“Then one night, she tried to run away with him. TheMathairs…” A small sob slips out. “They killed him. Right in front of her. Said it was her fault for being weak, for letting a man compromise her magick.”
“Fuck.” My stomach turns as pieces click into place—why Bridget holds herself so rigid, why she flinches at kindness. They’d made her watch. Made her learn the price of defiance through her sister’s pain. They’d killed a man to punish them both. The urge to hunt down every lastMathairrises in my throat like bile.
“They locked her up after that. Said they’d release her once I completed my training, proved my loyalty. Every time I failed a mission, every time I showed weakness, they’d hurt her.” She looks up at me, eyes swimming with tears. “So I stopped failing. I became what they wanted. The perfect weapon.”
“Until now. Until me.”
She nods, and I feel her turmoil through our bond. “Until you. Until all of this. And now…” She gestures helplessly. “Now I don’t know what I am anymore.”
I set my coffee down and lean forward, taking her free hand in mine. The contact sends a jolt through both of us. “You’re mine,” I say firmly. “Whatever else you are or aren’t, you’re my mate. And I protect what’s mine.”
The words hang between us, heavy with promise. Through our bond, I feel her wanting to believe, wanting to trust. But there’s still that wall of fear, of duty, of years of conditioning telling her she can’t.
“We’ll figure this out,” I promise, squeezing her hand. “Together. But you have to let me in, Bridget. You have to trust that I will help.”
She stares at our joined hands, thumb tracing the mark on my wrist. “I don’t know how,” she whispers.
Heat races through my blood at her touch. I never want her to stop touching me. “Start small.” I lift our hands, pressing a kiss to her knuckles. “Start with this moment. Just breathe. Just be here with me. Tell yourself you don’t have to do it alone. Not anymore. Not ever again.”
Chapter Nineteen
Bridget Winslow
For Love, Not Duty
The leather couch creaks as I shift, struggling to find a comfortable position in the predawn gloom. Sleep has been fitful at best, my mind refusing to quiet despite my exhaustion. Every time I close my eyes, I see Brianna’s face, feel the phantom weight of theMathairs’expectations.
Across the room, Bast dozes in his oversized armchair, one leg thrown over the arm in casual disregard for furniture etiquette. Even in sleep, his presence fills the space, radiating a warmth that calls to something deep inside me. Through our new bond, I feel the steady thrum of his consciousness, like a lullaby trying to soothe my restless thoughts.
I shouldn’t find comfort in it. In him. But I do.
My fingers trace the mark on my wrist, still trying to reconcile everything that’s happened. Twenty-four hours ago, I was just another weapon in theMathairs’arsenal. Now I’m…what? Mated to a werewolf? Trapped in a cabin by wards? Considering becoming a traitor to everything I was raised to believe?
A shout pierces the quiet, angry and pissed the hell off. “Fucking bitch!”
Bast jolts awake, already on his feet before I can fully process what’s happening. His body tenses, head tilting as he scents the air. The bond between us floods with sudden alertness, pushing away the last cobwebs of sleep from my mind.
“Blood,” he growls, the word sending chills down my spine. He moves to the door with predatory grace, every muscle coiled for action. “Stay inside. Bolt the door behind me.”
“Bast—”
“There’s a gun in my nightstand drawer. Watch out for the broken door and furniture.” His eyes meet mine, fierce and golden in the dim light. “If anything happens…just stay safe. Please. You can’t do magick.”
Then he’s gone, the door clicking shut behind him. My hands shake as I slide the bolt into place, feeling suddenly, terribly alone. Through our bond, I feel his determination, his readiness for whatever waits outside. I press my palms against the door, hating how empty they feel without magick thrumming beneath my skin. All I can do is wait—and I’ve never been good at being powerless. I much prefer to manifest solutions.
I lean my forehead against the cool wood of the door, straining to hear what’s happening. The sound of footsteps on gravel. A low growl that must be Bast. Then—
Pain explodes through my body, white-hot and devastating. I collapse, a scream tearing from my throat as agony rips through me. It’s not my pain—it’s his, echoing through our bond with brutal intensity.
Somewhere outside, Bast roars.
I force myself to my feet, stumbling toward his bedroom. Splinters of wood crunch beneath my shoes—remnants of Bast’s violent transformation earlier. His pain pulses through me, threatening to bring me to my knees again. But I can’t stay here. Can’t let him face this alone.
The nightstand drawer sticks, and I yank it open with trembling hands. The gun is heavy, cold, nothing like the familiar weight of magick. I’ve never fired one before. Never needed to, when spells were always at my fingertips.
Another wave of pain crashes through the bond, and this time I hear Bast’s anguished cry cut short.
No. No no no.
