Chapter 2
Sylvan
Morgan Foxglove really is the worst witch I’ve ever seen.
Since the funeral, I haven’t been able to get her off my mind.
I don’t like her. Something about her drives me wild, and not in a good way, even if I do think she’s beautiful.
Long blue hair, a curvy, plus-sized body that makes the wolfish part of me a little too hungry, plush lips that fit around sassy words a little too well.
Even from a distance, she set my fangs on edge.
The entire funeral, my wolf paced internally, gnashing his teeth, growling.
It’s very rare that I have such a strong reaction to someone, but she brings the worst out of everyone around her.
She’s provocative and angry and has a way of inciting frustration.
Truly, it should be studied. I’ve never seen one person piss off so many people so quickly.
She’s all everyone in Hex Ridge will be talking about for the next week.
She even wore black to Maeve’s funeral. Entirely out of place in a sea of all white. Never mind that it’s been custom for centuries to wear white to funerals.
Not for the little witch, apparently. She has to do everything her way.
Just another thing to add to the list of why she isn’t liked.
The torch was the tipping point. Was I amused? My wolf was. But much like the rest of the witches, daimons, and wolves at the funeral—seeing her outright defiance of what had been done for centuries was grating.
Not that I have much ground to stand on when it comes to holding traditions, but I at least keep my blatant disregard private.
Even as an outcast, I still honor our rituals.
And she really doesn’t understand how lucky she is to even get to give a loved one a proper funeral.
There have been so many times I wished I could have done the same for mine.
I tighten my leather belt and clasp the buckle, studying myself in the full-length mirror.
Maeve’s instructions explicitly stated I have to dress nicely for this mysterious meeting.
So, I’m sticking to my usual—black button up, black pants, and black shoes.
I have ten different versions of this same outfit, and it’s been that way for the last decade of my life. It’s not going to change today.
I do look nice, I guess. I tuck my shirt in a little more and run my fingers through my floppy hair. For once, I don’t look like a feral lone wolf, and that has to be enough.
Today, I’ll complete my final task given by the old witch before her death, then I’ll be on my way to the next job.
Just in time to get the hell out of Hex Ridge before the full moon so I can lock myself away for my rut.
It’s going to be a bad one. Something has been simmering deep in my bones since Maeve’s death, but I’m not sure exactly what.
A stirring, a warning, a burning fire that is all-consuming.
Truthfully, since working in this small town, my ruts have gotten worse.
When the moon is at its peak, I’m insatiable.
There isn’t a single pheromone inhibitor that works to subdue the intensity of it.
I’ve tried them all. The only thing my wolf wants is my fated mate, but I haven’t met them, and probably never will.
Even if I was lucky enough to find them, I can never have them anyway.
Truthfully, part of me hopes I never find my fated mate. Even if I long to finally touch another and to release all the years of pent-up desire, I cannot have a mate.
I’ve been Maeve’s bodyguard for the last two months.
One job amongst many over the years, but this one was the easiest. Not only did she pay me a ridiculous amount of money, I had free lodging at the oversized Foxglove Manor.
When the first paycheck hit, I argued with her until I was blue in the face, but she wouldn’t hear a single word from me about being paid less.
All I had to do was keep an eye on her, live in the house, and drive her to and from coven meetings at the House of Hecate by the lake.
There aren’t even three thousand people in Hex Ridge.
Everyone loves and respects Maeve. Or, they did.
Never in my entire life has a job been so simple.
I definitely feel like I took advantage of her, but even in Maeve’s old age, she was level headed.
She knew exactly what she was doing. The most protection I gave her was putting a wall between her and an old daimon named Betty who claimed Maeve stole her basket at the tiny corner grocery store. And she did steal it, without a doubt.
An alpha witch hiring an alpha werewolf as a bodyguard isn’t completely unheard of. She never knew my history or asked why I was alone. She didn’t need to know about my past for me to do my job.
I’m an alpha. Born to lead, created to command a pack, and even preside over one of the mountain territories. But I never will. I can’t. That future was stolen from me long ago. I’m a lone alpha, I’m exiled, and I’ve been on the run for years.
