Chapter Eleven
Bridget Winslow
Marks of the Mated
I wake slowly, cocooned in warmth and comfort.
For a moment, I allow myself to bask in the peaceful feeling, my mind blissfully blank.
The bed is softer than I remember, the sheets silky against my skin.
The scent is unfamiliar but pleasant—a mix of pine and something distinctly masculine, earthy and intoxicating.
Reality seeps in gradually, like sunlight filtering through heavy curtains. This isn’t my room at the inn. The events of last night rush back, vivid and intense, and I feel a flush creep up my neck, warmth spreading across my cheeks. Bast. I spent the night with Bast.
I turn my head slightly, careful not to disturb him. He’s still asleep, his chest rising and falling in a steady rhythm. A stray lock of dark hair falls across his forehead, and I resist the urge to brush it away, to feel its softness between my fingers.
For a moment, my heart swells with an unfamiliar tenderness. But I quickly tamp it down. He’s not my boyfriend. I’m not staying in Colorado long. This was just…what? A mistake? A moment of weakness?
I need to focus. I have a mission to complete. Stay on task, Bridget.
Gently, I extricate myself from Bast’s embrace, sliding out of bed as quietly as possible. The cool air of the room raises goose bumps on my bare skin, and I shiver, suddenly missing the warmth of his body. I need to use the bathroom and freshen up before I figure out my next move.
I tiptoe across the room, the hardwood floor cool beneath my feet, locating the bathroom door. Once inside, I fumble for the light switch, wincing as the harsh fluorescent bulb flickers to life. Blinking against the sudden brightness, I use the toilet quickly and move to the sink.
The water runs cold over my hands and that’s when I see them. Intricate green tattoos encircle both my wrists. Celtic knots, complex and beautiful, shimmering slightly metallic in the bathroom’s unforgiving light. My heart lurches, then begins to hammer wildly against my ribs.
I jerk my hands from the water, twisting my wrists to examine the markings more closely.
I stumble backward, crashing into the wall behind me with a thunk.
Then slide to the floor, my legs suddenly unable to support me.
The room spins. The floor tiles are cold against my skin.
Where did these come from? I didn’t have them last night.
Did Bast do something to me while I slept?
My fingers scrabble at the markings, nails digging into flesh as if I could scrape them off. But there’s nothing—no raised skin, no ink, just an impossible, shimmering design that wasn’t there before. Bile rises in my throat. I lurch toward the toilet, retching, though nothing comes up.
“No, no, no,” I moan, rocking back and forth on the bathroom floor. The walls seem to close in, air growing thin. I gasp, lungs burning, unable to draw a full breath. What have I done?
My heart races as questions flood my mind, each one more terrifying than the last. The Mathairs warned us about intimacy with men.
But it’s only supposed to steal our magick for a few days.
And it does. I’ve slept with men before.
But it doesn’t do…this. I look down at the tattooed bracelets, my stomach churning.
Whatever this is.
I grab the counter and pull myself back to my feet. Taking a deep breath, I focus again on my reflection. Fuck. My eyes are still glowing green too. I shouldn’t have magick.
My hair is a tangled mess, evidence of last night’s very pleasant activities.
A memory of Bast’s fingers running through my hair flashes through my mind, and I push it away.
If my eyes are still glowing, maybe I still have magick?
I close my eyes, centering myself, and whisper the words of a simple grooming spell. It’s basic. Barely takes any energy.
But I shouldn’t be able to do it.
The familiar tingle of magick courses through me, but this time stronger than ever before. I gasp, gripping the sink as power crackles along my skin, setting every nerve alight. My eyes snap to the mirror, and I nearly scream.
My hair isn’t just styled—it’s a cascading masterpiece, each strand gleaming. The spell didn’t just style my dirty slept-on hair, it cleaned it and primped it to perfection.
“Impossible,” I choke out, voice strangled. This can’t be happening. I slept with a man. My magick should be gone, drained, leaving me powerless. Instead it’s roaring through me like a hurricane where there should be stillness.
Hysterical laughter bubbles up, bordering on sobs. I clap a hand over my mouth, muffling the sound. My wide, terrified eyes stare back at me from the mirror. What the actual hell is happening to me? And these fucking tattoos—
I slam my fist against the mirror, not even wincing as it cracks, spiderwebbing my reflection. “What did you do to me?” I snarl at my fractured image.
I need answers, and I need them now. And there’s only one person who might be able to provide them.
