Chapter Five
Sipping her freshly made cup of tea the next morning, Emberlyn tossed her spoon into the sink. She’d slept like the dead last night, which she figured was partly due to her having given the entire house a spiritual cleansing beforehand to rid it of negative energies.
Okay, so she hadn’t cleansed the entire manor. She’d left out the spooky spare room and basement. Those were her no-go areas, and for good reason.
She’d already chowed down a bagel, so she would be heading to work soon. She’d also take some time to go to her apartment and pack the rest of her things.
The majority of the coven’s businesses partially, if not mostly, tended to the needs and wants of witches.
Something Emberlyn thought was particularly short-sighted.
When three-quarters of the town’s population were werewolves, it made sense to launch a business that would provide an in-demand service for them.
Hence why she’d started Vautier Laundry Hub.
Werewolves were always fighting. More often than not, it was for the rush of it. They even had a bareknuckle fighting ring for such purposes. Then there were minor disputes that escalated into brawls, one-to-one challenges, group fights or even – though it was rare – battles with other clans.
As such, their clothing was regularly stained with blood, dirt and sweat.
More, such clothing was often also damaged – whether during violent incidents or the need to shift very quickly.
So Emberlyn’s hub not only laundered clothing, it also offered supplemental services such as repairing tears or reattaching buttons.
The place had a lot of customers. Especially since she’d incorporated a little magick, positively guaranteeing that their clothes would return in perfect condition, smelling of whatever scent they’d chosen, and would be soft enough to accommodate their slight skin sensitivity.
As a small add-on service, she even sold werewolf-specific potions at the hub – some sped up the healing process, some were straight-up energy shots, others aided in fighting the moon’s pull. On and on it went.
At one point, the coven had started their own launderette, thinking to cash in on this niche they’d either previously ignored or simply hadn’t seen.
But they hadn’t managed to lure Emberlyn’s customers away, and they hadn’t liked how their electricity kept cutting off, their machines kept breaking or their front door kept sticking.
Yes, she’d had something to do with it.
And yes, the other witches had known that. They just hadn’t had the balls to confront her over it. Instead, they’d closed down their launderette.
Right then, a knock came at the front door. Emberlyn felt her brow crease. It could be Paisley, but she doubted it – her friend wasn’t an early riser.
Whoever it was, the manor didn’t consider them a physical threat to Emberlyn, or they wouldn’t have made it this far. Which didn’t mean that it wasn’t one of her relatives – they weren’t likely to try punching her or anything.
Her pretty porcelain cup in hand, Emberlyn walked down the hallway. When she pulled open the door, her pulse did a little skip. On the porch stood a tower of deliciousness wearing a faded dark tee, worn gray denim jeans and black leather boots.
She blinked in surprise. ‘Ripper.’ It was a wonder that her voice came out even. Because, up close, this werewolf had a way of making her hormones feel faint.
She had a weakness for this guy. Her defenses crumbled in the presence of all that raw male power. Making it harder to fight the attraction, her magick never failed to stir around his apex-predator energy.
He stared at her, holding himself with an unnatural stillness that made her think of an animal ready to pounce. Tension sparked in the air, live and hotly sexual – always did when they stood so close. And she found herself thinking it was a crying shame that he was so wrapped up in another woman.
What would it be like, she wondered, to love someone who loved you .
. . but who also loved your brother? Would you pray that that brother moved on so that you’d be free to pursue her?
Would you alternate from feeling love to anger to resentment?
Would you want to let her go, or would you spend your time hoping she’d one day choose you?
At that moment, his gaze roamed over Emberlyn – from her lightly made-up face to her loose curls, ivory pencil dress, silver triple-moon anklet and ivory high heels.
His eyes snagged hers again, heat simmering in their depths.
‘You always look like that first thing in the morning?’ he asked, a little gravel in his voice, sounding so . . . put out.
And right then, she made an informed and very mature decision.
She was going to fuck with him.
‘Not until after I’ve masturbated, showered and smoothed oil all over my skin.’
His jaw clenched, and a muscle in his cheek ticked.
Hiding a smile, she took a sip of her tea. He was way too serious. ‘Can I help you with something?’
He planted his feet. ‘We should talk.’ A firm statement littered with intent.
‘Okay.’ Was Emberlyn going to invite him in? Uh, no. Werewolf social ‘rules’ were different; you had to be careful to speak their language.
