Chapter 11 - Selene
I wake up sore, but warm—too warm. I’m tangled in sheets that smell of him, and it takes a few moments of blinking up at an unfamiliar ceiling to work out where I am and why my body hurts.
It all comes back to me at once, and I groan and drag the blanket up over my face as if I can somehow undo it all by not looking at the world.
Overheating, I push the blanket off again and find reality hasn’t changed at all. Last night happened. The chess game happened, and the way he looked at me across the board happened, and then he got up and walked towards me, and instead of running…I kissed him.
Everything that happened after that happened because I kissed him. And a lot happened after that, repeatedly. And he didn’t have to talk me into any of it; in fact, I begged him for more.
I reach out and find his side of the bed is cold and long empty. He’s let me sleep and gone off to do whatever it is that alphas of rogue settlements do before the sun is even properly up. Maybe it’s a wolf thing; witches like their sleep. I’m just grateful I don’t have to face him straight away.
I sit up slowly because my muscles protest and take stock.
I ache in places I’d never given much thought to until yesterday.
I should be appalled with myself, and part of me is.
But underneath that, there’s a low hum of residual pleasure that would quite happily see him walk back in and start all over again.
And that is what gives me the most pause, far more than the ache between my legs.
There’s no point pretending, at least not in the privacy of my own head.
I wanted him, I still do. Which is so much worse.
He didn’t have to coerce me in the end; curiosity got the better of me.
My coven spent my whole life teaching me to be careful of men, alphas like him, and what do I do?
I kiss him. I let him take my virginity and use my body so thoroughly that I barely knew my own name.
It was everything I was supposed to resist, and yet, after a few weeks in his company, the inside jokes that built, his annoyingly attractive face, and frankly mesmerizing body, I folded.
I didn’t just fold; I instigated. And now I’m sitting in this enormous bed feeling every single ramification.
Except one.
I was willing, and yet I don’t think the magic did anything. There was no blinding moment where his wolf pulled the magic from me, or whatever is supposed to happen—the actual mechanics of it were never really taught. Just that sex activates the bond magic. But I’d know if it happened, surely?
I didn’t want him to have it, so perhaps I kept it locked down.
I search within myself for some kind of change in my bond magic, but all I feel is that satisfied warm glow that intermingles with the soreness. I don’t want to examine that too closely, so I don’t examine anything.
I drag myself out of bed and peer out into the hall; it’s empty, as is the house.
I go to my room and dress in the most comfortable pants and sweater I can find, splash water on my face, and run through my routine to try and cover the fact that I look like I’ve been thoroughly ravaged.
By the time Tom knocks at the door, I think I’ve almost put my dignity back together.
I wait for him to unlock the door, as I’m still not trusted with the keys—understandable, given the circumstances, but for some reason, it grates a little more this morning in a way it hasn’t before.
Tom greets me with a smile and something else behind his eyes.
I know enough about wolves to know they can scent all sorts of things, and I hope he’s not scenting Ronan all over me.
I brush the thought away; his scent must be all over the house. I’m just being paranoid.
If he does notice anything, he’s far too nice to say anything about it.
“Morning,” he says. “I saw Emma on the way up; she says she has a busy day for you.”
“Then we’d better not keep her,” I say, and step out into the cold, grateful just to have something to do today so I don’t have to keep replaying last night in my head and wondering why he ran off this morning.
Did he regret it? I’m the one who’s supposed to regret it.
One thing I’ve realized I can rely on Tom for is his ability to deliver an undemanding stream of conversation that requires very little input from me.
He keeps it up the entire way to the clinic with topics ranging from the weather turning, local gossip about a bad batch of buns from the bakery that caused a stir, and a long, fond digression about his wife’s cooking and his obvious adoration for her memory that makes a lump form in my throat.
By the time we reach the clinic, I almost feel normal, or whatever that means.
The clinic is warm and busy as we walk in, and the smell of antiseptic and herbs hits me immediately.
Emma puts me to work right away while Tom makes himself busy in the small staff kitchen as usual, making coffee.
I suspect he’s grown to quite like this assignment as he spends most of the day chatting with the patients, and he’s so personable that it makes me wonder if he wouldn’t be better off exploring a different career than that of a guard.
I like being busy, and it’s just what I need today.
I notice Emma watching me, but she doesn’t say anything for a while, just leaves me be. I know she misses nothing, and eventually, as I’m stacking shelves with a new influx of supplies, she comes over, and I know she’s watching me carefully.
“How’s it going at the alpha’s house?” she asks, nonchalant, but I feel like she already knows the answer.
I feel my face going hot, and I try to fight it. “He just doesn’t trust me not to run, that’s it.”
“Of course,” she chuckles. “That’ll be why he’s buying all the things from the bakery, and Lottie has been told to stock the bathroom with all sorts of nice things that I doubt Ronan has ever had use for, and why his scent is wrapped around you. Because he doesn’t trust you.”
I open and close my mouth when I can’t quite find the right answer. It’s clear Emma is amused and on a roll.
“He could have put you anywhere,” she continues. “Locked room, a guard far more menacing than dear Tom, a miserable life. And yet here we are. A girl might wonder what that means.”
“A girl might be better off not wondering,” I say, and it feels honest.
“Mmm.” She smiles. “Safer, that. Definitely.”
A couple of wolves pass through, and I hear Dax talking to them in the background, laughing at something Tom says.
For a moment, Emma falls silent, and I wonder if she’s done.
I hope she’s done, because I’m on the verge of saying too much, and I need to remember that as much as I like these people, I am a hostage here, and they are loyal to Ronan. Am I a fool to trust them?
