Chapter Twenty-Five
Bridget Winslow
A Place to Belong
Salem Court taught me a thousand ways to break a body, and to heal one.
Pretty sure they never expected me to use my magick to heal wolves, though.
Yet here I am, hands steady, channeling healing magick into the jagged claw marks across a young wolf’s shoulder.
He’s already healing on his own decently quickly, but the spell pushes it even faster.
“Good job,” Rachel murmurs beside me, her own magick weaving with mine. The wound knits closed under our combined power, angry red fading to pink, then to smooth skin. Only a faint silver line remains.
The makeshift infirmary we’ve set up in Aiden’s living room smells of blood and antiseptic. Injured wolves sprawl across couches and chairs, their wounds a mix of claw marks, bites, and ugly gashes. Body removal teams work in the field beyond the windows, but I keep my focus on what I can fix.
“You’re quite the natural at healing spells,” Rachel says as I move to the next patient, who has a deep cut on his ankle. My magick settles into the wound, knitting flesh together.
“The Mathairs didn’t teach everyone healing spells.” I flex my fingers. “But because of my training I needed to be able to heal myself.”
A flash of anger crosses Rachel’s face, there and gone. “I know it wasn’t your choice. I just…really…”
I manage a small smile. “I know. And even though I’m grateful for the magick skills they taught me, I wish it’d been for different reasons and under different circumstances.”
She nods.
Everything I’ve been told my whole life is coming apart at the seams. I’d never seen a werewolf before coming here. Never seen a male witch. Male babies are not allowed to live.
My mind drifts and I’m fourteen again, watching from the shadows as a young witch sobs, cradling her newborn son.
“Please,” she begs Elsa. “Just let me hold him a little longer.”
“You know the rules,” Elsa says, her voice gentle in a way that makes my stomach turn. “Male witches are dangerous. Unstable. This is kinder than letting him grow up to become a monster. He’ll hurt you. Turn on all of us. Kill us.”
The mother’s screams echo through the halls as they take her baby. I press myself deeper into the alcove, hands clamped over my mouth to stay silent. That night, Elsa finds me in the training yard, attacking a practice dummy with blind fury.
“It bothers you,” she says. Not a question.
“It’s cruel,” I whisper, expecting punishment for my doubt.
Instead, she pulls me close, stroking my hair like my own mother used to. “The cruelest choices are often the most necessary, little dove. Remember that. The Court protects us all, even when it hurts.”
I believed her then. Buried my doubts beneath layers of duty and devotion. But now—I wonder how many other lies I was taught to swallow. I shake off the memory and move quickly to the next person that needs my help.
Children peek out from behind furniture, waiting for their fathers or brothers to be patched up, their eyes wide as they watch me make wounds disappear one by one.
One little girl waves shyly when I glance her way. The simple gesture makes my throat tight. My training never prepared me for this—for small kindnesses, for the way helping others could fill some empty space inside me I never knew existed.
With the injured tended, we move back outside into the afternoon sun, continuing to erase the evidence of Oliver’s attack.
Body removal teams have already cleared the field, leaving only dark stains in the grass to mark where his wolves fell.
There were a few injuries, but no casualties on our side.
I try not to look at those stains too long. Or think about how it could’ve been different. Instead, I focus on what I can fix. On the way these people—my people now, though that thought still feels strange—work together to rebuild.
“Bridget.” Emma speaks from behind me. I turn and she motions me over. “A word?”
I follow her a few steps away, my heart pounding. But Emma just takes my hands in hers, her touch surprisingly warm.
“Thank you,” she says simply. “For choosing differently than they taught you. For helping protect my family.”
“I’m sorry they sent me after your mother. After you.”
“You’re not them.” Her hands squeeze mine. “And now you never have to be,” she says, then heads back over to stand next to her mate, who’s wearing only a pair of jeans.
The simple truth of Emma’s words hits me like a physical blow, cracking something open inside my chest. For years, I’d carried the weight of what I was trained to be—a weapon, a hunter, a perfect soldier of Salem Court.
But here, among these people who should hate me most, I’ve found something I never knew to look for—forgiveness. Not just from Emma, but from myself.
I watch her walk away, my fingers still tingling from her touch. The daughter of the woman I was sent to destroy just gave me permission to become someone new. The magnitude of that gift makes my eyes burn.
