Chapter Nineteen
Bridget Winslow
For Love, Not Duty
The leather couch creaks as I shift, struggling to find a comfortable position in the predawn gloom. Sleep has been fitful at best, my mind refusing to quiet despite my exhaustion. Every time I close my eyes, I see Brianna’s face, feel the phantom weight of the Mathairs’ expectations.
Across the room, Bast dozes in his oversized armchair, one leg thrown over the arm in casual disregard for furniture etiquette.
Even in sleep, his presence fills the space, radiating a warmth that calls to something deep inside me.
Through our new bond, I feel the steady thrum of his consciousness, like a lullaby trying to soothe my restless thoughts.
I shouldn’t find comfort in it. In him. But I do.
My fingers trace the mark on my wrist, still trying to reconcile everything that’s happened.
Twenty-four hours ago, I was just another weapon in the Mathairs’ arsenal.
Now I’m…what? Mated to a werewolf? Trapped in a cabin by wards?
Considering becoming a traitor to everything I was raised to believe?
A shout pierces the quiet, angry and pissed the hell off. “Fucking bitch!”
Bast jolts awake, already on his feet before I can fully process what’s happening. His body tenses, head tilting as he scents the air. The bond between us floods with sudden alertness, pushing away the last cobwebs of sleep from my mind.
“Blood,” he growls, the word sending chills down my spine. He moves to the door with predatory grace, every muscle coiled for action. “Stay inside. Bolt the door behind me.”
“Bast—”
“There’s a gun in my nightstand drawer. Watch out for the broken door and furniture.” His eyes meet mine, fierce and golden in the dim light. “If anything happens…just stay safe. Please. You can’t do magick.”
Then he’s gone, the door clicking shut behind him.
My hands shake as I slide the bolt into place, feeling suddenly, terribly alone.
Through our bond, I feel his determination, his readiness for whatever waits outside.
I press my palms against the door, hating how empty they feel without magick thrumming beneath my skin.
All I can do is wait—and I’ve never been good at being powerless. I much prefer to manifest solutions.
I lean my forehead against the cool wood of the door, straining to hear what’s happening. The sound of footsteps on gravel. A low growl that must be Bast. Then—
Pain explodes through my body, white-hot and devastating. I collapse, a scream tearing from my throat as agony rips through me. It’s not my pain—it’s his, echoing through our bond with brutal intensity.
Somewhere outside, Bast roars.
I force myself to my feet, stumbling toward his bedroom. Splinters of wood crunch beneath my shoes—remnants of Bast’s violent transformation earlier. His pain pulses through me, threatening to bring me to my knees again. But I can’t stay here. Can’t let him face this alone.
The nightstand drawer sticks, and I yank it open with trembling hands. The gun is heavy, cold, nothing like the familiar weight of magick. I’ve never fired one before. Never needed to, when spells were always at my fingertips.
Another wave of pain crashes through the bond, and this time I hear Bast’s anguished cry cut short.
No. No no no.
I sprint back through the wreckage, leaping over the remains of the bedroom door. A jagged piece of frame catches my ankle, but I barely feel it. The gun stays clutched in my sweating palms as I reach the front door. The bolt slides free under my fingers, and I throw the door open—
Only to freeze at the threshold, the wards burning against my skin like invisible flames. Beyond them, a scene from my nightmares unfolds.
Bast lies crumpled on the ground, his wolf body contorted in agony. And standing over him, power crackling around her hands like barely contained lightning, is Elsa.
My trainer. My tormentor. The woman who helped shape me into the Mathairs’ perfect weapon.
Bile rises in my throat as memories flood back—her fingers digging into my shoulders, correcting my posture during endless drills, her voice a constant whisper of not good enough, never good enough.
Even now, years later, my muscles remember to flinch.
How did she find me so quickly?
Her lip curls as she sees me, disgust written across her familiar features. “Well, well. Look what you’ve become, little dove.” Her gaze drops to my wrists. “A traitor.”
Elsa stalks closer, each step precise and measured—the same predatory grace she used in training rings. “I knew you were weak, but this?” Her boot nudges one of Bast’s tattooed wrists, and my stomach lurches at his whimper. “Mating with an animal?”
I raise the gun, trying to steady my shaking hands. Through our bond, I feel Bast’s pain, his struggle to move. The two guards who were supposed to be watching the cabin lie motionless in the gravel, their bodies twisted at unnatural angles.
“Let him go.” The words rise from somewhere deeper than fear. I won’t watch another person be broken by Salem’s cruelty. Won’t stand helpless while they destroy Bast like they destroyed the man Brianna loved—his body left to rot in the cell next to hers. I don’t want to lose him.
My fingers tighten on the gun.
Elsa laughs, the sound like breaking glass.
“Or what? You’ll shoot me?” Her fingers twist in a familiar pattern, and Bast convulses, a howl of agony tearing from his throat.