You didn’t let them into your home. You didn’t feed them. You didn’t let them leave their possessions in your house. Otherwise, you basically indicated that they could have rights where you were concerned if they wanted to claim them. And if you gave an inch with a werewolf, they’d take a mile.
He crossed his arms over his packed-with-muscle chest. ‘First of all, I’ve got to know if you’re going to contest the will and try to claim the land.’
‘Nope.’
‘Just nope?’
She propped her hip against the doorjamb. ‘Just nope.’
He narrowed his eyes, skeptical. ‘Why not?’
‘One, I don’t need it. Two, it rightfully belongs to you anyway. Three, I wouldn’t disrespect my grandmother’s last wishes. Though you should probably be aware that she only left it to you as part of a strategy.’
‘Strategy?’
‘She left me a note, making it clear she’d wanted me to have the manor. Partly because she knew I was the only Vautier who wouldn’t sell it. She also knew I’d be subsequently facing all sorts of problems. You owning most of the land beside the manor limits those problems for me.’
He grunted. ‘I don’t care why she did it so long as I get to keep possession of the land.’
‘As I said, I have no interest in taking it from you. But there are those who’ll try,’ Emberlyn warned.
He dismissed that with a look, evidently unconcerned. ‘If that happens, I’ll deal with it.’
Emberlyn didn’t doubt it. He was a wolf who knew how to get shit done. The kind you’d look at and think, He could handle it. Given all he’d endured and pushed through, you’d likely be right.
He took two smooth steps forward, making her pulse hiccup. ‘As for another reason I’m here . . . you’re probably not aware of this, but I had an arrangement with your grandmother.’
‘An arrangement?’
‘She made a certain elixir for me on a monthly basis.’
Emberlyn felt her head twitch to the side. ‘What sort of elixir?’
‘The sort that aids a werewolf in fighting the pull of the moon, but higher strength than that of typical potions.’
‘Ah.’ Full moons called to werewolves; called to them to shift, run, mate. Some would spend time as a wolf. Some would spend the night fucking. Some would do a little of both.
The problem? It was very easy for werewolves to change into their In-between forms on full moons. Potions could help them fight it so they could instead enjoy the evening.
While all werewolves were susceptible to its pull, it was far worse for Ripper. At the age of eleven, he’d done as Michael had – he’d turned Rabid and fled to Bloodhill. He’d also done what Michael hadn’t done.
He’d come back.
Mere days after his fifteenth birthday, he’d stumbled into town while in a Rabid state. Members of his clan had captured him and – with the help of magick – snapped him out of it. No one had expected him to be himself again, though.
Anyone who spent four years or more like that were ‘lost’. They breathed, they ate, they slept. But they were an echo of the person they’d once been.
Not Ripper.
Although he’d come back from that Rabid state, he wasn’t the same. He’d always been lethal and rough around the edges. But never so stoic and serious; never humming with the uncivilized air he now had.
Emberlyn pushed off the doorjamb. ‘What did Millicent insist on in return?’
‘My blood to use in her spells.’
Made sense. The blood of an Alpha werewolf, particularly one from Lupin’s line, would be potent.
‘She told me that if anything ever happened to her I should go to you; that you could recreate the elixir. She said the ritual can be found in her book of shadows.’
Huh. Millicent hadn’t mentioned any of this to Emberlyn.
‘I’m fine with making the elixir available for you.
But I don’t want your blood in return. Just the same five-dollar fee as that of a standard-strength elixir.
’ It wouldn’t require additional ingredients, just stronger magick. ‘That work for you?’
He eyed her intently for several moments. ‘It works.’
‘Do you have an elixir for tonight?’ There’d be a full moon later.
He gave a curt nod. ‘I have one left.’
‘Come to me some time before the next full moon and I’ll make you more.’ Emberlyn expected him to leave then. He didn’t. He lingered. And something in his expression told her . . . ‘You have a question.’
‘More of a proposal, really.’ He swiped his tongue over his front teeth. ‘We don’t know each other well and we’ve never been anything close to friends, but I don’t see why we can’t be allies.’
Surprise fluttered in her chest. ‘You don’t need me as an ally. Politically speaking, I don’t bring a lot to the table.’ She wouldn’t have thought that he’d want to associate with any witch beyond a buyer-customer thing in any case.
‘But we both have the same enemies right now, don’t we?’