Let it go. I roll my shoulders and fix the cuffs of my shirt, rolling them up to my elbows.
The sound of footsteps draws my attention long before the knock on the front door.
The place groans around me, something I’m still not used to.
This old house is full of magic. It’s a massive Victorian-style manor with countless rooms full of cursed objects, artifacts, and goddess knows what else.
The stench of spells is ingrained into the wallpaper, every piece of ancient furniture, the hardwood floors, and the countless plants that grow in every nook and cranny.
It’s a creature all by itself, although I’m still not sure what kind.
Even Maeve told me once she didn’t know.
I stay in a large room in the west wing.
I make a point to not wander around aimlessly.
Even though I come from a long line of warriors and my strength surpasses most werewolves, I’m not idiotic enough to poke around an old witch’s manor.
The last thing I need is a rogue curse to permanently turn my balls blue. Or even worse, my knot.
The knock echoes again. More insistent this time.
I go down a creaky set of stairs, and leap over the last two steps out of habit—nearly tripping over the phone cord that Maeve insisted stay stapled in the middle of the living room, despite the fact that no one has used corded phones in over a decade.
I don’t miss her. I didn’t know her. Not really.
But there is a very small part of me that’s still puzzled by her sudden death.
There was no foul play that I know of, and I did my due diligence to ensure that.
From all accounts, Maeve’s death was natural.
Her exact age is unknown to me, but I know she was pushing the limits of what should have been a witch’s lifespan. Especially an unmated witch.
The house groans and grunts as I make it to the foyer. I reach for the lock, but it twists itself, the hinges whining as the door swings open. Cicadas scream out in the garden, assaulting my ears. I hate spring for this exact reason. Everything is so noisy and alive.
“Oh good. You’re not dead.”
A tall, dark-haired figure looms in front of me. He’s the gruff lawyer, Mr. Byrne.
He’s an unmated daimon, which is why our meeting had to be so late in the evening when the sun is down.
Daimons can’t walk in the sun until they find their fated mate.
Witches and wolves can choose their mates, if they wish.
They don’t have to wait for the one or ones.
But not daimons. While unmated witches and werewolves certainly have their day-to-day battles, our lives aren’t so directly impacted.
Not to mention, fated mates for a daimon are few and far between.
I don’t envy him.
The last daimon I know of to have been so lucky was an alpha named Catriona, a woman who’s lived for over three hundred years.
She’s the sort of person who occasionally shows up in my life and rescues me.
She has this radar for sensing trouble. Daimons are like that.
Not quite drenched in spells like witches or primal instincts like wolves, they straddle the world between both, their strengths coming from feeding off souls with their sharp, needle-like fangs.
Catriona finally met her mates two years ago, fitting into a pack of two werewolves and a witch. They make the oddest little pack, but I like her mates well enough. They make her happy, and she deserves that after the hell she’s gone through.
Mr. Byrne has not been so lucky yet, and I can see why. His demeanor immediately sets me on edge. Raven eyes rake over me with cold curiosity.
“Wolf,” he grunts. “Where’s the witch?”
I scowl. I was hired to guard Maeve, not to keep an eye on her rogue, bratty granddaughter. “I thought she would be with you.”
“Morgan hates me.” He says it so matter-of-factly, I blink in surprise. “I suppose she’ll be late, then, per usual. Very well. I prepared for this.”
I step aside and allow him in. The house shuts the door with a heavy thump. Withholding a sigh, I follow the lawyer to the dining room. He’s already unpacking his briefcase, his frown so deep I’m surprised he has no wrinkles.
“Do you not have a laptop?” I ask.
The lawyer ignores me as he places three sealed folders in a neat row on the massive oak table. I eye him suspiciously, then glance around the dining room. I never come in here. When Maeve was alive, she used this table, but I much preferred the nook in the kitchen.
“I still don’t really understand why I’m here,” I say, straining for politeness.
It’s a mystery to me, which makes me uneasy.
Perhaps that’s why I’m so on edge. I don’t like mysteries, I don’t like not knowing exactly what’s happening.
“This is my final task from Maeve, but it had no details. After this, I’ll be leaving.
I assume I’m only here to hand the keys over to the granddaughter. ”