Chapter 13
Chapter Thirteen
My Winter. My baby. My curse.
—Lorinne Leroux’s private journal.
Winter had been running all her life, flying as soon as she could. Speed was her thing. Besides, it was easy to outmaneuver a giant, hungover, poor excuse for a werewolf. His nightstand, he’d said?
She’d been held captive in this cabin before, and that was coming in handy. She already knew the lay of the land. His bedroom, one of three, was at the top of the stairs. She cleared them by the time he made it to the bottom.
His door was open, revealing a disaster.
There wasn’t time to focus on the crumpled sheets in one corner, the heap of clothes in the other, the opened drawers, empty liquor bottles, or that putrid smell.
She had to work quickly. Stepping over at least a month’s worth of filth, she grabbed the open bottle from his nightstand.
Westley made it to his threshold, panting. His eyes burned with hate as he pieced together what she was doing. “No!”
Not only did he look like death, his eyes were promising to deliver it. So much for submission. She wasn’t sure how he snapped out of his trance, but he was no match against her wand.
Winter drew the shape of a halo around her head. “Missus protego.” The Protection Spell provided fluid armor, from her head to her boots. All that was left open were her fingers, face, and hair. “You can’t hurt me now, Wolfie.”
He scrunched his face briefly, before clutching his stomach and gagging.
Using his distress to her advantage, she crawled over his bed, sprinted for the washroom, and locked herself inside. The bathtub was closer than the sink. With one eye on the door, she sat on the edge of the tub and started pouring.
The grunting and grumbling grew louder as he neared. She wiggled her arm, trying to force the whiskey out faster.
Then the door and its entire frame were ripped from the wall.
“Witch.”
The moment Westley had realized Winter was aiming to empty his whiskey, he’d gone from wanting to kill her, to needing to save the last of his liquor.
He shoved her out of the way and wrenched the bottle from her hand.
It clanked on the bottom of the tub, settling on its side.
Only a few sips remained. It wouldn’t be enough to hold him over, but he picked it up and drank it anyway.
After shaking the last drop down his throat, he sulked and mumbled, “I don’t feel so good.”
His body had not moved that fast in weeks. As the adrenaline faded from his system, the room began to spin. And there she was, rotating again. Around and around like that time in the palace. She had the same scared look on her face too.
She’d covered herself in steel, and for what other reason than to avoid his cruelty? He was such a monster.
“Tell me why you’re afraid.” He needed to hear her say how foul he was. To yell at him. To remind him he was worthless. It would make dying easier.
Winter hopped to sit on the counter and faced him. “Do you prefer the truth, or would you like me to lie?”
Their time together in the woods flashed to mind. She was playing a game; he was on his knees. He’d never knelt for another wolf before Winter. “Truth Only,” he whispered.
She stared at him for a long minute before speaking.
“I’m afraid because when I look at you, I see myself.
Someone dangerous. Someone broken. You and I, we’re like two sides of the same fucked-up mirror.
” The words were harsh, but her tone was soft.
This wasn’t the Winter he was used to hearing.
She glanced at her reflection, took a deep breath, then faced him once more.
“You don’t have to let the darkest parts of yourself define you. ”
Maybe she was right. He tugged on his hair, unable to admit it. “I’ve done horrible things.” To her. To Mel. To his pack.
“Everyone has.”
“You don’t know that.”
She shrugged. “Vampires suck people dry. Mages are excellent liars. And if werewolves were all that noble, why the need to preach it so often? Honesty can be as sinful as a curse. You’re not alone, Westley. We’ve all got our issues—some just stick out more than others.”
Was the wise wolf rearing her head? There was a small pull at the corner of his mouth, daring him to half-smile. “Interesting point of view.”
She slid off the counter, slowly approaching him. “I saw my letter on your nightstand. Did you read it?”
His lips parted. If she knew about the letter, then his mind wasn’t playing tricks on him. This version of Winter was real. But what about the other times he’d seen her? That time in the bath? In the tavern?
Bile rose from his gut.
He gripped his stomach, coughed, and then retched into the tub. He’d been so drunk for so long that he didn’t know what to believe anymore.
Winter froze, holding her witch-stick close to her chest.
He wiped his mouth on his crusty sleeve and eyed her. “It was you … every time. Wasn’t it?”
She angled her head. “What do you mean?”
“I’ve seen you. In the tub … and other times. In my dreams, mostly. At least, that’s what I thought.”
Winter nodded. “Yeah, it was me.”
He wanted to ask how it was possible, why she cared enough to contact him, and when she’d returned to this time period, but he followed her line of sight instead. There were vomit stains on his well-soiled button-down. He’d taken this shirt off the floor weeks ago.
Then her gaze wandered lower, taking in the rest. His undershorts were covered in dried cum and socks were soaked in fresh blood.
She shouldn’t see him like this.
He tugged on the button of his shirt, attempting to pry it free, but his jittering fingers fumbled. He tried again and got it half-way undone before it slipped back. “Agh!” His defeat shook the washroom.
Winter crouched down, her flexible armor near-silent. “I can help,” she offered, “if you’d like.”
He stared at her, wondering why she hadn’t run away yet. “I don’t want to wear this anymore.”
Her hazel eyes softened at the same time her fingers found the button he’d been stuck on. “Then I’ll help you get it off.”
Winter undid the last button on Westley’s flannel shirt and gave him a moment to remove it. She bent over the edge of the tub, pulled out the empty bottle, and shoved it out of sight. After rinsing his bile away, she put the rubber plug in place and filled it.
