Chapter 16
Chapter Sixteen
Our souls were bound by a curse. One could not live without another. At least, that was how it always was.
—Lorinne Leroux’s private journal.
Winter had never slept in the same bed as a bear before. Plot twist: she liked it. But West couldn’t know that. She moved his oversized hand off her hip, flung the covers off, and sprinted to her room.
What the fuck, Winter?
She was mad at herself. This wasn’t the way to go about protecting her heart. She’d let a grumpy werewolf claw right through her safeguards, exposing her worst fear.
Falling again.
Getting closer to West was a dangerous game, and she was losing. She wouldn’t let herself get that close again.
Ever.
Westley’s body was expelling a different type of demon this morning—the white and sticky kind. He’d jerked off two times and still had more to give. To his relief, Winter had left the bedroom early.
He wanted her so badly it was beginning to hurt. Worse, there was no other wolf to scratch the itch. Not even Keltia. The visuals in his mind had long been replaced by Winter. Her hazel eyes. Her red lips. Her wet—
Westley groaned, wiping off his dick. He had to stop thinking about burying himself inside her pussy every time he finished. Winter deserved so much better than his wicked imagination. She wasn’t his omega to fuck; she was an alpha with her own priorities.
Asking her to stay with him had been selfish.
He was supposed to be gaining her trust back, not tarnishing it.
And yet her warmth, bundled in his arms, had been more intoxicating than any liquor.
He yearned for more. There was no option but to give her space.
He’d explode otherwise, ruining everything they’d built.
Westley shook his head, his dick, all of it. Longing wasn’t respectable alpha behavior.
There was a knock on his door, one soft thump. “Are you okay?”
Winter.
He covered himself. “Yeah. Give me a minute.” His words came out in a jumble. She probably thought he was still sick, which he was, but not in the way she thought. It wasn’t his liver that was aching at the moment.
“Okay, great.” There was relief in her tone. “I made breakfast. Come downstairs when you’re ready.”
Breakfast?
He’d thought all the vanilla in the air was her, but two more sniffs confirmed the presence of another ingredient: maple syrup.
The morning sun was strong as it streamed in through the bay window, but not as strong as the smell of West’s arousal.
Did he wash his hands before coming to the table?
Winter wanted to toy with him, maybe twist his finger around as he’d once done to her, but after the pain he’d experienced last night, she held back.
He continued to inspect his oatmeal.
“Is it okay?” she asked.
“Mel usually puts apples in it … and a little milk on top.”
Winter’s lower jaw jutted forward. “Apples aren’t in season. And everything in this house was rotten.” She glared at him pointedly, hoping to emphasize that he, too, had been rotten.
“But …” He raised his spoon. “She’s never put maple syrup in it or vanilla.”
“Is this a good or a bad thing?”
He took a bite. “Very good.”
Was someone feeling better? He was teasing her and eating well. His voice was smoother, his hands less shaky. There was shine to his snow-white hair. It was still messy, but she liked the way it tumbled over his forehead.
He was recovering fast.
Werewolves metabolized alcohol quickly compared to other species, resulting in faster recoveries. Her magic had facilitated his detox, but she wouldn’t rub that bit in. “Well, I’m just glad you’re feeling better.”
Did she just say that out loud?
He gave her a small smirk and reached for another helping.
Her hard work had been paying off, it seemed.
West was looking and acting alive. The library was coming together.
Things were good, for now. Except there was still the matter of his upcoming battle and the queen.
Eventually, she would have to stop playing caretaker and ask him to consider things more seriously.
He needed to be preparing for a fight, not fucking himself.
“After you’re done eating, I think we should practice shifting.”
He set his spoon down, flicking his hazel eyes to hers. The hue was vibrant this morning. “You want to practice?”
“I mean you,” she clarified. “You need to practice.”
He quirked a brow. “And you don’t?”
Rude. “Well, I do, but your fight is soon.”
His shoulders and tone stiffened. “I’m not fighting, Winter.”
What did he mean, not fighting? He had a title to maintain and a pack to protect. “But what about the hierarchy battle? There’s only …” Winter did a mental count. “Two more days.”
“Can’t we just enjoy our time together until then?”
Enjoy our time together?
What was he saying? Her jaw tightened. “You’re fighting. If you lose, what will happen to your wolves? The archives? Have you thought about what this world would look like if those books were exposed to the wrong person? Like the queen, for example? Come on. I need your help.”
Westley shoved his bowl away. “Thanks for the oatmeal, but I’m not fighting.”
At that, he was up and stomping out of the kitchen.
Winter banged her fist on the table. Was this about nobility, pride, or something else? What kind of leader backed down from this kind of fight? Not Macbeth.
Maybe she needed to trick him—like a good witch. If she could learn how to shift properly, in and out of form, she could convince him to practice with her. She’d be killing two birds with one stone.
Winter scowled, remembering she hated that metaphor.
He’d likely sniff out her witchery anyway. But was it really a lie? It wasn’t. She wanted to shift—to run. Didn’t he?
She stood and cleared the bowls. After ten minutes of tidying up the kitchen manually, remembered she had her wand and waved it around, groaning out her Cleaning Spell.
It took a few hops, but she got her second layer of leggings on. The kitchen had been warmer than her room, thanks to Mellie’s monster stove that spewed out fire like it was an elemental mage.
Winter threw on her second sweater, grabbed her wand, and aimed towards the unmade bed. “Ordinem.”
She’d dry cleaned both her and West’s clothes the same way.
The spell worked well for household items like laundry, dinnerware, upholstery, and floors.
The way the plates would stack themselves reminded her of the mortal movie about a cursed beast and a beautiful girl.
Sometimes, Winter would pretend a little old clock and candelabra were the ones relaying the cleaning orders.
If only her wand could sort through the mess she’d gotten herself into. Sleeping in West’s bed, so close to him, had been a mistake. Her heart was supposed to be frozen over. Not melting. She’d felt like the center of a cinnamon roll wrapped in arms—soft and mushy.
His scent had followed her into her dreams.
Very bad, very dirty dreams.
Winter pointed to her merciless heart and cursed. One moment it was broken, and the next it was stitching itself up without permission. She was absolutely fucked. The universe had gathered its magical thread and needle, puncturing her precious organ like Kaden had never existed.
The wind blew into her room. Who?
Had it been eavesdropping on her thoughts?
“Stay out of this.”
Why was it in the house again?
Winter marched out of the room, leaving her wand and armor behind. She wouldn’t need either to shift.