Chapter Sixteen #2
My wolf surges forward at her distress, and I have to lock my muscles to keep from reaching for her.
Even now, with everything uncertain between us, every instinct screams to comfort her.
To protect. But I don’t trust her either and if Rachel says this spell is needed, I believe her first right now.
“Your eyes glow green in proximity to Bast, visible to everyone until it is performed. There are people in town that know about us, but the general population does not. We’d prefer to keep it that way.”
“That’s it? It’s just to stop my eyes from glowing?” Bridget asks.
Rachel gives a small sigh. “To be frank, it’s a marriage spell.
It tethers your magick to Bast and gives him a layer of defense from spells—a built-in protection ward.
You won’t be able to use magick to hurt him.
Also, it doesn’t stop your eyes from glowing, it merely hides it from everyone but you and your mate. ”
Marriage. The word scrapes against my skull like claws on stone. Yesterday, the thought of binding myself to Bridget forever would have filled me with fierce joy. Now it feels like putting on armor without knowing if there’s a knife waiting underneath.
My wolf doesn’t care—he’s ready to claim her and already sees her as ours. But the rest of me… Fuck. I’m about to be magically married to a woman who might be here to destroy everything I love.
Bridget closes her eyes, a single tear slipping down her cheek. “Very well,” she says softly.
Rachel nods, already pulling ingredients from the satchel. “Let’s begin.” She and Lila move with practiced efficiency, arranging a fine white powder in a three-pointed knot pattern on my kitchen floor. The scent of sage and something sharper, almost metallic, fills the air.
Lawrence stands off to the side, arms crossed, his eyes never leaving Bridget. The mistrust radiating off him is palpable, making my wolf restless. I really don’t like the guy.
“Bast,” Rachel calls, pulling me from my thoughts. “We need you and Bridget standing on either side of the design, hands clasped together over it.”
Lila points to Bridget’s hands. “Lawrence, we need the bindings off.”
“Absolutely the fuck not. Not until the wards are in place.”
The blatant disrespect in his tone makes my teeth ache.
I draw in a sharp breath through my nose, tasting Lawrence’s distrust and anger on my tongue.
Part of me understands his caution—hell, I share it—but treating my mate like a rabid animal is too far.
I audibly growl and my wolf is pleased when the asshole of a witch takes a step backward.
Rachel moves quickly to stand between me and Lawrence. “Bast. Please. I know you’re pissed. I know your wolf is pissed. Just hold it together a little longer.”
I push down the wolf and stop the rumble in my chest.
“Lawrence.” Lila speaks this time. “Just move them. We need access to her palms and they need to face each other. Stop making this more difficult. She’s not going to do anything. The poor child is terrified.”
Lawrence snarls out something unintelligible, but I catch the word assassin among it. He walks toward us with an angry look on his face and I hate the way Bridget cringes.
“Bast, you stand on this side and she stands over there.” Lila points and I lift Bridget from the chair.
Even with betrayal burning between us, her body still fits against mine like it was carved from my own ribs.
Setting her down feels like letting go of something vital, something I might never get back.
But we need this spell—need the protection it offers both of us.
Even if the timing feels like some cosmic joke, binding ourselves together when every scrap of trust lies shattered at our feet.
I stand her where Lila directed, my hands lingering on her shoulders longer than necessary.
Lawrence pulls a bit of rope from his pocket and squats at her feet. He opens his hand and the rope slithers from his palm like it’s alive.
“Fuuuuuuuuck.” Bridget tries to move away, but I hold her in place.
The stink of her fear enrages my wolf.
“Stand still, Bridget,” Rachel says.
“I hate snakes.” Bridget’s face drains of color, sweat beading on her forehead. Her pulse hammers against my fingertips where they rest on her skin.
“It’s not a snake,” I say, tipping her chin up. “Look at me.”
When her eyes meet mine, they’re wide and dark with terror. She tries to look away, to hide it, but I hold her gaze. Let her see the strength I’m offering. The promise of protection, even now. Even when I know she doesn’t trust me either.
The rope wraps around and around Bridget’s legs, growing longer and tighter until they’re completely encased from ankles to knees.
She trembles beneath my touch, and this time I don’t fight my instincts.
I draw her closer, one hand sliding up to cradle the back of her neck while the other steadies her arm.
“I’ve got you,” I murmur, my thumb tracing circles against her skin. “Focus on me, not the rope. That’s it.” Her breathing steadies slightly, and something in my chest unknots. Even with all the questions between us, this feels right—keeping her safe, being her anchor.
Lila speaks again. “Now her arms, Lawrence.”
Lawrence narrows his eyes and glares down at my mate. “If you so much as sneeze funny. I’ll kill you and your wolf without a moment’s hesitation. I will not allow you to do anything to jeopardize the witches here.”
I want to rip his head off for his words. Clamp down on his jugular and rip it loose. The man in me has to use everything he can to keep the wolf in me from doing just that.
Bridget stays silent and nods, but her eyes stare straight through me—vacant, distant, like she’s retreated somewhere I can’t follow.
My wolf whines at the emptiness in her gaze.
I’ve seen that look before, in wounded animals who’ve given up fighting.