I take a deep breath, steeling myself for the confrontation ahead. With one last glance at my reflection—perfect hair, glowing green eyes, and mysterious tattoos—I turn and march back into the bedroom.
Bast is still asleep, his chest rising and falling in a steady rhythm.
For a moment, I allow myself to admire him—the strong lines of his jaw, the way his dark lashes fan against his cheeks.
He’s so handsome it almost hurts to look at him.
The desire to crawl back in bed and just be held by him crosses my mind. Then I shake myself. Focus, Bridget.
I don’t want his comfort. I want answers. “Bast!” I snarl. “Wake up. Now.”
He stirs, blinking groggily. A smile starts to form, but falters the second he sees my face. “Bridget, what’s—”
I thrust my wrists in his face, showcasing the strange markings. “What the hell did you do to me?”
To my shock, Bast doesn’t look surprised. He sits up, revealing identical tattoos on his own wrists. “I didn’t do anything,” he says, too calmly. Way too fucking calmly. “It’s a sign of our bond.”
“Bond?” I spit the word out like poison. “What are you talking about?”
“When wolves have sex with their fated mate, we get—”
“Wolves?” My mind reels. “What the fuck do you mean, wolves?”
Bast’s eyes widen and the color drains from his face. “You said you wanted this. I asked you if you were sure. That this was forever. I thought you knew I was a werewolf too. Your eyes are glowing green. Rachel said that meant I was your Kindred. You knew I was your mate—”
Werewolf? Kindred? Mate? My breath comes in sharp, panicked gasps.
This can’t be happening. Werewolves are scary stories the Mathairs back in Salem tell us so we’ll behave and follow the rules.
They can’t be—people. They can’t be. The man I just slept with can’t be a werewolf.
He can’t be my mate…fate wouldn’t be so cruel.
“No,” I whisper, then louder, “No!”
I back away, hands raised defensively. Magic surges through me. The sheets suddenly come alive, wrapping around Bast’s arms and pinning them above his head.
A jolt of pain lances through my own wrists. I yelp. “What…how…?”
Bast winces. “It’s the physical bond,” he explains quickly. “What one of us feels, the other—”
“Shut up!” I scream. This is too much. Way too much. “I can’t be mated to a werewolf! I have a mission. I can’t… I don’t…”
This is a nightmare. It has to be. But the pulse of foreign magic beneath my skin, the phantom pressure around my wrists—it’s all terrifyingly real.
“Mated?” The word escapes my lips in a strangled cry. My hands shake violently as I rake them through my hair, tugging painfully at the roots. “No. No. This isn’t happening.”
Bast pulls against his bonds, and a strangled whimper tears from my throat as phantom pain lances through my wrists. I stumble backward, crashing into his dresser.
“Stop!” I scream, my voice raw. “Just…stop!”
“Bridget, please,” Bast pleads, his eyes wide with concern. “Let me explain. We’re physically bonded now. What I feel, you feel, and—”
“Shut up!” I roar, slamming my fist against the wall. Pain blooms across my knuckles, and I watch with sickening fascination as Bast winces. “This isn’t real. It can’t be real.”
My breath comes in ragged gasps. The room tilts and spins around me, reality fracturing at the edges. “Take it off,” I demand, thrusting my wrists toward him. “Whatever sick magick of yours this is, undo it. Now!”
“I can’t.” His voice is maddeningly calm. “The bond is permanent and once we fully seal—”
“There is no ‘we’!” I shriek, the last slivers of my control snap. A surge of wild magick pulses through me. The lights in the room flicker ominously. “This was supposed to be simple. A one-night stand. I can’t be…be tied to some fairy-tale monster!”
I pace the room. My eyes dart around searching for an escape, a weapon, a spell book, anything to make sense of this nightmare.
“Bridget,” Bast starts again. “I know this is overwhelming, but—”
“Overwhelming?” I laugh, the sound bordering on hysterical. “You think this is just overwhelming? My entire world is imploding, and you’re talking about some mystical bond like it’s a gift? Like I should be grateful?”
I whirl on him. “I don’t want this. Any of it. I just need to find Meredith Banfield. That’s it. That’s all I’m here for.” I start picking up my clothes from the floor and pulling them back on. Pants first.
“You’re here looking for Meredith? Fucking hell.”
His reaction sends a fresh wave of panic through me. What else does he know? What else has he been hiding? The walls seem to close in, and I struggle to breathe, my chest tight with fear and fury.
“What?” I growl, yanking my T-shirt down over my head.