My knees buckle as his pain crashes through me.
“You can barely stand, little dove. The Mathairs’ prize student, brought low by a mongrel’s bond. ”
She knows about wolves. About their magick.
“Stop it!” I try to aim, to find a clear shot, but Elsa stands too close to Bast. My first bullet goes wide, kicking up gravel. The second hits a tree. Each shot makes me flinch, the recoil jarring up my arms.
“Pathetic.” Elsa shakes her head, disappointed as ever. “All that training, all that potential, wasted. Do you know how much time I invested in you? How many hours I spent molding you into something worthwhile?”
Another spell hits Bast, and this time I taste blood in my mouth from biting back a scream. The gun trembles in my grip.
“The Mathairs will be pleased, though.” Her smile turns cruel. “A wolf slave will make a fine consolation prize. Once we break him properly, of course. Strip away his autonomy, teach him his proper place—serving witches, as nature intended. He’ll be the first of many for the Salem Court.”
No. The thought of Bast in chains, of the Mathairs breaking his spirit like they broke mine. My sister’s… “I won’t let you take him.”
“You don’t have a choice, little dove. You never did.” Elsa’s eyes narrow. “Just like you couldn’t save that human of your sister’s. Poor, foolish Brianna. When I get back, I’ll take great pleasure in making her suffer for your failures. Both of them.”
Something snaps inside me. The wards burn against my skin as I push forward, each step is like walking through fire. But Brianna’s face fills my mind—bloody, defiant, refusing to break. And Bast, my mate, writhing under Elsa’s cruel magick.
I won’t fail them. I don’t fail. Not ever.
“You’re right,” I grit out, forcing another step. The pain is excruciating, but I keep moving. I have to get free of the wards to use my magick. “I was your perfect student.” Another step. The gun clatters from my nerveless fingers. “I learned everything you taught me.”
Elsa’s eyes widen as I breach the threshold. “Impossible—”
“Except one thing.” The magick burns hotter, but I don’t stop. Can’t stop. “I have people I love who are worth fighting for and dying for.”
Lila and Rachel’s wards shatter around me like glass, and power—raw, wild, untamed—surges through my body. Primal.
Elsa’s spell flies at me, but I’m already moving. My fist connects with her jaw, channeling every lesson she ever taught me about fighting. She staggers back, surprise turning to fury. “You dare—”
Her spell catches me in the chest, sending me sprawling. The gravel bites into my palms as I roll, barely avoiding another blast of magick. Elsa was always the best fighter in the Salem Court—ruthless, precise, lethal.
But she never fought for something she loved.
I launch myself at her legs, tackling her to the ground. We grapple in the dirt, her elbow catching my temple as magick crackles between us. Every hit echoes with years of training sessions, of punishment disguised as lessons.
“I made you,” she snarls, fingers clawing for my throat. “Everything you are—”
“You made me a weapon.” I slam my forehead into her nose, feeling cartilage crunch. “And better than you.”
Her next spell rips through me like barbed wire. Warm blood runs down my face, mixing with the tears I didn’t know I was crying. Through our bond, I feel Bast struggling to move, to help. His pain fuels me, turns my fear to fury.
Elsa’s hand finds my hair, yanking my head back. “The Mathairs should have drowned you along with your brother.” Magick builds around her other hand, deadly and cold. “I’ll rectify that mistake now.”
Drowned me? A brother? Fuck. What? No. Concentrate, Bridget. She’s trying to distract you.
Time slows. In her eyes, I see every moment of cruelty, every “lesson” that left me bloody and broken. I see Brianna’s suffering. I see the death she plans for Bast. The way the Salem Court will ruin everything for everyone here.
Not this time.
I don’t think. Don’t plan. I just act, the way she taught me. My hands find her face, and I pour everything into them—rage, love, desperation.
Elsa’s eyes go wide. Her mouth opens in a silent scream as power—my power, my mate’s power—surges between us.
Then it’s over.
She slumps, empty eyes staring at the predawn sky. I scramble away from her body, retching into the gravel. Every inch of me screams with pain, but I force myself to move.
“Bast.” I crawl to him. “Bast, please. Please wake up.”
He’s so still.
Too still.
Blood mats his fur, and ugly welts from Elsa’s spells have cut deep bloody gashes through his sides. Through our bond, I feel his life force flickering like a candle in the wind.
“I’m sorry.” Tears fall freely now as I gather him into my lap. “I’m so sorry. This is all my fault. Please don’t leave me. I can’t—” A painful sob slips free. “I love you. Do you hear me, you stubborn wolf? I love you. So you have to wake up. Please.”
I press my forehead to his wide flat head, feeling the weak flutter of his breath from his snout against my cheek. “I choose you,” I whisper fiercely. “I choose us. Just please, please be okay. I love you.”