Chapter 25 #2
She’d experienced about five minutes of peace and harmony before her blood began to boil.
Why did her pulse always jump when he was getting closer?
Just the smell of him—like sweet cinnamon—was enough to make her palms sweat.
Magdalene must’ve noticed the hard drive crashing because she said, “We’re almost done. What’s wrong?”
West turned the corner. “Winter.”
“Ah, that answers that.”
Winter seized Magdalene’s wrist, a plea for her to stay and protect her. She needed all the support she could get.
Magdalene caught on quickly. “Westley, I’m glad you’re well. I know this must be difficult, but I think you should talk to the wolves. They need some reassurance. Lots of bickering lately.”
Westley rubbed his forehead. “Everett’s speaking to the packs. I need to speak with Winter.”
Winter swallowed, pressing her thumb into the small of Magdalene’s wrist—the skin was so delicate, she took care not to puncture it.
Westley growled. “Why won’t you look at me?”
Because it hurts too much.
How could she ever be friends with someone that made her question what timeline meant most to her? She was falling for him, and it was completely ridiculous. “We’re just busy. Magdalene’s right; the wolves aren’t doing well. You should go.”
West leaned against the bookcase, pouting. “I’m not leaving until you talk to me.”
Winter and Magdalene shared a confused look, then Magdalene betrayed her. She shook her hand free and said, “I need to get started on Division VI, you two can finish up here.” She pointed to the small stack of books on the floor. “Everything’s there.”
Winter gave Magdalene her death stare and went back to work, stacking one book at a time. She focused on the shelves. Book spines facing inward.
Books, books, books.
Westley plucked the book from Winter’s hand and placed it on the shelf.
Then he grabbed two more, keeping them in the order they were stacked, and put those away as well.
Though visibly irritated, she caught on that he was trying to help.
They worked side by side in awkward silence until there was one book left.
She slid it into place and finally looked at him.
There was no warmth in her hazel eyes. She’d gone cold, similar to the time he’d asked about her engagement. Winter was so close, yet so far.
How could he reach her?
If Everett’s instinct was right, and it usually was, then he knew what he had to do. “Keltia’s not who you think she is.”
“Who?” If the nose twitch didn’t give her lie away, her voice did. The pitch was unnaturally high.
In an effort to be patient, he said, “Keltia—the brunette shifter from last night.”
“Oh,” she said half-heartedly.
“We’ve lived together since we were young.”
Her throat bobbed. “So, you’ve been together forever?”
Why was she blinking so much? “The pack is like family, but our relationship was never more than …” He scratched his head, thinking of the right way to put this. “One of needs.”
He’d sworn to himself a long time ago that he’d never fall in love with one of his omegas—it wasn’t fair to them. He’d mastered isolating his emotions from sex. Until Winter came along, making him question if that would ever be possible again. He never stopped thinking about her.
In lieu of a reply, she made fists and stormed down the aisle.
“Winter.”
She kept going, so he rushed after her. He followed her squeaking boots down the hall to a wooden door engraved with a willow tree. She opened it, slipped inside, and then slammed the hunk of wood in his face.
This witch.
Westley cracked his neck side to side and swung the door open. If he wasn’t practicing thinking-before-breaking, he would’ve ripped it off its hinges.
It was way quieter in this room than his thoughts.
Winter was facing the built-in shelving on the left-side wall. There were maps, newspapers, folders, old books, and globe-like objects. She was focused on the oddities—not on him. Never him.
He flared his upper lip and clicked the old door shut. If Winter’s mage side was rearing its wicked head, that meant there was only way to communicate with her.
“Fine,” he shouted across the room. “We’re playing your game. Truth only.”
She glared over her shoulder.
He stood tall, folding his arms. “Ask me anything you want.”
“Anything?”
He nodded, stepping a little closer. If he didn’t give her enough space she would run.
“How many questions do I get?” A hint of sass returned to her tone.
“As many as it takes.” He gestured to the long table in the center of the room. “Will you sit with me?”
She picked a little globe off of the shelf and strolled over. “Oh, Wolfie, this ought to be good.”
He pulled out a chair for her. She ignored the offer, finding a seat farther away. He’d never met someone so hellbent on refusing a chair before. Begrudgingly, he picked a seat, but only left one empty space in between them.
She set the mage trinket down and tented her fingers on the table. “At the lake, you told me that you wanted to be friends. Was that true?”
Yes was on the tip of his tongue, but that was a lie. A need coursed through him that went far beyond friendship. And this game was about honor, something he was meant to excel at, so he said, “No.”
Winter stilled, her gold-flecked gaze heavy on his. “And your relationship with Keltia is … one of needs?”
“Was,” he corrected, though his tone was softer than it’d ever been before. He could be gentle—if that was what she needed.
Her brows furrowed. “But last night. I thought you two were …”
“No. Last night I told her I met someone who changed everything, including what I thought about mating.”
“Someone?”
He leaned closer, letting out a small growl. “Mhm.”
Winter rested her chin on her hand, smirking. “Tell me about her.”
Fuck thinking-before-breaking. He tossed the chair between them aside and dragged hers closer. With his lips a breath from hers, he said, “If the devil had a mistress, she’d put her to shame.”
Tongue dancing on the tip of her canine, she tilted her head. “Westley Tate, are you flirting with me?”
“Yes.”
“Hmm. I like it when you talk about me in the third person.”
“And I like you. The mage. The wolf. Both parts.”
Winter blushed, tapping her nose to his. Was this an invitation to kiss her? Before he could ask, Everett burst through the door.
“Sir, Hardin’s here with the report from Hampden Manor.”
Winter pulled away and picked up her little globe. She leaned back, fiddling with it. “So nice of you to join us with clothes on. Can you tell your wolves to empty out that closet once in a while? The boots stink.”
“Only if you say please.” He winked, sitting across from them.
She glared at him beneath her painted lashes. “Fuck off.”
Westley slapped the table. “Enough.” If Winter was going to swear at anyone, it would be him. If she was going to beg for anyone, it would be him. He looked towards her. “If you want me to tear his tongue out, say it.”
Her eyes were still on Everett. “I have a feeling it’s far too useful for that.”
Why was she so forward with his second and not him? This had to be a different kind of game she was playing. Something far from truthful, and rather daring.
Hardin walked in holding the library’s cat. It launched out of his arms and scurried to Winter.
“Shisoba!” she screeched. “Where have you been hiding?”
“Under my feet,” replied Hardin, taking a seat beside Everett.
The green-eyed feline wove between her legs. She scooped him up and put him on the table, petting him. “I forgot to tell you, but we have to help Felix.”
“Felix?” asked Westley. “Why?”
“The queen turned him into Shisoba.”
He blinked. Hard. “The cat is Felix?”
Winter nodded with an eerie smile strung across her face.
Hardin and Everett spoke at the same time. “Who’s Felix?”
Westley dropped an elbow down, cupping his forehead. “The Witch Queen’s butler.”