Chapter 14
Chapter Fourteen
Where are you? Was I nothing more than a temporary lover, a seed? You were supposed to stay until I died. Was my body not worthy? Was I not worthy?
—Lorinne Leroux’s private journal.
Winter’s wand could do just about everything, except create flames.
Only elemental mages like her entire family were blessed with that gift.
It could, however, conjure sparks for kindling, siphon fire from an existing source, and even thaw frozen meat—like the chicken she’d dug up from the snowy graveyard out back.
West was in Mellie’s bedroom, resting. Her bed was the only one with clean sheets. The others were wrinkled, patched with dried semen, and stiff with sweat. Winter had to threaten him with her wand, or else he would’ve flopped onto his disgusting mattress after his bubble bath.
He’d mumbled something about draining all of his energy while chasing her around, then drifted right off to sleep. His snoring rumbled through the house like a sound machine. She wasn’t positive if her new hearing was that sensitive, or if West was more bear than wolf.
It was soothing, nonetheless. As was pulling all the guts from this chicken carcass.
Winter held its tiny heart in her hand, admired it, then tossed it in the pot of water with the rest of the innards.
Finding everything she needed from the kitchen had taken longer than it’d taken her to clean the entire house.
Her wand had a lot of abilities, but it didn’t have the power of prediction.
Only oracles, orbs, and stupid books like The Gilded Chronicles could do that.
Winter shuddered.
She’d given Magdalene the dubious honor of reshelving that book. Winter didn’t want to know anything else about what her future entailed, and according to Kaden, the time-traveling guru, she shouldn’t know.
Fucking asshole.
She switched gears. Mellie’s stove was gas-powered and required an engineering degree. After a lot of cursing and one small fire, she managed to heat up a burner and the oven.
With the stock simmering, she covered the chicken in oil and sprinkled it with salt for roasting.
Winter wasn’t a chef, but being the occasional sous for Magdalene had taught her some things about old-fashioned cooking.
Westley would probably hate her all over again when he woke up, but he’d still need to eat.
There was a battle to prepare for and a queen to kill.
Once the bird was in the oven, she sat, drank tea, and waited for it to finish. The kitchen table was surrounded by a big bay window, so she’d drawn the curtains, letting in the bright afternoon light. It was nice watching the snow sprinkled over the endless expanse of evergreens.
Suddenly, her sound machine cut and a thunderous roar erupted.
Oh, shit.
It was a good thing she’d kept her armor on. She trusted West, but this wasn’t him anymore. It was the haunted version. If he tried to hurt her again, she’d hurt him first. If he tried to leave this house for alcohol, she’d force him to stay.
Winter marched out the door to face the beast head-on. She strolled down the hall, eyeing the staircase. He wasn’t tumbling down it or anywhere in sight. She looked left then right, wondering if he was hiding. Hide-and-seek wasn’t a game she usually played.
Wand in hand, Winter crept through the house.
West bellowed once more. It rang loud and clear from upstairs, stopping her mid-step. She ran to the steps, traversing them two at a time, and flung Mellie’s door open. Winter held her wand out, aiming to sedate the wild animal, but what she saw sent her rushing to his bedside instead.
He fought the sheets like there were snakes in there with him. His face was beet red, sweat beaded from his pores, and his eyes were pinched shut. Then he screamed like a banshee—so loud she had to cover her ears.
His torment was unbearable. This wasn’t a simple nightmare; this was detox.
He jolted upright, panting. “I’m hot. I’m too hot. Please, help me.”
“I can. Magically.” She waved her wand, warning him.
He squeezed his temples like he was about to crush his own head. “Anything. I can’t be in my body anymore.”
She pointed the tip to his temple. After repeating the Pain Liberator Spell, she whispered, “Moderari temperatus,” then set her wand down. “There. That should help with the pain and regulate your body temperature.”
His relief was short-lived. A moment later, he vomited over the edge of the bed and kept heaving until nothing else came up. “You should leave,” he grumbled, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.
“Not yet.” She ignored the smell, sat beside him, and rubbed his back.
Silence eddied between them for a few minutes. His breathing slowly eased, becoming less rapid, less shallow.
“Thank you,” he mumbled, trapping her gaze with his.
He didn’t need words to convey how grateful he was. The returning glint in his hazel eyes showed her that—and maybe something more. “The spells are basic first-aid, there’s no need to thank me.”
“I meant for staying,” he clarified.
Her heart spun around in its ivory cage. Was this … tenderness? From West?
“You can take this off now,” he whispered, sliding a finger across her armored thigh.
Oh, she much preferred it when he talked less. Winter bypassed warm—her whole body was burning up. “No,” she replied firmly.
