Chapter Two
Bast O’Connor
Fists and Funeral Pyres
I burst out of the barn. The slightly illegal boxing match I just won has my blood singing with adrenaline.
The scent of fear and sweat from the humans inside still fills my nostrils—intoxicating and distracting.
I breathe deep, savoring the distraction from the pit where my feelings have been dwelling lately.
My split lip throbs, and I run my tongue over it, relishing the coppery taste of my own blood.
That’s when his scent hits me—Liam.
I whip my head around, a growl rumbling low in my throat before I can stop it. He’s leaning against his truck, arms crossed, face set in that particular blend of disappointment and concern that only an older brother can master. My hackles rise instinctively.
“Enjoyed that?” Liam’s voice carries across the yard, dripping with sarcasm.
I spit a glob of blood onto the dusty ground. “What are you doing here?” The words come out as more of a snarl than I intend.
Liam’s eyes narrow, and I catch a whiff of his own anger. “You forgot, didn’t you? Meredith’s funeral is today.”
The name hits me like a rival’s claws to the gut. Meredith—the witch we all considered a favorite aunt. Lost. Gone. She saved our lives, but she’s just another reminder of why I’m out here, letting the beast loose.
I force my lips into a smirk. “Sorry, I lost track,” I say, trying to goad him into hitting me. The fight helped, but fighting humans isn’t the same as taking a hit from another Moonbound wolf.
My skin crawls with unspent energy, my bones aching for the impact only preternatural strength can deliver.
A human’s punch might bruise, but a wolf’s blow could break something—and right now, that’s exactly what I need.
The pain would ground me, give my restless wolf something to focus on besides the numbing grief of losing a brother and not being able to do a damn thing about it.
Liam pushes off his truck, taking a step toward me.
He’s not going to take the bait and fight me for acting like an ass.
“This isn’t what Jackson would have wanted, Bast. He’d be ashamed to see you like this.”
The mention of our dead brother’s name ignites a fire in my chest. My vision blurs red at the edges, the wolf surging forward with a roar of grief and rage. Low blow!
“Fuck off, Liam.” I bare my teeth. My wolf threatens to emerge, itching to lash out, to make someone—anyone—hurt as much as I do. “You don’t know shit about what Jackson would want. He’s dead, remember?”
The words hang in the air between us, sharp and poisonous. Part of me—the human part—recoils at the cruelty. But the wolf…the wolf just wants to howl its pain to the sky. The wolf wants to paint the mountain with the blood of the people who killed my brother and Meredith.
The silence stretches between us. Liam opens his mouth, probably to lecture me some more, but I cut him off.
“Save it.” I turn away from him. “I’ll meet you at the Court.”
Liam’s gaze bores into my back as I stalk toward my beat-up truck.
Part of me wants to turn around, to apologize, to howl out my pain alongside my brother.
But the wolf is too close to the surface, too raw.
I need space. It’s not like I don’t recognize that these deaths hurt him too, but at least he has his mate now.
“Don’t be late, Bast,” Liam calls out as I yank open the truck’s door.
I don’t respond, just rev the engine and peel out of the makeshift parking lot, spraying gravel like bullets from an automatic rifle.
The mountain roads twist and turn as I head toward town. The steering wheel creaks under my grip, the wolf still simmering beneath my skin. But by the time the Welcome to White Fork sign comes into view, my breathing has finally steadied.
White Fork is a postcard-perfect little Colorado mountain town, all rustic charm and tourist-trap quaintness. As I cruise down Main Street, there’s an extra flurry of activity. Colorful banners flutter in the crisp mountain breeze, proclaiming 20th Annual Renaissance Faire in flowing script.
Despite everything, I feel the corner of my mouth twitch upward.
The whole town goes nuts for this thing—Jackson and I were no exception.
We’d go all out with our pirate getups, hamming it up in fake sword fights for the kids.
For a second, I can almost hear us trash-talking each other, feeling the sun on my face as we playacted like idiots.
It’s a small bright spot in all this darkness, yanking me back to the good times instead of drowning in what I’ve lost. Doesn’t make it hurt less, but it’s something to hold onto when everything else feels like it’s falling apart.
Outside the Rusty Nail Saloon, a group of men are constructing the arena.
