Chapter 15
Chapter
Fifteen
The path back to the cabin wound through scrub pines bent sideways by decades of wind, their branches reaching toward the mainland like gnarled fingers.
Willow didn't let herself look back. She knew what she'd see if she did.
The village glowing in the distance, string lights swaying between lampposts, and Frost Fest banners rippling outside the distillery.
Her bakery window would be lit warm and golden, with the display she'd arranged that morning still waiting for customers who might never come back if the pack decided witches weren't welcome here anymore.
She kept walking. Each step carried her further from the town glow, and the cold bit through her jacket into skin she couldn't seem to warm. Winter had stripped the island of its autumn softness out here, leaving behind murky water and grey sky and air that tasted of salt and endings.
Three months ago, she'd walked this same path in the opposite direction and felt hope crack open inside her for the first time in years.
The island had seemed like a promise then.
Mist rising off the water at dawn. The way many pack members nodded to her on the street like she belonged.
Coffee with Maeve in the bakery's back room, flour on their aprons, trading stories about difficult customers as Maeve prepared to hand over the reins.
She'd been building something here, one sourdough loaf and protection charm at a time.
A life she thought she might actually get to keep.
That future felt impossibly far away now.
She should be rehearsing what to tell her friends instead of wallowing in her misery. Crafting the right words to explain that everything they'd built here might crumble because one snarly wolf had decided they were guilty before the investigation even started.
However, her mind kept snagging on the wrong details instead.
Like the set of Ryker's shoulders when he'd spread those papers across the bar.
Or the way his voice had gone flat when he called her a variable.
The dead emptiness in his eyes that made her want to shake him until something real surfaced again.
Days ago, those eyes had burned. His hands had trembled against her skin. He'd whispered her name like a prayer while the rain fell quietly outside her window.
Willow tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, but the wind ripped it free before she finished the motion. She let it whip across her face. Some things refused to stay where you put them no matter how hard you tried.
The cabin materialized through the mist, its weathered cedar boards silver with age and salt spray.
Warm light glowed through the windows, amber against the gloomy afternoon, and smoke curled from the chimney in lazy spirals.
Someone had hung a new wreath of dried rosemary and bay leaves on the door, protection magic disguised as decoration.
Sage's work no doubt. The porch boards creaked under Willow's boots, a now familiar sound whenever she returned home.
Home. The word still surprised her sometimes.
She'd lived in a dozen places before this, never caring enough to learn things like which floorboards squeaked or how the light fell through windows at different times of day.
But this cabin with its rustic shutters and herb-scented air had become something she hadn't expected. A place she would grieve to leave.
She climbed the porch steps and the door swung open before she could reach the handle.
Sage stood in the threshold with a warm smile creasing the corners of her eyes. She may be the youngest of the sanctuary witches, but she read faces the way some people read palms.
"There you are. How'd the meeting go? Did they sort out the vendor situation?"
Her smile faded as she took in Willow's expression. Whatever she saw there made her step back from the door, one hand reaching out like she might need to catch her balance.
"What happened?"
The words lodged in her throat like broken glass.
"Inside," she managed. "I need to tell everyone at once."
Sage stepped back to let her pass, and the cabin's warmth wrapped around Willow like arms she didn't deserve.
The fire crackled in the stone hearth, casting dancing shadows across walls hung with more dried flower bundles and hand-stitched protection sachets.
A kettle whistled on the wood stove, and the whole space smelled of baking bread and chamomile and the particular kind of safety that came from being surrounded by people who knew your worst secrets and stayed anyway.
Mara sat at the kitchen table surrounded by bundles of dried herbs, her red hair pulled back in a messy knot.
Esme perched on the window seat with a grimoire open in her lap and a cup of tea steaming and forgotten beside her.
Hazel was stirring a pot at the stove that smelled of thyme and honey, humming under her breath.
Four faces turned toward her. These women who had trusted her promise that Devils Point would be different.
Willow squared her shoulders and said the words before she could lose her nerve.