He traced small circles over her knee. “I promise I won’t hurt you. I promise I know I was wrong.”
Why was he being so gentle? A promise? He was supposed to be sick, and yet his finger didn’t stop. She brushed his hand off and considered using the Temperature Regulation Spell on herself. “Why do you care if I’m shielded?”
“Because if my armor is off, it’s only fair if yours is,” he answered.
Was he speaking metaphorically? This vulnerability kick he was on would not be her weakness. “Fair is foul and foul is fair.”
He frowned. “Are you quoting the witches from Macbeth? Fine. I deserve that.”
He did—they were looking at this through different lenses. What he deemed fair was foul to her. If she removed her armor, giving him what he wanted, she’d lose her protection. Then what would happen? Macbeth wasn’t loyal—he fed off evil.
Abruptly, West’s face contorted with confusion. He sniffed towards the door and moved to stand. “Is Mel here?”
Winter pulled him back down because he should be resting. “No, she’s not.”
“But that smell …”
She shook her head. “I’m making you soup. Chicken and rice. I think your stomach will appreciate something simple.”
West subsided. As his head hit the pillow, he had the nerve to say, “Perhaps your armor isn’t as strong as you think it is.”
Westley’s disappointment that Mel hadn’t been the one cooking quickly faded. Winter was. She cared enough to stay. To tend to him. To cook. It was unexpected, given how much pain he’d caused her. Although, he’d be foolish not to bask in her embrace—metallic or not.
She’d gone downstairs about an hour ago, muttering about draining the stock.
But before that, she’d kept up a soothing stream of mundane chatter.
He’d soaked up every one of her updates: progress at the archives, how annoying Everett was, her friendship with Magdalene, and even her interview with the town newspaper for being the first witch able to fly.
Sure, he craved the taste of alcohol, but he craved her more. Convincing Winter he was worthy of her love was going to be a challenge—he hardly had faith in himself. She didn’t even trust him enough to lay down her shield. Instead, she’d quoted Macbeth.
He’d seen the play a few years ago. His pack had been given tickets as a gift for protecting the mortals in Elmwood Square after a heinous vampire attack. Although Westley wasn’t fond of the big city, he’d made an exception in this case and allowed the pack to go. Mel had been the most excited.
It was an interesting show, and the opening scene had been his favorite part. The witches were mysterious and cunning. They were drawn to Macbeth's sinful nature, ultimately warping his entire life—the same way Winter had changed his.
He couldn’t help but think his own life was beginning to feel a lot like a Shakespearen play. All that was missing was a prophecy.
Winter finished carving all the meat from the chicken carcass. She was about to start shredding it when the wind blew into the kitchen, knocking spices off the counter.
She grabbed the spoon and brandished it like a weapon. “Quit it. I’m cooking soup.”
The wind had never bothered her indoors before. Westley must’ve cracked a window, and considering how ill he was, the fresh air would do him some good.
Air swirled over the stove, and rattled the lid off her pot. “Back off!” she shouted, swatting it. Her eyes widened in disbelief because it was fighting back. “What are you doing?”
Wind wrapped around her body, layer upon layer, condensing like a cool cocoon, and pushed her out of the way.
“Let go of me.” She wiggled without give. It wasn’t hurting her, but it was restraining her. A tendril of air quickly escaped, looping back to the soup. “Stay out of there,” she warned.
It disregarded her request, sloshing the broth around. The force was supernatural. Liquid never breached the surface, but splashed up the sides like it should be. It used its own magic to retain the contents. At least, it better be.
“You’re going to ruin it!”
The wind unwound itself, setting her free with a dizzying spin. She opened her eyes when the room finally steadied. Her airy companion spun away, though it didn’t go far.
What the fuck was it up to?
She stepped up to the stove, slowly peering in the pot. “No, no, no.”
Wicked words had been spelled out with rice, sitting on the surface of the broth. Disbelief tumbled through her. She reached for her spoon, desperate to stir it all away, but the wind swirled over and slapped her wrist.
“Ouch!”
It didn’t want her to destroy the words, it wanted her to read them.
Westley Tate is your true mate. Save him before it’s too late.
Her heart stopped.
The wind must’ve noticed because it smacked her in the chest. She coughed, pushed it away, and slid the lid back on the pot.
The universe kept yanking her heart out and giving it away like it was never truly hers to begin with. Westley—the huntsman—probably had a small box, ready to take it back to his true master. The evil queen who’d marked him.
Winter started shredding the chicken meat. Ripping through muscle fibers helped calm the chaos in her head.
Utter.
Fucking.
Chaos.