And farther down the street, Mrs. Henderson is arranging an elaborate window display of “medieval” costumes in her fabric shop.
Even from here, I can see that most of them are about as historically accurate as a motorcycle at a jousting tournament.
But hell, the tourists eat it up every year.
As I idle at a stop sign, a group of giggling teenagers crosses in front of me, arms filled with fake swords and shields. One of them, a gangly kid with a mop of red hair, catches my eye and freezes like a deer in headlights.
Right. I probably look like hell, fresh from the fight. Even with the faster healing ability my wolf gives me, my bruises won’t be gone until later tonight.
I force my face into what I hope is a neutral expression and give the kid a nod. He scurries across the street, joining his friends. They shoot nervous glances over their shoulders every few seconds as if making sure I haven’t suddenly decided to give chase.
Once the kids disappear around a corner, a strange sensation washes over me. It’s like an itch I can’t scratch, a restlessness that sets my wolf on edge. My nostrils flare, trying to catch a scent that isn’t there. What the hell?
Something feels off, but I can’t put my finger on it. It’s as if the air itself has changed, charged with an energy I’ve never felt before. My wolf paces beneath my skin, agitated and alert.
For a wild moment, I consider pulling over, drawn by an inexplicable urge to prowl the streets of White Fork. To search for…what? I shake my head, trying to clear it.
As I pass the edge of town, leaving the cheerful preparations behind, there’s this nagging feeling that I’m driving away from more than just White Fork. From something important, something vital. My wolf whines, a sound so pitiful it startles me.
But the coven waits, and with it, a funeral I’m not ready to face. I press down on the accelerator, trying to outrun this strange, hollow ache in my chest. Whatever’s happening back there in White Fork, it’ll have to wait. I’ve got ghosts to confront first.
The familiar curves of the road leading to the O’Connor Ranch appear, and my grip on the steering wheel loosens. The anger that’s been fueling me starts to ebb, leaving a hollow ache in its wake. I hang a right at the fork, heading toward my cabin instead of the main house.
Meredith’s funeral. The thought lands like a body blow, knocking the wind out of me.
Suddenly I’m not the big bad wolf anymore.
I’m just a guy who’s lost too much, about to say goodbye to someone else he cared about.
No way I’m showing up looking—and smelling—like I just crawled out of a fight ring. She deserves better than that.
I swallow hard against the lump forming in my throat. It would be easier to stay angry, to let the wolf’s rage consume everything. But as I pull up to my cabin, I feel the fight drain out of me, leaving only grief in its wake.
Twenty minutes later, I’m showered and changed, the bruises on my face already fading to a sickly yellow. Fresh jeans. My nice boots. A crisp button-up shirt and my black Stetson. This is the best I’ve got right now.
The drive to the Banfield Court Coven passes in a haze, my stomach churning with a toxic mix of anxiety and dread. I park my truck alongside the others and climb out.
The words of the entrance spell are thick on my tongue as I stand before the circle of white stones. I speak them and then step inside, the scent of sage and lavender washing over me. My eyes are drawn to the waiting pyre, its presence both inevitable and impossible to accept.
The crowd comes into focus slowly, a sea of somber faces I’ve known my whole life.
Some nod in acknowledgment, others avert their gaze.
I feel exposed, raw, like my skin’s been peeled back and every emotion is on display.
Part of me wants to retreat, to run back to my cabin or find another fight and punch something until I can’t feel… anything. But I owe Meredith this.
My family is already gathered, everyone except Jackson. I still look for his face. I forget he’s not going to be there for a half a second before the grief slams into me like a bull ramming a rodeo gate.
The pyre looms in the center of the field, holding Meredith’s white-shrouded form.
I take a deep breath, steel myself, and move to join the group.
Liam catches my eye as I approach. Gen stands at his side. His mate’s presence seems to soften the hard edges of his grief, and for a moment, I feel a pang of envy so sharp it takes my breath away.
I push it down, nodding to them both as I take my place.
Aiden, our alpha and cousin, stands tall and proud, but I can see the weight of responsibility heavy on his shoulders.
This isn’t just a funeral—it’s a political minefield.
The death of Meredith has far-reaching consequences for this coven.
She was their leader—their mother superior in a way.
The transition won’t be easy. And her daughter is still missing.