, daughter. I know how much you love me. ”

The moon had shifted now, throwing the long shadow of the cottage roof across the bed. I watched her chest rise and fall, each breath a battle. Around us, the little home she’d built for us—our sanctuary—felt suddenly like a coffin.

I felt as though my soul had slipped its moorings.

“You have given me the best possible life, Mama. Even with its hardships, you taught me how to laugh and love. And every hour we spent baking was an hour you poured your wisdom into my heart. And every minute I spent working with you at the herb store was experience I’ll take with me to my bakery, which I cannot believe you bought for me. ” I said through my tears.

She took a shallow breath. “I have been proud of you every day of your life. Go and find your destiny. I love you my darling.”

“I love you, Mama.” I told her as I went to my room to pack.

I grabbed the battered duffel from beneath the bed, and stuffed it with the basics: underwear, jeans, a couple of hoodies, a couple of my favorite dresses, the old quilt for good measure.

In the bathroom, I scooped up Mama’s brush, her favorite lotion, the little tin of beeswax lip balm we’d made together last spring.

I hesitated over the photos pinned to my wall—me as a baby, the two of us at the county fair, Mama caught mid-laugh at my thirteenth birthday.

I tore down the smallest one, tucked it in my back pocket, and left the rest.

Then I knelt by the bed, pried up the loose floorboard beneath the rocking chair, and reached into the darkness.

My fingers closed on rough, oiled leather—the grimoire.

It was heavier than I remembered. I pulled it out, turned it over in my hands.

The cover was stamped with our sigil: a circle of willow branches, three dots at the center.

I’d never been able to open it; the magic was locked tight, waiting for a true witch.

Maybe now it would answer to me.

Underneath the grimoire was the large brown envelope. Aspen, it said in Mama’s script. My throat knotted up, but I shoved it into my bag, too.

From the pantry, I gathered a couple jars of honey, a loaf of sourdough, and the last two apples.

I wanted to linger, to take in every line and corner of our life together, but I needed to leave before the world outside started waking up.

I thought I heard the crunch of footsteps on the gravel path, and the shrill voices echoing across the commons.

I laced up my boots, slung the duffel over my shoulder, and tiptoed back to Mama’s side. I pressed a kiss to her forehead, just above the place where the skin was warmest, and lingered for three heartbeats.