The water was too cold for someone so sick. There was a trick to boil tea kettles, and when used on a bathtub, it would make the temperature warm. She pointed her wand, reciting the Heating Spell, and then another to make foamy bubbles for privacy.
She opened her mouth to tell him to get in, but the words died on her lips.
It wasn’t his oversized pectorals that shocked her into silence, it was the marking between them.
A coiling serpent. There were no clean lines or pretty shapes, only jagged ridges that resembled scales with raised edges. This had been the work of a dull blade.
Winter only knew one immortal who bore that symbol—it was similar to the shape of the queen’s crown. “She did this to you?” The words trickled off her lips. This was exactly why she needed Westley to sober up. If he couldn’t help her kill the queen, the queen would kill them both first.
Westley covered his scar with his hand.
“I’ll take that as a yes.”
He remained quiet, hanging his head low.
This detox was going to be a lot more involved than she’d originally thought. “Go on, get in.” Winter turned around, crossed her arms, and tapped her metal boot on his stone floor.
It sounded like he fell or knocked something over, she wasn’t positive, but eventually she heard the water slosh and settle.
“I’m in,” he grumbled.
Winter sat on the edge of the tub like Mellie had once done for her. He didn’t deserve it, and yet she couldn’t walk away.
Westley’s shoulders were above water and his knees were bent. Even in his own bathroom, he was way too big. Regardless, he said, “This is comfortable.”
“Then why do you keep rubbing your head?”
“It’s pounding.”
“I can magic the pain away but …” She flashed her wand.
“You have to use your stick?” It wasn’t a jibe. His tone was simply bemused. He really had no idea what her wand was capable of.
She twirled it between her fingertips. “I can do just about anything with my wand, Westley.”
“Like making a bubble bath?”
She grinned. “And fire snow pellets at windows.”
It was slight, but he smiled.
“So, would you like some witchy relief?”
“How does it work?”
Something so normal to her was brand new to him.
Was this how it’d felt teaching her about wolf culture?
“A wand requires the feather, scale, tooth, or nail of a magical species and a woodworking mage to set it in place. They drill a hole, thread the item through, and seal it in. After the incantation, it’s as easy as point and shoot. ”
Westley scratched his temple. “Just say it’s mage stuff next time.”
She waved it around. “Is that a yes?”
He repositioned, exposing the serpent on his chest before it disappeared under the bubbles again. “I don’t deserve your magic.”
She rolled her eyes. “Westley, please.”
He dropped his head back, steadying his gaze on hers. “Call me West.”
Hmm, quite the invitation.
She wasn’t sure how to reciprocate. “O-kay, West. But I have to ask, does anyone call you East, merely to fuck with you?”
“No. And you’re making the pain worse.”
She laughed. “Alright. Sit up straight.”
He listened, sitting taller.
She aimed between his brows. A Pithing Spell would scramble his brains, killing him instantly. It was perfect for dissection prep. But she wouldn’t do that, and for some reason, he trusted her not to. “Analgesia.”
The spell took effect immediately. He stretched his neck side to side, exhaling audibly. “Wow.”
She set her wand down, reached for a cloth, and added a dollop of whatever was in the closest container. Soap or shampoo, it didn’t matter—he was as filthy as a dog. If she could hose him down out back, she would.
After making a sudsy mess, she said, “Give me your hand.”
He eyed her warily, then placed his palm in her metallic lap. She wouldn’t take her armor off until she knew the alcohol was out of his system. What he’d done was unthinkable. His issues stemmed far beyond liquor, but either way, she couldn’t trust him while he was intoxicated.
“I really don’t deserve this.”
“I know. But you’re not in any shape to do it yourself.”
One knuckle at a time, she washed the yuck away. His cuticles took extra work and the calluses required even more time.
When she finished with his fingers, she rubbed the cloth around his entire arm.
She’d examined many bodies before and none were carved quite like West’s.
Even in his worst state, his muscles were impeccably toned.
It took valiant effort not to stroke them.
Lucky for her, there were two arms to clean up.
“Next.” She shook her wrist, gesturing for him to switch.
He turned towards her and placed the hand on her lap. Warm eyes met hers, threatening to melt her armor on the spot. He didn’t speak, he stared, brushing his thumb across her knee.
She chewed on the inside of her cheek, desperate to tell him to stop touching her like that, but her heart leapt into her throat. Instincts told her to look away. To peel his fingers off her thigh. That he could hurt her.
She ignored them.
Winter neither moved nor spoke as West leaned in closer.
Too close.
Fuck.
He pressed his lips to her metallic knee—so soft and sweet her breath hitched. Holding her gaze, he whispered. “I am much obliged to you.”
With more effort than she cared to admit, she broke eye contact and scrubbed his hand. “It’s nothing,” she said. Her hormones were raging and she wouldn’t allow them to mess with her thoughts. Feeling sorry for him was vastly different than falling for him—her ovaries were confused, that was all.
He’d hurt her again.
And again.
And again.
Winter rinsed the rag, ignoring both the tinge of the water and the twinge in her heart. This wasn’t a good time to panic.
Once his upper half was clean, she tended to his feet. They were covered in cuts and one had a chunk of glass in it. “How were you even walking?”
He groaned in answer, letting her stitch the wounds. Magical sutures were sparkly and dissolved after serving their purpose—similar to magical ropes.