Chapter Sixteen
Bast O’Connor
Bonds of Trust and Terror
Bridget’s weight in my arms is both a comfort and a torment.
Her scent—now tinged with smoke and fear—fills my nostrils as I carry her toward my truck.
My wolf howls inside me, furious at the sight of our mate bound and silenced.
But the man in me…fuck, the man is lost in a storm of confusion and betrayal.
I want to shake her. To demand answers. To understand how the woman who set my soul on fire could also be the one sent to destroy everything I hold dear. But her emerald glowing eyes, wide with fear and glassy with tears, stop the words in my throat.
“Almost there,” I mutter, more to myself than to her.
At the truck I pat my pockets out of habit. Empty. Shit. She drove last. I pat her pockets next, immediately feeling the outline of the keys and fob. I slip my hand inside and grab it, exhaling slowly. Her eyes follow my every move.
After unlocking the truck, I hesitate. The cab’s too small to lay her down comfortably with her arms bound behind her back. Fuck it. I yank open the back door and gently—so fucking gently—ease her onto the bench seat.
“This might be uncomfortable,” I warn, maneuvering her so she’s on her side. My hands shake slightly as I reach for the middle seat belt and secure it around her waist. “Just…just to keep you from rolling off.”
Our eyes meet, and for a moment, I’m lost in her like I was last night. There’s so much there—something that makes my chest ache. I look away first, slamming the door with more force than necessary.
Behind the wheel, I grip the steering column hard. Get it together, O’Connor. You’ve got a job to do. Protect the pack. Protect the coven. Protect…her.
Even if she might be the biggest threat of all.
The drive back to my cabin is the longest trip of my life. The silence in the truck is oppressive, broken only by the crunch of gravel under the tires and Bridget’s muffled breathing from the back seat. My eyes flick to the rearview mirror more times than I care to admit.
She looks so small back there, curled on her side, her dark hair a tangled mess across her face. The urge to reach back and brush those strands away, to cup her cheek and tell her everything will be okay, is almost overwhelming. But I can’t. I don’t even know if it would be true.
I take the turn onto my property too fast, the truck fishtailing slightly. Bridget lets out a muffled noise of surprise, and I mutter a curse. “Sorry,” I say, though I’m not sure if I’m apologizing for the driving or…everything else.
As the cabin comes into view, my stomach twists. Just last night, I led her up those same steps, drunk on joy and desire. Now… Christ, now everything’s gone to shit.
I park and sit for a moment, hands still gripping the wheel. Think, O’Connor. You need a plan. But every thought is tangled up in the scent of her, in the memory of her lips on mine, in the sickening knowledge that it might all have been a lie.
With a growl of frustration, I yank open my door and stalk around to the back. Bridget’s eyes are on me the second I open her door, wide and wary. My heart clenches.
“I’m going to carry you inside,” I tell her. “I… I don’t want to hurt you.”
She nods, a tiny movement that releases some of the tightness in my heart. As I lift her into my arms again, I can’t help but notice how perfectly she fits against my chest. She was made for me. Fated for me. And that’s the cruelest joke of all.
Inside, I pause, unsure where to put her. The couch feels too casual, the bed too intimate. I settle for lowering her gently into one of the kitchen chairs.
“Lawrence and Rachel will be here soon,” I say, running a hand through my hair. “They’ll…we’ll figure this out.”
Bridget makes a sound—frustration, maybe fear—and I have to look away. Because if I keep staring into those green eyes, I might do something stupid. I might really start to believe that whatever brought her here, whatever mission she was on, doesn’t matter anymore. That we can overcome it.
But it does matter. And I have no fucking clue if we can.
I’m pacing the living room floor, torn between watching Bridget and staring out the window, when the crunch of tires on gravel announces more arrivals. Lawrence exits a vehicle with two other men I haven’t met.
My wolf bristles, especially after what he did to Bridget in town. But we need answers, and he might be the only one who can get them. He’s directly dealt with the Mathairs before. Most of the witches in Banfield Court haven’t.
The knock at the door is more of a demand than a request. I yank it open, my lips curling back in an involuntary snarl. “Lawrence.”
He pushes past me without waiting for an invitation. The two men with him take up places at the bottom of my steps, standing like guards.
“Where’s her phone?” Lawrence demands, not bothering with pleasantries.
The question catches me off guard. Her phone? My wolf bristles at Lawrence’s tone, but I’d felt Bridget’s fear when she checked that screen earlier. These witches that sent her…they’re controlling her somehow.
