Chapter 23
Owen
I don’t know what my mother said to Megan.
And that’s a damn problem.
Because this thing between us?
Still too fresh for me to know exactly where she stands.
I know where I stand and what I want.
I know what my Wolf’s been howling since the second she walked into my town like a miracle with a badge and a Jersey accent.
But Megan?
She’s smart. Fierce. Independent as hell.
She didn’t ask for any of this—didn’t ask to be dropped into a haunted, cursed, demon-riddled ghost town with a reputation.
Didn’t ask to fall into bed with a possessive, banished Werewolf who wears scars like armor and has a mother with the subtlety of a holy water hose in a vampire bar.
And if my mother said the wrong thing?
If she told Megan everything about me—what a monster I am?
Yeah, I wouldn’t blame her for running.
But I can’t think about that right now.
Can’t afford to.
Because we just pulled up to Crypt Mansion.
And the place looks like Halloween and Armageddon had an orgy.
Ghosts and ghouls and shadow-things crawl across the lawn like roaches under a blacklight. A thick, unnatural fog coils along the dead grass. I can smell sulfur, burnt ozone, and something worse—old magic, rotting and unclean.
The second I open my door, my Wolf goes feral.
Snarls behind my ribs.
Claws itch beneath my skin.
My jaw locks so tight my molars groan.
There’s something wrong here.
Something ancient. Foul. Twisted in a way that scrapes across my instincts like sandpaper over open wounds.
Delilah hops out of the backup truck, gagging as she covers her face with her sleeve.
“It smells like someone’s ass exploded and died again,” she barks.
Megan snorts beside me.
And I swear to every Wolf god in the sky—she laughs.
Actually laughs. Full, sharp, gorgeous.
Even in the middle of a goddamn hellstorm.
She’s standing there like she walked off the cover of a paranormal romance—hair wild, eyes burning, feet planted.
And I can’t stop staring. She’s so damn steady.
Mine.
I drag my gaze back to the mansion just as shadows flicker behind shattered windows. There’s movement. Big. Heavy. Something dragging chains or bones or both.
Delilah climbs onto the hood of the cruiser, squinting into the gloom.
“Ghouls are swarming the northern edge. They’re not attacking—yet. Looks like they’re digging.”
“For what?” I ask.
Megan’s eyes sharpen.
“Or who,” she mutters.
Our shoulders brush.
My Wolf settles.
Not calm.
But focused.
Because no matter what’s hiding in this hellhole—she’s with me.
Still, that knot in my chest won’t go away.
It’s not fear of the monsters.
It’s the fear I already let one in.
Her.
And the terrifying thought that once this is over, once the dust clears—she might leave.
“Preacher and Esmerelda are en route,” Megan says, scanning her phone as she pulls her service pistol. “They said to hold the line until sundown. Something about ley lines aligning during the full moon?”
“Yup,” I grunt. “That’s tonight.”
She slides a fresh mag into the gun, checking the chamber.
“What are you gonna do with that?” I tease, even though I already know.
She smirks.
“I say it’s time to raise a little hell, Cowboy.”
Then she takes off—boots crunching dead grass, hair flying, confidence blazing like a war banner—and I’m right behind her.
She fires into the treeline, scaring off a pack of low-level shades. Her aim is solid, her stance perfect. The ghosts scatter like they remember her from somewhere worse. The air crackles as she hits one of the wards Preacher set earlier, and it flares gold before fizzling out.
They’re definitely looking for something.
“Focus fire on the Crypt Mausoleum!” I shout, motioning Delilah down. “That prick Arnold Gregory Bartholomew Ferdinand Crypt left more than bones buried here!”
As if on cue, a massive shadow lumbers toward the broken fountain. Too big for a ghoul. Too solid to be smoke. Megan doesn’t hesitate—she switches mags and lets off three rounds of salt-infused iron. The creature screeches and vanishes in a burst of ash.
Damn.
She’s good.
The fog thickens. More figures appear.
But my blood is hot, my Wolf is ready, and my mate is at my side.
And for the first time in a long time, I don’t feel cursed.
I feel like the luckiest son of a bitch in Texas.
Even if I still don’t know where she stands.
Even if I’m afraid that once the battle is over—I’ll be left fighting for her.