Chapter 21
ROWAN
Clothes have never seemed less important than they do right now as Archie discusses the fine art of not panicking before getting magically branded with me. My palms won’t stop sweating. My heart keeps trying to crawl up my throat. And my stomach is currently auditioning for a gymnastics team.
But sure. I’m totally fine. Everything’s great.
Archie, who’s perched on my pillow like a tiny judgmental king, seems unbothered by my impending doom. Cade should be here giving me a pep talk, but he was dragged back into pack business—something he’s slipped into so naturally that it’s both impressive and slightly annoying.
Yes, I’ve somehow grown so attached to this man that the thought of hours without him grates on my patience, but I’m hoping that’s short-lived. I can still feel Cade’s presence through the bond, warm and steady. And supposedly, once we complete the bond—via biting—it gets even stronger.
And look, I’m trying to be chill about it, but there’s no universe where “please sink your teeth into me to symbolize eternal devotion” sounds normal.
Of course, Wolf thinks it’s romantic.
Human-raised-me thinks I’m one step away from starring in a mating documentary.
But that’s a stressor for later.
“I’m going to find Stephanie,” I declare, swinging my legs off the bed. “She needs to tell the witch I’ve changed my mind. I don’t want a tattoo. Or a brand. Or magical fire etched into my skin. Whatever version she’s bringing… Just no.”
Archie’s chuckle is light, warm, and so painfully familiar that my chest aches. There were too many days without that sound, and I don’t think I’ll ever take it for granted again.
“You’re going to be fine,” he assures me, stretching his little paws before settling in again. “The pain will be short-lived, and you’ll be thankful for it many times in the future.”
I wince aggressively. “I’m not convinced I’m supposed to be grateful for something described as a branding. You framed that horribly, by the way.”
Archie rolls his eyes so hard I hear it in my soul. “That is not how I described it. You’re being dramatic.”
“Says the animal who tried to get stuck in a vending machine so I wouldn’t make it to NightShade,” I toss back at him with a saucy grin.
“One has nothing to do with the other,” he assures me.
I scoop him up, pulling him into a cuddle. He pretends to resist but doesn’t actually fight. His fur is soft beneath my hands, warm and grounding. The kind of comfort that I’ve been starving for.
“I’ve missed you,” I murmur into his neck. “Maybe more than anyone else. But don’t tell the others.”
His cold nose nudges my cheek. “Trust me,” he whispers dryly, “I value my life too much to repeat that. At least in front of Cade.”
I pull back just enough to inspect him. His eyes are bright again, sharp and mischievous instead of the dull glassiness they’d carried once he realized I was okay and was able to calm.
His fur fluffs beneath my fingers the moment I run my hand up his back, a sure sign he’s feeling smug and dramatic, which is normal for him. Blessedly normal.
“You’re really okay?” I ask quietly.
Archie flicks his tail with the offended air of a Victorian widow. “Rowan. I slept for two days straight. You have since fed me, bathed me, and snuggled me to near death this afternoon. I am, tragically, alive.”
“Tragically?”
“Well,” he sniffs, “I did spend two entire weeks stomping around the wilderness like Cujo. One could argue I deserve a medal. Or at the very least, an expensive treat. Something jerky-adjacent.”
I grin, brushing a thumb behind his ear. “I’m pretty sure I still have some of your chicken sticks in my bag.”
He hisses and tries to wiggle out of my hold. “You’ve been holding out on me.”
“Yes, I’d say you’re perfectly normal once again.” I get up to open the closet. “I’m happy to feed the beast.”
“Better than normal,” he preens, following me. “Back to being your superior protector. Cade might not like it, but I’ve held that title for over sixteen years. He can take that away from me over my dead body.”
A laugh bursts out of me—quiet but genuine. “Good. Because I don’t know what I’d do without you. But just to be sure, let’s not fill him in on that either, okay?”
His gaze softens—only a fraction, because he’s still Archie. “What about you? You managed well enough in that castle, didn’t you?”
“Better than you’d expect,” I say as I walk into the closet and find my old duffel bag tucked into the corner.
“You’d have been proud of how I pushed Malrik’s buttons.
Any thought of filtering myself was only a dream he wished for.
” I only have to dig for a few seconds to find what I’m looking for.
“Though things only got better once you came barreling into that cave like a furry battering ram.”
He lifts his chin proudly. “I do enjoy my dramatic entrances.”
I hold up his bag of treats, and the joy I get seeing him stand on his back legs with his front paws held at his chest makes me feel like I’ve just been transported back to Montana, to the days when I didn’t know this fur-monster could talk and explode in size.
