Chapter 8
Sylvan
I’m not sleeping tonight. Midnight strikes, but I’m wide awake, surrounded by three piles of books in the library. Particles of dust bursting from the musty pages makes me sneeze every now and then, but I’m determined to find some sort of answer.
Somewhere amongst the countless books, there has to be a clue as to what the darkness was.
Green lamps float around the room, offering just enough light for me to comfortably read.
When guarding Maeve, it became a habit to read from her collection.
She kept such a wide variety of books—some very informational, some historical, others romantic.
There’s an entire shelf of erotic books in the left back corner of the room, and while I’m curious, exploring those isn't my focus tonight.
Finding a way out of this mess is.
Morgan and I haven’t killed each other.
Yet.
She is driving me insane, though. I’m fully convinced that Maeve bound me to Morgan just so someone could keep her safe from herself. Without fail, the witch falls or bumps into something every day. Almost to the hour. Then, if I save her, she gets annoyed with me.
As if I don’t feel every bump and bruise.
We’ve made it three weeks, yes. But next week is the full moon. I’m not sure how to protect her from herself, from me, and from the darkness.
I’ve always prided myself on my ability to get anything done when I put my mind to it. I simply never fail. It isn’t an option.
An old tattered book of spells sits on my knee, the words blurring together. Some of these pages are in a language I don’t know. There are notes in the margins, but they’re in messy cursive, and I have a headache gnawing at the base of my skull.
This isn’t working. Nothing is. With a groan, I snap this book shut and replace it with another. I wrinkle my nose as dust spits from the pages. I swear I see book lice.
Somewhere in this damn library, there has to be an answer.
Maeve spent so much time here when she wasn’t at the community center, that some days I’d ended up bringing her food.
I distinctly remember a day where she stayed in here for twelve hours, writing and writing until her withered fingertips were stained with ink.
Was she planning out her little curse then?
It’s strange. I never cared about her, not really. She was dry and direct and mean if she didn’t have her tea. The two months of protecting her were so painfully boring at times. It was easy. Too easy.
Maeve rarely talked about Morgan, but looking back, the things she said make my hackles rise.
I’m not sure what’s worse—growing up without a family or growing up with someone who is supposed to love you but doesn’t.
I don’t envy Morgan’s childhood. The bits and pieces I've already learned enrage me.
It’s silly, really, that I feel anything for her at all other than pure frustration. The way she was raised doesn’t concern me.
Another pointless book. I set it aside, reach for another, and go through the same process about ten more times. It’s not until my eyes start burning that I think it’s time to give up. Not forever, but just for the night.
I’m no closer to a solution. It’s aggravating. I run my fingers through my hair and lie back on the rug, staring up at the ceiling. There’s a mural at the center of the Goddess, Selene. A dark night surrounds her and a full moon creates a halo behind her head. She has blue hair like Morgan.
In werewolf lore, Selene isn’t a witch. Neither is she a werewolf or a daimon.
She simply is. But in all of the depictions of her by witches, she wields magic the same way.
It’s a point of tension in a lot of communities, but I stay out of it.
I couldn’t care less if Selene is a witch or a werewolf or a daimon.
She could be a toad, and I’d feel the same way about her.
I don’t think the moon is her eye. I don’t think she watches over us.
I don’t think she cares for any of us. Because if she did, I would have never lived through what happened to my pack.
I would never have been locked away and hidden by my own mother, only to sit alone in the darkness and feel my packbonds be cut one by one.
I felt my family die, but I was too young to fight. Too young to stop it from happening.
Maeve cursed me, but it’s not my first one to bear. My first curse was being born as a werewolf and told I’m the strongest there will ever be, only to be the reason everyone I loved died.
I push the memories away before they take root. If I don’t, then I’m not getting off the floor. I’d really like to be in my bed, not trapped in a waking nightmare of bad memories.
I gather all the books and carry them to the towering shelves. The library is round, and at the center there’s a stately oak desk with a green banker’s lamp, everything neat and orderly.
I shelve the final book, but the one next to it catches my eye. I drag my fingertips down the black leather spine, feeling the indents of pressed foil.
Shadow Seers.
