Chapter 11
Chapter Eleven
How was it possible to feel everything when there was nothing to feel? No skin. No heartbeat. No breath. Only love. Tender, yet rough. My body writhed beneath his, asking him for everything. I wanted passion. I wanted his baby.
—Lorinne Leroux’s private journal.
Everything was peaceful in Elmwood Forest. The birds sang their morning tune, the wind whirled, and the sun gleamed. Yet there was a black cloud looming ahead. It wasn’t shadow magic or even smog, just a feeling as she approached Westley’s cabin.
Winter’s wand secured her top-knot in place and she used her broom like a walking stick, helping her navigate the treacherous footpath.
She listened to the stirring wind for some guidance. Nothing. She approached the door, raised her fist, but stopped herself from knocking. He’d tell her to leave again.
She dropped her hand and let out a long breath.
New plan.
Creeping around the cabin, she looked for a cracked window or side door. She sank in snow everywhere she walked. As she moved around back, she spotted a cellar.
Bingo.
Except, something was wrong. The storm had concealed the damage from afar. Several chicken carcasses had been torn apart, as if ravaged by a bear. She chewed on her bottom lip. Where was all the blood? Luckily for them, these hens must’ve been killed before being shredded to bits.
Her nose led her to the forest floor.
She knelt down, using her gloved hands like little shovels and started digging.
More chickens.
They were stored under the snow like it was a freezer. Werewolves were either very practical, or totally creepy.
As much as Winter wanted to believe a bear had torn into a shifter’s stockpile, she knew who the real perpetrator was. Westley—the animal. He hadn’t even thawed them.
Gross.
She pulled her wand free, pointed the tip towards the carcasses, and made a swirling motion. “Tersus sursum.” The Cleanup Spell would take the chickens to heaven, or wherever animal remains went.
After wiping her hands like she’d done the work herself, she approached the cellar doors. They stemmed from the ground like an entrance to a vampire’s lair. She swiped some snow off and pulled up on the handles, only to be met with resistance.
She frowned.
Despite her upbringing and training, Winter often forgot she was a witch.
Ah, right.
Only locks crafted by mages were immune to magical picking and she had a feeling Westley didn’t have access to or want such conveniences. She aimed her wand at the handles and whispered, “Reserare ostium.”
Two reassuring clicks sounded.
The heavy doors opened with a protesting whine, and she stepped inside. Everything was so dark. After closing them behind her, she used her wand like a flashlight and whispered, “Illuminare.” The tip lit up like a cute alien finger.
Softly stepping down the stone stairs, she left clumps of snow in her wake.
This was Westley’s basement. The worktable was still laden with odd tools, and the floor space was empty, except for one jug of maple syrup.
Much to her relief, there was no cage in sight.
It was strange to think she’d almost been eaten alive down here.
A couple thuds stole her attention, freezing her mid-stride.
No noise followed.
She moved to the bottom of the open staircase, set her broom against the banister, and made her way up. Her heart beat faster with every footstep. Maybe barging in like this was a bad idea, but it was too late to second-guess her choices.
At the top, she blew on the tip of her wand to end the Illumination Spell, and put her hair back up.
She faced the door, took a steadying breath, and then another. Was she really breaking-and-entering?
A moment ago
Westley jolted awake to the sound of metal creaking. Even in his current state, his wolf senses refused to quit. Reluctantly, he rolled out of bed and stumbled to the window.
He made it just in time to see the cellar doors closing from within. A part of him wanted to go back to bed. These days, he slept until noon, stared at the ceiling, considered doing a chore, then started drinking again. But his body refused to ignore the threat.
It was likely a human hunter.
With their on-going war, mortals had been rationed by their own government.
Between his unkept property and isolated cabin, a break-in had been bound to happen.
He staggered into the hall and made his way down the staircase.
Being that he was half-awake and hungover, he fell and slid down it instead. Bracing the wall silenced his landing.
He groaned and made his way to the basement door.
With silent footsteps, he’d catch the thief off-guard.
Pulverizing a human skull would feel very good this morning.
Plucking out eyeballs with his claws would feel even better if he could shift.
He wasn’t in any condition to properly fight an immortal, but mortals were easy to put down.
His grogginess faded when he was about ten steps from the door. His vision sharpened, his blood heated, his shoulders shook as he inhaled that intoxicating scent.
This wasn’t a mortal. Winter was here—the version that haunted him.
Insatiable hunger struck him at the same time his tremors returned. He placed a hand on the handle, watching it jiggle beneath his grip. The whiskey would have to wait its turn. First, there was a witch to claim. He didn’t care if she was an illusion; he’d warned her to leave him alone.
Westley swung the door open and growled, “You.” There was nothing kind in his tone. This wasn’t going to be a pleasant mating ceremony. After all, alphas didn’t love. They fucked.
“Me,” Winter giggled, supposing her B this was the monster he’d warned about.
She tried to squirm away, but he held her tighter. “Do not fight me, witch.”
“I’m a wolf,” she wheezed. “Why are you doing this?”
Pure anger flashed over his sullen face. “Because you don’t exist. I’m in charge now.”
What?
There wasn’t time to understand this drunken behavior. She reached for her wand, prepared to make him suffer, but he pinned her wrists before she could retrieve it.
“Do. Not. Fight. Me.” He barked each word.
He was just like those alphas she’d read about in the palace—blinded by the way they treated others, only serving their own needs. How was it possible that he was so strong and weak at the same time?
It was time to remind him he wasn’t the only alpha in this room. She matched his viscous cadence, biting out each word. “Let. Me. Go.”
He dropped his arms like a wind-up toy had run out of steam.
Winter withdrew her wand as if she unsheathed a dagger, and pointed it at him. “If you ever threaten me again, mark my words, Westley Tate Sterling, you’re minced meat.”
He nodded numbly. She looked up just to be sure there was no one on the rafters tugging invisible strings.
Winter wasn’t exactly sure why her wand intimidated him—he didn’t know the true damage she could cause. However, it’s possible her snow-bullet trick had fooled him into thinking it was a real gun.
She used her pistol to gesture behind him. “Sit the fuck down before I shoot.”
This was a room she recognized. There was an unlit fireplace, a sea of floor beds, and a single sofa. The second sofa had been smashed against the wall on her last trip into the past.
Westley staggered backwards, glaring at her the entire time. When his calves hit the edge of the couch, he collapsed onto it.
“Better,” she crooned.