Chapter 12
Chapter Twelve
When I look at Winter, I’m reminded of my betrayal. I’m reminded that I’d do it again. I’m reminded of how sick I am.
—Lorinne Leroux’s private journal.
Westley didn’t know what kind of witch-stick Winter was waving around, but he’d heard every word she said.
His voice held no power in his present condition.
She deserved her title more than he ever would, and compelling him was proof of that.
She was tenacious. Formidable. And dangerously beautiful.
He rubbed his tired eyes, hoping to wake up from this nightmare. Was this a delusion or not? If she hadn’t bent his will, he wouldn’t have stopped himself.
This was all too confusing.
He didn’t simply want Winter, he needed her so bad his brain was conjuring her into existence.
When she’d been sucked back to the future, a part of him must’ve left with her.
Her absence fed the emptiness in his heart.
Alcohol could numb the physical pain, but it never quieted his thoughts. His desires. The loneliness.
His soul wanted to touch hers, if only for a moment.
The ghost of Winter lifted her chin and used her words to shoot him straight in the heart. “I talked to Mellie.”
If this wasn’t real, why did he feel like he was dying?
She continued over his agony. “I didn’t know Xavier was the pup’s father.
I …” Winter pushed off the wall and moved towards him.
“I’m sorry for everyone’s loss, truly. But I’m still really disappointed in you.
I don’t know what’s going on in that thick head of yours, but if you don’t apologize to me, I’ll never forgive you. ”
Westley rubbed his temples.
His head pounded like it would every time he woke up. If she gave him permission to talk, he’d tell her how awful he was.
“Say something!” she shouted.
Finally.
Like water released from a dam, Westley blurted, “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to. Something is wrong with me.” He dropped his elbows on his thighs and collapsed between them.
The longer he remained in this position, the faster the room spun. He was moving in circles of shame. “Please, I need to drink something.”
“Are you asking or telling me?”
Of course he was asking. She’d ordered him to sit and speak. She was in charge. Surely, she knew that? Perhaps imaginary Winter was playing a game with him—testing his submission.
He swallowed the pool of saliva in his mouth and asked, “May I go get my whiskey now?”
She pursed her perfect lips.
Westley’s behavior was suspicious. His submission seemed real, but he could be pretending. She had to tread lightly. “And if I say no?”
He flared his upper lip.
She glared at him, wand pointing. “Are you growling at me?”
He huffed, turning away from her like a toddler.
“Answer me, Westley.”
“I didn’t mean to.” His words came out with a touch of reluctance.
Winter squared her shoulders. “Then apologize again.”
Eyes on the floor, he started, “I’m—”
“Look at me when you do it.”
Westley’s lifeless gaze wandered her way. “I’m sorry. Very, very sorry.”
That settled it. She was definitely alpha-ing him.
Despite his horrid condition and behavior, a small thrill coursed through her.
“Good. Time for your little treat. Where’s your liquor?
” If he knew what she was going to do with it, he wouldn’t tell her.
Lying—the trait he hated most about witches—was about to save his life.
“My nightstand.”
Of course it was. There had to be a reserve somewhere and she needed to destroy the source. “Do I really have to go all the way upstairs?”
Westley pointed behind him. “There’s new bottles in the kitchen.”
“Perfect. Don’t move while I’m gone.” She sauntered away.
The kitchen door was already open. Upon entering, the stench of alcohol washed over her. It reeked like The Sea Shanty in here. Worse, dozens of bottles were lined up in maze-like patterns on the floor and counters, as if ordered out of boredom.
What in the world?
Winter stepped over them like a cat, avoiding contact. His drinking was a way more serious problem than she’d initially thought. He’d mastered the craft, then made art.
There was nothing warm and homey about this room. At least, not anymore. There was no chicken roasting or sharp-toothed female serving it. Instead, curtains covered the bay window, adding a dark and dreary touch.
Three full bottles of whiskey rested on the stainless-steel counter. Whoever was still selling him this was such a dick. Then again, saying no to Westley probably wasn’t an option.
Winter snatched them all. Being careful not to knock any of his designs over, she made her way to the sink.
One …
Two …
Then three.