“Hmm.” I pluck the book off the shelf and carry it to the desk. I’m tired, but not enough to not indulge my curiosity.
Being a werewolf means my magic is innate.
I can’t cast spells like a witch. Growing up, I always laughed when I heard about dark magic until I saw firsthand how devastating it can be.
Shadow Seers are rare, but when they are born, they are truly vile.
Evil creatures who will destroy communities, cities, the world.
I drag out the chair and sit. It creaks under me, but holds. No more sitting on the floor, or else my spine is going to protest. I settle in, resting my face in my palm.
Goosebumps rise over my skin as I flip to the first page.
Countless notes are scrawled into the margins. Words crossed out furiously, sentences rewritten. Not TRUE!!!! is in giant letters on the second page, an entire paragraph circled multiple times.
What the hell is this? This doesn’t look like Maeve’s writing. I’ve seen hers on the papers Mr. Byrne had for us, but this . . .
This is chaotic. Angry. Every drop of ink carries fury. I can almost taste the rage in the air. The book pulses like a heart, too alive for something that shouldn’t be.
I don’t like this. For a second, I consider shelving it again, but I’m too curious. If it can give me answers on how to help Morgan and myself, then it’s worth the goosebumps.
Something sharp stabs my lower stomach, wrenching through all my muscles. “What the fuck?” I gasp, doubling over the book. What the hell is that?
I haven’t eaten anything strange. I have a stomach of steel. I can digest bones, for goddess—
The sharp pain hits my abdomen again. I breathe out a curse, hunching over, clutching myself. I slam the book shut. Is it from this fucking book? If I get another fucking curse from—
The pain comes again and this time, I lean back, ripping my belt off and yanking my shirt up. I search my skin and muscles, expecting to see open wounds.
Nothing is there.
Which means . . .
Someone is hurting Morgan.
I’m up in a blink.
My bones crunch as I tear through the house, my body growing and shifting. The pain stabs again and I wail, my steps faltering. I nearly hit my knees.
No. I can’t fail her.
I make it to her side of the house. With a snarl, I hit her door. It crumples beneath my body, flying open. I’m going to rip whoever is hurting her to shreds—
Morgan is in her bed under the duvet.
The pain comes again, but she’s alone. No one is in her room except for her. Panic blooms in my chest as I inhale.
Blood. I smell blood.
Privacy be damned, I go to her bed and grab the blanket, ripping it off. Morgan’s naked body lies against the sheets, pale in the darkness. She doesn’t wake. I make a note to myself that Morgan will sleep through anything, apparently. This makes protecting her even harder.
Every part of me screams to find the source of the blood. I lower my nose to her, breathing her in until I scent the blood between her thighs.
Morgan stirs, a soft whimper leaving her. The pain follows and fuck.
My knees hit the floor as it splinters through muscles I’ve never felt before. Even during my toughest workout routines, I’ve never felt something like this before. With a shaky breath, I spread the blanket back over her, shifting back to my regular form. I give her another gentle shake.
“Morgan,” I croak. “Are you okay? What’s wrong? What’s hurting you?”
Her eyes open and she raises her head, blinking at me. She’s so sleepy. Can she not feel this pain? Is it just me? “What . . . what are you doing?”
“You’re hurt,” I rasp. I’m panicking as I think about what this means. How can I protect her if the enemies were invisible? What the fuck am I supposed to do about that? “Something is wrong. You’re bleeding. Are you okay?”
She blinks again, but then sits up. She looks down at herself, then groans. “Damn it.”
“What? What is it? What’s wrong?” I need her to tell me what’s happening, or I’m going to start yanking my hair out.
“I just ruined my sheets. I swear this hasn’t happened in fucking years. I wasn’t supposed to start yet.”
“Start what?!” I whine as a wave of pain comes again.
She snorts and raises a brow at me. She still looks half asleep, her defenses down. She’s soft like this. Not so angry and defiant. “My period. I started my period early. Wait, is that . . . First of all, what the fuck are you doing in my bedroom?”
“I felt pain. Your pain. Then smelled blood.” I’ve aged ten years in the span of sixty seconds. “I thought you were dying.”