The sight of it on my mate’s face makes something raw and painful twist in my chest. I can’t stand to see her shut down like this. I don’t want this to be the end.
Lawrence’s fingers on Bridget’s wrists send another snarl up my throat.
Every touch feels like a challenge. My wolf rises closer to the surface, claws pressing against the inside of my skin.
The only thing keeping me from ripping his hands away is the slight relaxation in Bridget’s shoulders as the ropes loosen.
She releases a tiny sigh when he moves her arms in front, her fingers flexing weakly.
The rope slithers across her skin, rewrapping around her wrists and forearms. I track every movement, muscles coiled tight, ready to intervene if he binds her too roughly.
One wrong move, one hint of unnecessary force, and Lawrence will pay dearly.
“This won’t hurt,” Rachel assures us, though her voice holds a note of uncertainty that sets my teeth on edge. “But it might feel…strange.”
Bridget nods, her face shows calm, but I can smell her fear, sharp and acrid beneath her natural scent. It makes my chest ache.
“Take her hands, Bast. Thread your fingers together.”
Her skin burns against mine as I lace our fingers together, that same electric current that’s been there since the first time I touched her.
Bridget’s breath catches, her pulse jumping beneath my thumbs where they rest against her wrists.
Despite everything—the lies, the betrayal, the uncertainty crushing my chest—my body still craves this connection like oxygen.
She tries to keep her fingers stiff, to maintain some barrier between us, but I feel the moment she gives in. Her hands soften in mine, and that small surrender hits deep. I want this woman. She. Is. Mine.
Rachel and Lila begin to chant, their voices weaving together in Gaelic. The air around us shimmers, like heat waves rising from sunbaked asphalt. There’s a tug deep in my gut, a pull toward Bridget that’s both familiar and entirely new.
Bridget gasps, her eyes flying wide. The green glow in her eyes that’s been present since I first saw her intensifies. She tries to pull her hands free, but I hold them tightly.
“I’m with you,” I say softly, meeting her frantic gaze. The words scrape out of my throat, raw and honest despite everything. Because it’s true—even with her mission hanging over our heads like an executioner’s blade, I can’t stop wanting her. I won’t.
“I can’t do this, I have to go back, she needs me. I can’t do this, I can’t do this, you have to let me go.” Her words tumble out in a desperate rush, and that “she” catches in my mind like a barbed hook.
Who needs her so badly?
I keep hold of her hands, feeling each tremor that runs through her. Fate’s got a sick sense of humor, binding me to a woman carrying so many secrets. But watching her now, seeing real fear crack through her carefully built walls, I can’t help but think there’s more to this story.
My wolf believes in her—in us—even when logic screams otherwise. Maybe that’s enough. Maybe faith isn’t about certainty, but about choosing to hold on when everything’s gone to hell.
The chanting grows louder, more insistent. The shimmering air coalesces around us, forming tendrils of light that wind around our bodies. I watch, mesmerized, as one tendril connects with the mark on my wrist, then snakes across the space between us to touch Bridget’s matching mark.
The sensation is…indescribable. It’s like I can suddenly feel Bridget in a way I never could before. Not just her physical presence, but something deeper. Her essence. Her power. It flows into me like a river finding its course, filling spaces I never knew were empty.
Bridget cries out, a sound of surprise and what might be pain. I growl, my protective instincts flaring. “Rachel—”
“Almost done,” she assures me. “Repeat the phrase we’re chanting three times.”
Bridget and I both repeat the Gaelic phrase together three times.
The light intensifies, becoming blinding. I squeeze my eyes shut, gritting my teeth against the strange sensation of foreign power coursing through me. Then, as suddenly as it began, it stops.
The silence that follows is deafening. I open my eyes slowly, blinking away spots of lingering light.
Bridget stands before me, swaying slightly.
The green glow in her eyes is still there, but supposedly not visible to humans any longer.
Which is good. The witches have enough to blur out of the public’s memory after the events today.
My right palm burns and I instinctively hiss and jerk away from Bridget’s hands. There’s a bright green triquetra on my palm and a matching one on hers.
“It’s done,” Rachel says. “The tether is in place. The brand will fade away in a few minutes.”
I nod to Rachel and then turn back to Bridget.
She looks like she’s been through a war—dark hair clinging to her temples with sweat, skin pale as moonlight except for two spots of color high on her cheeks.
Her eyes are glassy and unfocused. But it’s the slight tremble in her lower lip that makes my chest tighten.
“How do you feel?” I ask softly, afraid of the answer but needing to know. Needing to understand what this spell has done to her—to us.
Bridget takes a shaky breath. “I feel…different. Like part of me is…” She trails off, her brow furrowing. “I can feel you. Inside me. Around me.”
I nod, understanding exactly what she means. Because I feel it too. This new connection, deeper and more profound than the physical bond we already share.
“What now?” Bridget asks in a small voice.
I look around the room, at Rachel’s exhausted face, at Lawrence’s wary stance, at Lila pulling more ingredients out of the bag and stacking them quietly on the kitchen counter. Then back to Bridget, to the woman who’s become the center of my world in such a short time.
“Now,” I say, “we talk. And you tell us everything.”