"Ryker presented evidence to the alphas connecting the north shore disturbances to our coven. He's recommended immediate relocation off-island until after the festival." Her voice came out steadier than she felt. "The alphas are debating it now."
The room went silent for half a heartbeat. Then the kitchen erupted.
"Are you kidding me?" Mara shoved back from the table, dried herbs scattering across the wood. "After everything we've done for this pack? We've been busting our asses since we got here—"
"On what evidence?" Esme's grimoire hit the window seat with a thump. "We haven't done anything. The magic in that cove isn't even ours."
"I know. That's what I told them. What I have been telling them every chance I got."
"And they're still debating?" Hazel's spoon clattered against the pot. "What's there to debate? Either we did it or we didn't, and we damn well didn't."
"It’s the timing." Willow's throat tightened. "The incidents started after we arrived. The magical signature was found where I've been investigating. Ryker connected the dots in a way that made us look guilty."
"Ryker." Mara spat the name like poison. "The same man who's been gunning for us since day one? And the one who—" She stopped, eyes narrowing. "Wait. Isn't he the one you've been fighting—"
"Don't. Please."
Mara's mouth pressed into a hard line, but she didn't push.
Sage hadn't moved from her spot by the door. Her face had gone pale beneath her weathered tan, and when she finally spoke, her voice was barely above a whisper.
"Exile." The word fell like a stone into still water. "They're actually considering exiling us?"
"The alphas haven't decided yet. Diego was pushing back, and Gray was defending us." Willow pressed her palms flat against her thighs to keep them from shaking. "Nothing's final."
Yet.
"But they're talking about it." Hazel's voice cracked on the last word. "I thought we were past this."
"I know. I’m just as frustrated as you. Maybe more."
"Where would we even go?" Mara's eyes had gone glassy. "My family disowned me when I left the coven. I don't have anywhere else."
"None of us do." Esme pulled her knees to her chest. "That's why we came here."
Willow watched fear ripple through the room, contaminating each of them in turn. These women had followed her away from everything familiar because she'd sworn this pack was different, She’s believed in their sanctuary agreement.
She'd been so damned naive.
"We're not packing yet," she said. "They haven't decided anything, and until they do, we don't run."
"What do we do instead?" Sage asked. “If they don’t want us here…”
"I don't know." The admission tasted like ash. "I need to think. That meeting was an ambush and it left me feeling sick.” She held up her hand before anyone could say anything. “Just an hour or so and then we can talk more."
She fled to her room before any of them could argue, rushing down the narrow hallway to get away from everyone for a minute.
The door clicked shut behind her and the walls closed in, familiar and suffocating all at once.
Her bed, sat piled with quilts Sage had made her when the first cold snap hit.
And the trunk at the foot contained all of her clothes.
It didn’t seem like much, but it was all she wanted. Well, this and the bakery and Ry–
No. She had to stop thinking of him like that.
She glanced over at the small window overlooking the cove that had caused all the problems. It was normally a beautiful view, but today it looked like misery.
On the sill, she'd arranged the sea glass collected on her morning walks, blues and greens worn smooth by the tide, each piece a small reminder that sharp edges could be softened with enough time.
She pressed her palm against the cold glass and thought about the life waiting outside this room.
The bakery with its well-worn counters and the regulars who'd started calling her by name. Even the Festival planning meetings with Ryker had some good memories. He’d been gruff but made it seem like her ideas were good.
Then there was the way Maeve had looked at her last week and said, "You belong here, you know. Stop acting like you're about to be asked to leave."
She'd started to believe it.
The island had seeped into her bones without her permission.
She had already fallen in love with the way fog rolled in at dawn, and the rhythmic sound of waves against the rocks at night.
She especially loved the pockets of sunshine that cast a golden glow through the bakery windows.
She'd imagined more seasons cycling through and roots growing deeper with every passing year.
That future felt impossibly far away now. But losing the island would hurt less than losing herself to wanting someone who would never choose her back. Damn him. This feeling had to stop.