“On her, I suppose. Or in her purse.” I gesture to where I tossed her bag on the coffee table.
Lawrence snatches up the purse and digs through it. “Not here.” He stalks toward my mate and I’m in front of him in a half a second.
“Mine,” I growl in his face.
“Phone.”
I turn to Bridget and feel along her hips, finding the phone in her front right pocket. I pull out the device and toss it to him.
“What do you think you’ll find?”
“Plans. Itinerary. If she’s working alone or not.”
Fuck. I glance at my mate, really look at her.
She’s trying to be strong—spine straight despite her bound hands, chin lifted in defiance—but I see the way fear haunts her eyes.
Smell the salt of unshed tears. Through our bond, I feel how her chest aches from Lawrence’s spell, how her wrists burn from the binding.
But it’s the broken trust in her expression that hits hardest. Like she’s already accepted that everyone in her life will eventually hurt her.
“Is anyone else here with you? These witches are like family to me, Bridget.”
Her lip trembles, but she doesn’t speak. Can’t speak. Lawrence’s spell still locks her voice away, and my wolf snarls at this continued cruelty.
“She’ll lie to you. She used you, Bast. Used you to get close to the coven. You were just recon for her. Wake up, Bast. She’s a trained assassin from the Salem Court who—”
“Enough!” I roar, my patience snapping like a frayed rope. The wolf in me is dangerously close to the surface, itching to defend our mate. To tear into anyone who threatens her. Even if that threat might be justified.
Lawrence takes a step back, wariness replacing some of the anger in his eyes. Good. He should be wary.
“Look,” I say, forcing my voice to level out. “I know we need answers. But treating her like a criminal before we even hear her side—”
“Her side?” Lawrence scoffs. “She’s the enemy.”
I open my mouth to argue, but the words die in my throat. Because fuck, I don’t know. I want to believe she’d tell me the truth. That whatever brought her here, whatever she was sent to do, the connection between us is stronger. But the doubt gnaws at me, sharp and insistent.
“The only messages mention Meredith. She was sent to eliminate her. She reported back that Meredith was dead. The last message tells her to hold position for further instructions.” Lawrence holds up the phone for me to read, but I don’t give a fuck. It’s nothing more than I expected.
An engine rumbling outside pulls at my attention. Rachel. And hopefully, some fucking solutions to this mess.
Rachel’s arrival feels like a breath of fresh air in the tension-filled cabin. She sweeps in, her familiar scent of coffee and herbs a welcome distraction from the cocktail of anger and fear permeating the room. Lila follows close behind, carrying a leather satchel that clinks with each step.
“Bast,” Rachel says. Her eyes flick to Bridget, then back to me. “How are you holding up?”
I let out a humorless laugh. “Oh, just great. My mate is an assassin from Salem. It’s a real party.”
Rachel winces. “We’ll figure this out. But first…” She turns to Lawrence. “Remove the binding spell. Now.”
Lawrence bristles. “Are you insane? She’s dangerous—”
Rachel cuts him off. “She’s also Bast’s mate. And she has to speak for us to complete the tether spell.”
The unfamiliar term makes my wolf’s ears prick. Rachel wouldn’t suggest anything that would harm Bridget. And if she thinks this spell will help the situation, then we’ll do it.
For a moment, Lawrence’s jaw tightens, and my muscles coil in response. If he refuses, my wolf already knows which tendons to tear first. No one’s hurting our mate again, not even Meredith’s widower.
Bridget’s pulse spikes, like she senses the violence brewing beneath my skin.
But then Lawrence sighs, muttering something under his breath.
The air crackles as his spell unravels, and Bridget draws in a sharp, desperate breath.
I move to stand behind her chair. Her shoulders stay rigid, but her scent changes—less terror now, more confusion.
Like she can’t quite believe I’m still choosing to protect her.
Rachel levels a glare at her. “Lila and Lawrence are here, so don’t try anything stupid, yeah?”
Bridget nods but doesn’t speak.
“We need to talk about the tether spell,” Rachel says, glancing over Bridget’s shoulder at me.
“What is it? I’ve never heard of it.”
Rachel gestures to the satchel Lila is carrying. “It’s similar to the physical bond you already share, but it’ll…well, it’ll bind her magick to you.”
“What?” Bridget’s voice is small, but there’s an edge of panic to it.