“I love you, Archibald,” I say as I hand him one of the sticks.
His tiny claws briefly grip my finger. “And I love you.”
Before I can get too mushy, a firm knock sounds at the door.
Archie stiffens—not in alarm, but mild annoyance that his snack time has likely been interrupted.
“It’s Cade,” I murmur, already sensing his increasingly familiar warmth through the bond.
The door opens a breath later, and Cade steps inside, gaze softening the instant it lands on me.
“She’s here,” he says quietly.
My stomach drops. “The witch?”
He nods once. “She’s set up downstairs. Said she’s ready whenever you are.”
Archie pats my shoe with his tiny paw. “As long as you don’t bite her, I’m sure you’ll be just fine. Try not to worry.”
I groan. “This is going to be awful, isn’t it?”
Cade’s mouth twitches. “I’ll be right by your side. Arm and all.”
I blink. Hard. “Did…did you just make a joke?”
His expression remains stoic, but his eyes betray him with a glint of wicked amusement. “You’ll never prove it.”
“Oh gods,” I whisper dramatically. “Cade Westin has humor. The sky is falling. The packs are doomed. Someone alert the council.”
A low rumble of laughter rolls out of him, warm and quiet and aimed entirely at me. It hits me somewhere deep—somewhere still bruised but healing.
And somehow, that makes it a little easier to breathe.
Cade offers me his arm—which I promptly call the sacrificial limb—as we head downstairs, and I try not to visibly drag my heels.
The manor is quiet in that eerie NightShade way, where every creak sounds like a ghost with opinions.
I keep waiting for it to come to life like The Keep, but the walls never talk to me here.
A fact I should be grateful for, but I guess maybe I did get a little Stockholm-y.
Archie perches on my shoulder like a furry guardian angel who absolutely will judge me if I scream.
We reach the sitting room, and the witch is already there.
She’s older—maybe late sixties—with iron-gray hair twisted into a bun.
Deep lines frame her mouth. Though not likely from smiling, but from decades of disapproving of everyone’s life choices based on the way she blankly stares at me now.
She wears layered shawls, mismatched rings, and an expression that suggests she was promised a simple job and is now regretting answering her own phone.
Her gaze flicks to me, sweeping slowly from head to toe, then shifts to Cade.
“Is she your wolf who needs branding?” she asks flatly.
“That would be me,” I answer, even though she wasn’t talking to me.
She sighs like I just told her I was here to return an item without a receipt. “Of course.” Her once-over is all judgment and zero kindness. “Try not to scream too loud. I’ll make it worse.”
Who is this woman, and why on earth would Cade select her for this job?
I might have wanted to run for the hills earlier, but now, I’m requesting a rocket to the moon, please.
Cade bristles. “She won’t scream.”
“Right,” the witch says, completely unimpressed, then mutters, “Foolish alpha.”
Before I can snap back, Iris comes breezing into the room like a chaotic lavender-scented storm with Liz trailing behind her.
“There you are!” Iris announces a little too loudly, looking at me before the rest of the room. Her gaze drops to the witch’s supplies. “Are you getting your shifter mark?”
“Unfortunately,” I mutter.
Iris’s lips thin, and she glares back at Liz. “I wish someone would have told me. I would have asked Jacob to help.”
I glance at Liz, wondering who Jacob is, but she just shrugs like she has no idea.
“Who’s Jacob?” I ask, not really because I feel like we need to know, but she’s been so off lately, I’m worried about her sanity.
She waves a hand like it’s obvious. “My warlock friend. He stayed here months ago. Lovely man, but terrible fashion sense.”
That at least sounds like the normal Iris.
“Right. Well, next time,” I promise her, which seems to ease the growing tension in the room.
“Are we here to waste my time, or can we get started now?” the witch demands with a curl of her upper lip.
“Do I at least get a proper introduction before you mutilate my body?” I stupidly ask.
Even Wolf winces. Yeah, you might want to shut up now.
“Mildred,” she declares with a sneer. “Now, remove your shirt.”
I look up at Cade, silently screaming at him. Why would you pick this witch?
He must sense my increasing panic because he leans forward and whispers, “I promise she’s the best.”
Lies. Every word. I’m sure of it.
I swallow hard and lift my shirt, thankful my bra is a plain black one and not that superhero one I bought to bring a little joy into my life before coming here.
Mildred—interesting name, by the way—points to the chaise next to her, and I take a seat before she decides to turn me into a squeaking piglet.