She releases a tiny sigh when he moves her arms in front, her fingers flexing weakly. The rope slithers across her skin, rewrapping around her wrists and forearms. I track every movement, muscles coiled tight, ready to intervene if he binds her too roughly. One wrong move, one hint of unnecessary force, and Lawrence will pay dearly.
“This won’t hurt,” Rachel assures us, though her voice holds a note of uncertainty that sets my teeth on edge. “But it might feel…strange.”
Bridget nods, her face shows calm, but I can smell her fear, sharp and acrid beneath her natural scent. It makes my chest ache.
“Take her hands, Bast. Thread your fingers together.”
Her skin burns against mine as I lace our fingers together, that same electric current that’s been there since the first time I touched her. Bridget’s breath catches, her pulse jumpingbeneath my thumbs where they rest against her wrists. Despite everything—the lies, the betrayal, the uncertainty crushing my chest—my body still craves this connection like oxygen.
She tries to keep her fingers stiff, to maintain some barrier between us, but I feel the moment she gives in. Her hands soften in mine, and that small surrender hits deep. I want this woman. She. Is. Mine.
Rachel and Lila begin to chant, their voices weaving together in Gaelic. The air around us shimmers, like heat waves rising from sunbaked asphalt. There’s a tug deep in my gut, a pull toward Bridget that’s both familiar and entirely new.
Bridget gasps, her eyes flying wide. The green glow in her eyes that’s been present since I first saw her intensifies. She tries to pull her hands free, but I hold them tightly.
“I’m with you,” I say softly, meeting her frantic gaze. The words scrape out of my throat, raw and honest despite everything. Because it’s true—even with her mission hanging over our heads like an executioner’s blade, I can’t stop wanting her. I won’t.
“I can’t do this, I have to go back, she needs me. I can’t do this, I can’t do this, you have to let me go.” Her words tumble out in a desperate rush, and that “she” catches in my mind like a barbed hook.
Who needs her so badly?
I keep hold of her hands, feeling each tremor that runs through her. Fate’s got a sick sense of humor, binding me to a woman carrying so many secrets. But watching her now, seeing real fear crack through her carefully built walls, I can’t help but think there’s more to this story.
My wolf believes in her—in us—even when logic screams otherwise. Maybe that’s enough. Maybe faith isn’t about certainty, but about choosing to hold on when everything’s gone to hell.
The chanting grows louder, more insistent. The shimmering air coalesces around us, forming tendrils of light that wind around our bodies. I watch, mesmerized, as one tendril connects with the mark on my wrist, then snakes across the space between us to touch Bridget’s matching mark.
The sensation is…indescribable. It’s like I can suddenly feel Bridget in a way I never could before. Not just her physical presence, but something deeper. Her essence. Her power. It flows into me like a river finding its course, filling spaces I never knew were empty.
Bridget cries out, a sound of surprise and what might be pain. I growl, my protective instincts flaring. “Rachel—”
“Almost done,” she assures me. “Repeat the phrase we’re chanting three times.”
Bridget and I both repeat the Gaelic phrase together three times.
The light intensifies, becoming blinding. I squeeze my eyes shut, gritting my teeth against the strange sensation of foreign power coursing through me. Then, as suddenly as it began, it stops.
The silence that follows is deafening. I open my eyes slowly, blinking away spots of lingering light. Bridget stands before me, swaying slightly. The green glow in her eyes is still there, but supposedly not visible to humans any longer. Which is good. The witches have enough to blur out of the public’s memory after the events today.
My right palm burns and I instinctively hiss and jerk away from Bridget’s hands. There’s a bright green triquetra on my palm and a matching one on hers.
“It’s done,” Rachel says. “The tether is in place. The brand will fade away in a few minutes.”
I nod to Rachel and then turn back to Bridget. She looks like she’s been through a war—dark hair clinging to her temples withsweat, skin pale as moonlight except for two spots of color high on her cheeks. Her eyes are glassy and unfocused. But it’s the slight tremble in her lower lip that makes my chest tighten.
“How do you feel?” I ask softly, afraid of the answer but needing to know. Needing to understand what this spell has done to her—to us.
Bridget takes a shaky breath. “I feel…different. Like part of me is…” She trails off, her brow furrowing. “I can feel you. Inside me. Around me.”
I nod, understanding exactly what she means. Because I feel it too. This new connection, deeper and more profound than the physical bond we already share.
“What now?” Bridget asks in a small voice.
I look around the room, at Rachel’s exhausted face, at Lawrence’s wary stance, at Lila pulling more ingredients out of the bag and stacking them quietly on the kitchen counter. Then back to Bridget, to the woman who’s become the center of my world in such a short time.
“Now,” I say, “we talk. And you tell us everything.”
Chapter Seventeen