Bast’s expression hardens, his earlier concern for me is replaced by a dangerous glint. He yanks against the sheets, ignoring my wince of pain. “That’s why you fucked me, isn’t it?” he snarls. “To get to Meredith? You were just using me.”
I take an involuntary step back.
“You’re from the New England coven,” he spits out. “The ones she was running from. Christ, I’m such an idiot.”
My blood runs cold. How does he know about the coven?
“Where is she?” I demand, trying to keep my voice steady.
Bast laughs, a harsh, bitter sound that sends chills down my spine. He jerks against his bonds again, harder this time. I cry out as searing pain lances through my wrists, but he doesn’t stop. The sheets begin to tear.
“Meredith is dead,” he growls. “She died protecting my family.”
The world tilts on its axis. My legs go weak, and I grab the dresser to steady myself. “No,” I whisper. “That’s not possible. They would’ve known.” Wouldn’t they?
If Meredith is dead, my mission is a failure. The Mathairs will be furious. My sister…oh god, my sister. What am I going to do?
“Believe it. There’s even a memorial for her at the Faire today.” Bast snarls. With a final, violent tug, the sheets give way. He’s on his feet in an instant, advancing on me with predatory grace. “Now, you’re going to tell me everything. What the fuck are you really doing here, witch?”
I throw my hands up and shout an attack spell.
Bast flies across the room, his body slamming into the wall with a sickening thud.
The impact rips through my own body, stealing my breath.
My ribs scream in protest as we both crumple—him to the floor, me to my knees.
The shared agony clouds my vision for a moment, but survival instincts cut through the pain.
I force myself up, ignoring the phantom ache in muscles I didn’t hit, and bolt for the bedroom door, my bare feet slapping against the cold hardwood. With trembling hands, I cast another spell, sealing the bedroom door behind me.
The kitchen swims into focus. My purse, sitting innocently on the counter. I snatch it up and look around the room for my shoes. I don’t remember where I took them off… “Fuck. Fuck. Fuck,” I chant, a litany of panic.
An inhuman roar erupts from the bedroom, primal and terrifying. My blood turns to ice. Something massive slams against the door, wood creaking in protest.
Scratch. Scratch. Scratch. The sound of nails—no, claws—raking down the other side.
I back away, unable to tear my eyes from the door. A splintering crack, and then…oh god.
A massive paw, covered in dark fur, punches through one of the wood panels. Claws as thick around as my fingers flex, gouging deep furrows in the wood.
The paw withdraws, only to be replaced by a muzzle. Jaws part, revealing rows of gleaming teeth, each as long as my thumb. They snap at the wood, tearing away splinters like tissue paper.
Then I see the eyes.
Golden, feral, and unmistakably Bast’s. But now they’re set in the face of a monster, burning with a hunger that makes my skin crawl. Those eyes lock onto mine, filled with a rage that promises retaliation.
The air leaves my lungs in a strangled whimper. This isn’t happening. It can’t be real. But the snarls coming from that impossible creature, the way it throws itself against the door with bone-jarring force—it’s all horribly, terrifyingly real.
Werewolves are real.
I scramble to the front door. I have to run. Now. Before that thing—before Bast—breaks through.
His truck keys glint on a hook by the door. I take those because my car, still parked at the inn in town, might as well be on the moon. Then I run down the rough wooden steps and wince when my feet hit the rock driveway.
The pain doesn’t matter. I have to get away from Bast—from the beast.
I climb into the truck, but my hands shake so badly I can barely get the key in the ignition. Finally I manage and the engine roars to life.
A movement catches my eye. The front door of Bast’s cabin explodes outward in a shower of splinters.
Time slows to a crawl.
A massive reddish-gray wolf emerges from the wreckage, easily the size of a fucking bear. Muscles ripple beneath dark fur as it bounds down the porch steps.
I slam on the gas, the truck fishtailing a little before it grips and shoots forward. In the rearview mirror, the wolf grows larger, closing the distance with impossible speed.
My heart pounds against my ribs. Werewolves are real. I’m bonded to one. And Meredith—my one chance at saving my sister—is likely out of my reach. I have to find out if he was lying about her death.
I hazard one last glance in the mirror as I reach the main road. The wolf—Bast—stands at the end of the driveway, that haunting golden gaze drilling into mine, even from this distance.
A shudder runs through me as I floor the accelerator, putting as much distance between us as possible. My glowing green eyes stare back at me in the mirror, mocking me for the mess I’ve created.