She barks out a full laugh, one that makes her breasts shake. And now my attention is less on my panic, and more on how fucking gorgeous she is.
I love her body. Every curve and swell and her softness. In my panic, I didn’t take a moment to truly appreciate her, and that has to be my gravest mistake yet. I want to bury my head between her breasts—
“I’m not dying,” she laughs. “No. This is fine. Happens every month. These are normal cramps.”
“Normal? This can’t be normal.”
The pain comes again, and I start panting. The scent of her blood is too much. Something inside me hates the idea of her hurting so much, but I can’t fix this. I can’t stop her period from happening. What am I supposed to do? Am I supposed to just suffer the pain with her?
“How can I help?” I whisper.
Morgan lets out a gentle hum. “I’ll be okay, Sylvan. You don’t need to worry about me.”
“Let me help.” I look up at her. I’m still kneeling beside her bed like some sort of subservient wolf, which isn’t like me. I’m not submissive at all. I’m an alpha. Dominant all the way to my marrow. But . . . “I can’t stand this. The pain is too much.”
The corner of her mouth lifts. “Maybe you need me to comfort you. We could set you up with some chocolate and a heating pad, if you’d like.”
She can poke all the fun at me she wants, but all I can think is that maybe she’s given me the answer. If she’s experiencing this sort of pain, then I feel inclined to do something. I wouldn’t wish this on my worst enemy. Well, perhaps my worst enemy.
“Would that help you? To have those things?”
Morgan’s brows shoot up. She assesses me for a moment, then pulls the blankets up and around herself. A flare of disappointment flares in my chest. The primal part of me wants her always naked and ready and . . . fuck. What the fuck is wrong with me?
“What would help at this moment is you letting me clean up. You can go back to sleep. Sorry you’re feeling my cramps.”
“I wasn’t sleeping,” I sigh, standing up.
She goes very still and so do I.
One downside to being a werewolf is that shifting completely shreds your clothing, which is why I keep so many sets of the same outfit.
But that means I’m completely naked now.
What I’ve learned since living with Morgan is that her damn raspberry violet scent almost permanently keeps my cock hard. I’ve gotten used to tucking it against my waistband so my erection won’t be noticed when it happens, but I don’t have a waistband now.
I’m naked. Completely, fully bare.
And so hard. So painfully fucking hard.
Morgan swallows hard. “Wow.”
I close my eyes, trying to gather the shreds of my ego and humility and . . .
“You shifted to get to me?” she asks.
Her eyes are still on my cock. It flexes in response. I can’t help it, or the fact that my knot throbs beneath her gaze.
“Yes.” I back away from her, glowering as I gather the shreds of my clothing.
“I’ve heard orgasms help cramps.”
My brain stops working. I freeze in place, my nostrils flaring. I can’t turn around and look at her, because if I do, I’ll pin her against her mattress and spend the rest of my life making her come for me.
I can’t do that.
Mate.
These thoughts are getting out of control. She is not my mate. Morgan Foxglove is not my mate.
“Do you have a . . . way to take care of yourself?” I ask without turning around. Fuck, my cock is so hard. I look down at myself, watching as my knot swells, desperate to be locked inside her.
“Yes. You can go now, wolf. Unless you’re going to stand there and watch me.”
I want to. Instead, I tighten my grip on my ruined clothes and flee her room like a coward.
The wolfish part of me threatens to take over with every step away from her, demanding I go back.
Demanding I take care of her. Why would I let her come alone when I can be there, coaxing an orgasm from her over and over again until she’s my mess?
I’m being unreasonable again, especially given my lack of sexual experience. But, I’m a fast learner. I would figure out exactly how to make her come and then I’d spend hours perfecting it.
This time I don’t have a full moon to blame. This is me. Every unwelcome thought. Every potent, gut-wrenching desire.
I pass by the library and growl at myself. I retrieve the Shadow Seer book off the desk and carry it back to my room.
I need to get as far away from Morgan as I can.
That cramping pain comes again as I flop down on my bed.
How long do periods last again? A couple days? A week? How does she do this every month? Why haven’t we solved the pain of periods yet? Why isn’t there magic for that?
I hiss through my teeth as the pain comes again.
It’s going to be an endless, sleepless night.