She poured all the whiskey down the drain.
If Winter wasn’t allowed to escape her torment, neither was Westley. They could suffer together. In the meantime, he needed to refocus. There were archives to protect and a queen to liquidate. All this self-loathing could wait.
Winter returned to the living room empty-handed.
Westley pounded his sweaty palms into the sofa. “Where’s my liquor?”
She twisted her brows, looking confused. “What?”
He sniffed, smelling the booze on her. Had she drank it? He wouldn’t put it past her—Winter was attracted to dark things as much as he was. Their shadows danced together in that way. “My whiskey. Where is it?”
“Didn’t you say it was in your room?”
His head throbbed and his hands shook, but his eyes worked just fine. They’d spent a lot of time together in Elmwood Forest. He’d studied those three little freckles on the tip of her nose, inadvertently discovering her tell.
She wrinkled it when she lied.
This wasn’t Winter, the wolf. This was the witch.
Adrenaline bloomed in his veins, reigniting his alpha traits. Winter wasn’t the one in charge, he was, and he’d fight for his alcohol. Instead of wasting precious time by knocking her out of the way, he shoved his weight back.
The sofa toppled over.
“What the fuck?” she shrieked.
He used her hesitation to his advantage by rolling over and hustling to the kitchen. The floorboards threatened to snap as he barreled across them. Meanwhile, Winter, the most cunning witch in all the land, was on his tail.
He pushed the door open with two flat palms. It struck the wall, leaving a mark. He looked past his whiskey shrine for his new bottles and saw … nothing. Fear crept up his neck in the form of tiny spiders. Thousands of them. They skittered up to his ears, crawling around his forehead like a crown.
This room, once his museum, had just morphed into a torture chamber. Bottles that had been carefully placed and stepped around smashed beneath his angry strides. He plowed through them so quickly, shattering was their only option.
He swept hands across the empty surface of the table, hoping Winter was performing an invisibility trick. But, no. She’d likely wanted his whiskey all for herself. He ducked, searching beneath it.
Nothing.
Winter was babbling something about being very cold, but he ignored her in favor of checking inside the built-in benches. It was where Mellie stored all the pots and pans. Again, there was no sign of his bottles. Where was she hiding them?
He stood with clenched fists, used the edges of his feet to push glass away, and moved to the cabinets.
“Warmer,” she singsonged.
He tore through a few without luck. Smacking the doors shut, he turned to face her. “Where’d you put them?”
She shrugged from the doorway. “I said, warmer.”
He squinted, trying to read her sly grin.
Was this another game? Westley had taught all of his wolves how to hunt properly.
The closer the hunter was to their prey, the hotter they were.
But this had everything to do with the temperature of feces and not a thing to do with whiskey. Winter was mad, sick, or both.
He tore through the next cabinet and growled.
Empty.
The moment he stepped closer to the sink, she echoed, “Warmer.”
Testing his theory, he shuffled back towards the table.
“Colder.”
He slid back to the sink.
“Very warm.”
He yanked open the doors beneath it, pulling with unnecessary force.
Nothing.
Westley stood tall, preparing to scream, but Winter beat him to it. “Hot!”
He whipped open the upper cabinets with enthusiasm, ready to greet his reward, but found empty shelves instead.
He pulled the doors off their hinges and flung them on the floor.
More glass shattered. Gripping the edge of the sink, he tried to breathe.
Why was that so difficult? His blunt nails scraped uselessly against the steel, yearning to shred it apart.
“So hot, you’re boiling,” she chirped.
Westley flicked his eyes to the witch ruining his life. “That’s not how this game works. They’re not here.”
Winter leaned against the door jamb and tapped her unwrinkled nose. She wasn’t holding back a lie, she was giving him a clue. The entire room smelled like whiskey—what was her point? He inhaled anyway and the stench led him towards the drain.
He dipped his head, sniffing.
No.
She wouldn’t dare. When he turned around in disbelief, she was gone.
Witch.
He was going to kill her.
Westley stumbled through the labyrinth of glass, hunting Winter. Her scent trail was particularly potent when her heart galloped. If he could bottle it, he’d call it Wild and Wicked.