Chapter 6
Chapter Six
I need to get rid of the monster inside me. I need him out. Out. Out.
—Lorinne Leroux’s private journal.
Westley jammed the shovel into the edge of the footpath, making a sharp line in the snow. It wasn’t that deep, but tending to it was still a nuisance.
His world started to spin. He closed his eyes, surrendering to the sea of nausea, and waited for calmer waters. This particular hangover had lasted for about two weeks.
One chore, he’d told himself, then he could start drinking again. He wasn’t sure why he bothered with this particular task anymore. Mel wouldn’t be checking on him—she was ignoring him.
Westley opened his eyes, belched loud enough to scare a small flock of birds away, and went back to shoveling.
He’d protected no one but himself over the years.
Feeding his own ego.
Using his sister to buffer his perpetual grief.
Never had he asked Mel what she needed. Instead, he’d spent years telling her what she didn’t need.
He’d made her feel unworthy of love when she was the most deserving of it.
Mel was a devoted sister, a tender mother, and a ferocious omega.
He should’ve been lifting her spirits up, not diminishing them.
Solitude was deserved.
He was the real monster. One with sharp teeth and claws. One that lacked integrity. And one that would be better off dead.
Aside from this path, there would be no other evidence that he remained alive. No light flickered from the windowsills, no smoke billowed from the chimneys, and no herbaceous smells drifted from the kitchen. Flames and warm food were pointless when there was no one else here.
When the strip of snow leading to the cabin was cut and cleared, he stomped inside.
An open bottle of whiskey sat on the table next to the coat rack.
A few swigs later, he swiped his tongue over his teeth, savoring the liquid heat.
He didn’t leave the bottle, he took it with him as he shuffled down the hall.
Three generations of packs were photographed and hanging on the walls of this house.
These pictures pre-dated paper photography, and were pressed to silver plates.
The precious metal reminded him of Winter.
Not because she was a wolf who’d once adorned herself with it, but because she was resilient, shining brighter than the metal itself.
She’d brandished these as weapons against him, an impulsive and ingenious act of self-defense.
The memory of hurting her made him boil with anger. Without another thought, he turned to the wall and slammed his fist into it.
Several pictures tumbled to the floor.
Westley eyed his knuckles, inspecting the combination of red tones. Fresh and old blood slept in the crevices of his skin, slumbering in his pores and crusting over. He’d never washed the stains off from last night, or the nights before that.
He brought the rim of the whiskey bottle to his lips and he tipped his head back. It didn’t burn going down anymore. If anything, it wasn’t hot enough.
After a few big gulps, he grunted and made his way up the cedar staircase. The dusty floorboards didn’t bother him like they usually would, nor did all the bits of dirt and snow his boots tracked in along the way. Sweeping the stairs could be his next chore, but he’d worry about that tomorrow.
Today, he needed to drink. And if the liquor didn’t land soon, he’d happily claw his brains out.
His bedroom was at the top of the staircase. The furthest of the three rooms was where he’d kept Winter—his true mate. Every glimpse of it fueled his desire to suffer.
He swung his door open and didn’t bother shutting it; no one was coming. He’d ordered Everett to manage the shifts at the archives, and given a formal notice that he was to be left alone.
Following orders was his second’s strongest suit.
Westley trudged over to the bed and sat on the edge. Legs spread, he settled the bottle between them and hung his head.
The sigh that escaped him rumbled through his unkept room.
He might’ve hated Xavier, but he’d never wanted him dead. How was he supposed to lead the Hampden Pack? He didn’t want this responsibility any more than Xavier's wolves wanted him to have it. The alliance had been set in place to bolster both packs, not divide them.
With the mourning period ending, the tournament would start soon.
Betas from the Hampden Pack will fight in several rounds.
Losers would be eliminated, winners would advance.
The matches could take weeks, maybe a month, but the champion would battle him to the death.
And the winner would rightfully earn the alpha title for both packs.
Westley glanced at the tattoos on his knuckles. He was tired of killing wolves for challenging his title, so this time he wasn’t going to.
Death would suit him well.
One week later
Westley held his breath beneath the water’s surface, curious how long it would take for him to pass out.
A familiar face materialized there with him.
It was Winter, but without a body. Her hazel eyes stared into his and her long golden-brown hair danced in the strange current around her.
She looked like a siren, arriving to sing him to his death.
But instead of luring him deeper, she encouraged him upward.
Her red lips pouted when he ignored her.
This wasn’t simple inebriation; it was a delusion his mind had crafted into existence. He clamped his eyes shut, trying to push the image away. She’d haunted him like this at The Sea Shanty. It’d been so vivid then; so real.
He’d felt her skin beneath his fingertips.
Her scent in his nose.
Warm amber with notes of vanilla had erased all the rotten smells in that tavern. He’d indulged, inhaling in every bit he could. The desire to claim her had been strong. So very fucking strong. Winter, it appeared, was more intoxicating than Elmwood’s finest.
Westley breached the surface in a panic, his breath escaping in bursts.
He called this madness Witchcraft by Whiskey. His mind, thanks to the effects of alcohol, had warped his reality. There wasn’t anyone there to tell him what was real and what wasn’t.
He climbed out of the tub, stumbled across the open threshold to his bedroom, and fell atop his mattress. There were no clean towels or clothes, only his unmade and unwashed sheets. The springs squeaked and bounced until he finally settled flat onto his back.
The windows were covered, but the sun was unrelenting. Unwelcome light crept through the thin fabric. He drifted his gaze up to the cedar ceiling, staring at the wooden whorls. It was easy to get lost in their spirals.
His chore for the day—bathing—had taken a lot out of him.