Aiden’s voice cuts through the hum in my mind. “Everything is under control for now. Oliver is no longer a threat, but there’s likely more problems on the way.”
The Delta Team. Right.
“I want everyone to get some rest.” His tone carries that strange alpha authority that makes my spine straighten automatically.
“That includes you two.” He looks pointedly at Bast, who’s appeared at my side, then at me.
“Bridget, we’ll need your help. My contacts say your friends will likely be here tomorrow afternoon at the earliest.”
Not my friends.
Bast’s hand finds the small of my back and the tension inside me evaporates instantly. “They’ve got this. Let’s go get cleaned up.”
I glance at his bare chest and the low-riding gray sweatpants he’s sporting and smile.
“What?”
“You wolves go through a lot of clothes. You know that.”
He barks out a laugh and shakes his head. “It’s a regular problem, yes.”
Looking around, I see others already heading out—Liam and Gen are walking to their truck, Dave’s people organizing watch rotations. Even Rachel and Lila are packing up their bags.
I let Bast guide me to his truck. What happens tomorrow to all these people if I can’t figure out a way to help them take down the most highly trained team of witches Salem Court has ever created? What happens to Bast? To me? To my sister?
A small whimper escapes my throat and I choke back a sob.
“Hey there.” Bast tucks me into the passenger seat of his truck and snaps the seat belt in place.
“One problem at a time, Bridget. We got through this one. We’re going to take those witches down and then we’re going to go get your sister.
” He looks up into my eyes with those beautiful soulful irises and my heart melts. “I give you my word.”
I manage a half smile for him. I nod.
The drive home stretches, endless, every bump in the road making my skin spark where it brushes against Bast’s arm on the console. My fingers drum against my thigh. The air in the truck grows thick, heavy. All I can smell is him. And it’s intoxicating.
The cabin comes into view and my heart pounds against my ribs. Bast’s knuckles whiten on the steering wheel. He kills the engine and I’m out of my seat before the truck stops rocking on its shocks.
His hands catch my waist as I round the hood. One step and his fingers slide up my sides, guiding me backward until cedar planks press against my shoulders. Pine needles crunch beneath our feet.
My fingers trace the planes of his chest, memorizing warm skin and hard muscle. His breath catches. The sound draws my eyes to his mouth, to the way his tongue darts out to wet his lips.
He moves closer, crowding me harder against the wall. The rough wood catches at my shirt, scraping tender skin beneath. But I don’t care. Can’t care about anything but the way his thumbs stroke my hip bones through my jeans.
“Bridget.” My name rumbles through his chest, low and fierce, like a promise carved in stone.
I rise on my toes, erasing the last breath of space between us. Our mouths meet and the world narrows to this—the soft press of his lips, the sharp nip of teeth, the way his tongue slides against mine. His fingers dig into my hips, pinning me in place as the kiss deepens, turns hungry.
The cedar against my back keeps me grounded as everything else spins away. There’s only this. Only us. Only the way his mouth claims mine like he could drink my soul.
I arch against him, nails scraping down his bare chest. A growl vibrates through him, straight to my core.
“Bast—”
A moan escapes me as his mouth trails down my neck, teeth grazing that sensitive spot below my ear. His hands slide lower, gripping my thighs, and suddenly I’m lifted. My legs wrap around his waist instinctively. The new position presses us together everywhere, making my breath stutter.
“Need to get you inside.” His voice is rough, primitive. The words vibrate against my throat where his mouth works. His stubble scrapes deliciously against my sensitive skin.
“Then move,” I gasp, tangling my fingers in his hair and tugging until his mouth finds mine again.
We barely make it through the door. My shoulder clips the frame, but the flash of pain only makes everything sharper, more real. Broken pieces of wood crunch under his bare feet as he carries me deeper into the cabin.
His grip tightens, and I roll my hips against him, drawing another growl from deep in his chest. My teeth catch his lower lip, tugging until his eyes flash that molten gold that makes heat pool low in my belly.
His response is a searing kiss that steals my breath.
We crash into the wall beside the destroyed bedroom doorway.
The impact knocks a picture frame to the floor.
The glass shatters, but neither of us flinch.
His hands are everywhere—sliding under my shirt, mapping my ribs, claiming every inch of skin he can reach.