The voices fade, and Emma leans closer. “You know my story, how Ronan helped me. He has his roughness, and his desire for revenge is plain to see. But he’s a good man, and I don’t see the villain that many do—outsiders, anyway. He gave me all this and the chance to do good. He does good here.”
“I don’t think he’s a villain,” I say, and the truth feels dangerous. “I should; he’s been a villain to me. But I understand that’s not who he is to you and everyone here.”
“No.” Emma gives me a long look that sees a lot more than I intended. “No, I don’t suppose you do. That’s the problem with him, isn’t it? He’s a beautiful contradiction.”
I look up, surprised at the use of the word beautiful, and see humor dancing in her eyes because she clearly knows he’s hot as hell.
I have no words, so I just laugh. It begins quietly, but then Emma joins in, and I can’t help it; the laughter comes louder, and soon we’re cackling.
It feels like stress relief, and by the time she pats me on the shoulder and walks away, leaving me to calm down, I feel better than I have all day.
Around midday, a small girl is brought in from the school, clutching a bad cut on her knee and wailing as though the world has ended.
I clean it up and find one of the sweets that Emma keeps in the jar for exactly this situation.
She stops crying immediately and informs me that I’m her favorite witch—I briefly wonder how she knew I was a witch and assume even her baby wolf can tell I’m different.
Other. Emma stands back, watching the whole exchange.
“They take to you,” she says once the girl has skipped back out with her teacher, “the little ones.”
“I’m a soft touch,” I reply. “I looked after some young ones in my coven.”
“You miss them?” Emma says gently.
I nod, feeling the sting of tears that I will never let fall. “Yes, they must be so worried.”
Emma’s face is full of sympathy, and I have to look away. “You’re kind,” Emma says. “That’s why the little ones like you. I’m sure you’ll get to talk to your coven soon, and they’ll be waiting.”
I don’t know what to say to that, so I say nothing, and as we go back to work, I let the simple rhythm of the day settle me.
But the longer I sit in it, the heavier it feels, because I’m so conflicted; I’m so fond of all of them, Emma, Tom, Dax…
Bram, even though he’s avoided me since the escape, and that only makes me more determined to win him over again.
And I shouldn’t care. I shouldn’t care that the guard who kept me locked in that cabin is cross with me for escaping.
But I see how nice they all are—lost and rough around the edges, but damn nice for it.
Is Ronan nice? No. Nice is not a word I’d ever use for him.
But I can’t forget about all the innocent people on the island who are probably, in the main, also very nice.
And probably have no idea that Ronan is standing on the shore waiting to strike.
I risked giving him my bond magic last night and didn’t think about them; I only thought of myself.
And in the cold light of day, that suddenly feels shameful.
By the time Tom walks me back up the hill, and the light is going, my nerve goes with it, because I know he’ll be there, and I feel more conflicted now than I did when I woke up.
He’s standing at the stove when I walk in, which makes me stop dead in the doorway. His sleeves are rolled up, his hair ruffled, the muscles in his back and arms flex with every movement as he stirs something that smells a lot like proper food.
“You cook now?” I say.
“Don’t sound so surprised,” he replies, not turning around. “You’ve fed me all week, so it seems only right I return the favor. I heard you’ve had a busy day.”
It shouldn’t surprise me that he knows what I’ve been up to, but it still lands. I’d been braced for a different Ronan—perhaps victorious, smug, or regretful, not this. This feels too domestic and unfamiliar for him. I’m not sure I have the defenses for this.
I walk over as he sets a bowl down for me on the island. It’s some kind of stew, dark and rich, and far better than anything I’ve made all week.
“Eat,” he says, taking a seat, too. “Apparently, you hardly ate at the clinic at all. Emma told me.”
I roll my eyes. “Emma should mind her business.”
He smirks. “Emma minds everyone’s business. It’s why she’s so good at what she does.”
I can’t argue with that, so I do as I’m told and eat. It’s so good I can’t help but tell him, even if I didn’t intend to heap praise on him when I should be more wary. Something in his expression shifts when I do, as though it matters more than it should.
“My mother’s recipe,” he says when I ask about it. “More or less. I’ve had to guess at half of it, but I think it’s about right.”
The statement hangs for a moment, and I realize he might have just given away a piece of himself he didn’t mean to.
I know how that feels, so I cover it by telling him about the clinic, the new supplies, the little girl who came in with a scraped knee, and we finish the rest of the meal like two ordinary people who didn’t spend last night tangled up in one another, and neither of us mentions it even though the knowledge of what we did seems to fill the entire room.
“You’re a bit quiet,” he says when the conversation has trailed off.
“I’m always quiet when I’m plotting your downfall,” I reply, and it’s out before I can stop it. He laughs, and it’s real; it changes his whole face, and I have to look away because he looks even more handsome and about a decade younger when he laughs.
“There she is,” he says.
“I haven’t gone anywhere.” I retort.
“No, you’re right here,” he says, and the way he says it makes the air suddenly feel too thin. For a moment, neither of us moves, and I can hear my own heart racing. And I know he can hear it, too.
He could close the distance between us. I know he’s thinking about it.
Hell, I’m thinking about it. In fact, my body is already thrumming with anticipation, waiting for my brain to catch up.
But my brain knows we got away with something last night.
I came out unscathed, and I don’t think the bond magic worked. I can’t risk that again.
I push the chair back, break the spell, and quickly start washing up.
I’ve no idea if he takes the hint or is simply biding his time, but he gives me the space I put out there all evening, and when I disappear into my room later with a book, he doesn’t follow, even though I hear him pace the hallway.
I won’t beat myself up for wanting him, but I won’t give him his war. That much, the bond magic, is still within my control. And I hold on to it through the night when, deep down, I wish I were holding on to him.