“Because I am.” I press my palm against hers, watching our fingers intertwine. “And you’re in mine. This is what a true mating bond is meant to be—complete unity. No walls, no secrets, no doubts.”
Through our connection, I feel her momentary flash of worry about her sister, followed immediately by fierce determination. “We’re stronger together now,” she says, her voice steady despite her concern. “When we go after Brianna—”
“Nothing will be able to stop us.” I tighten my arms around her, letting my certainty flow through our bond. “TheMathairswon’t know what hit them.”
She nestles closer, her body fitting perfectly against mine. “I never thought I could have this,” she whispers. “Love like this. Trust like this.”
“You have everything now,” I promise. “My heart, my soul, my strength—it’s all yours. And nothing they send at us will change that.”
We lie there in comfortable silence, watching the morning light play across our new marks, reminding me that time hasn’t stopped, no matter how much I might wish it. The real world waits just outside these walls—with its Delta Teams and rescue plans and looming war.
“We need to go.” The words come out like a growl against her hair, my arms tightening around her instinctively. Every part of me rebels against leaving this bed, this moment. But duty calls.“The pack needs your input on the incoming witches. And we have to prepare against another attack on the Gallaghers.”
“I know. I just wish we could stay here in the bubble and pretend reality doesn’t exist.”
“Same.” I brush a strand of hair from her face, marveling at how natural this feels—her in my bed, in my arms, in my soul.
She presses a kiss to my jaw before sitting up. “The sooner we deal with everything, the sooner we can come back here.”
I watch her gather our scattered clothes, admiring the way sunlight plays across her skin. The double bands on her wrists catch the light, reminding me that no matter what comes next, she’s mine. Finally, completely, irrevocably mine.
“Bast.” Her voice carries a hint of laughter. “Stop staring and get dressed.”
“Can’t help it.” But I force myself up, reaching for the clothes she holds out. “You’re beautiful, and you’re mine, and I’m allowed to appreciate that fact.”
Chapter Twenty-Three
Bridget Winslow
Before the Storm
I glance down at the extra tattooed band on my wrists as we pull up to Bast’s mother’s house. Each reminds me of the profound connection between us—a bond so deep I can feel his heartbeat alongside my own. His steady presence fills a space in my soul I never knew was empty.
“Ready?” Bast’s hand finds mine, squeezing gently.
“As I’ll ever be.” I try for a smile, but my stomach churns. These people have every reason to hate me. I was sent here to kill one of their own. Every scenario I’ve imagined ends in snarling wolves and raised voices—if I’m lucky. Part of me wants to throw up a magical shield, to protect us both from whatever’s waiting behind that door. But that would only prove their worst fears about me.
No, I’ll face this with my hands empty and my heart open, even if it means standing there while they tear into me with words sharper than claws.
The front door opens before we reach it, and a woman who can only be Bast’s mother emerges. She has his eyes—warmbrown with flecks of gold—and they fix on me with unnerving intensity.
“So.” She steps forward, her gaze dropping to our joined hands, to the matching marks on our wrists. “It’s done then?”
Bast’s grip tightens. “Yes.”
I hold my breath, waiting for rejection. For accusations. Instead, his mother’s face softens into something that looks dangerously like understanding.
“Welcome to the family, dear.” She pulls me into a hug before I can react. The gesture is so unexpected, so maternal, that my eyes burn with tears I fight to keep from falling. When was the last time someone hugged me like this? Maybe my mother. My memories of her are so distant now. She died in a training accident when I was only seven. I can’t remember much about it.
Inside, the atmosphere shifts dramatically. Liam and Gen sit at the kitchen table, their postures tense. A man I don’t recognize—tall, broad-shouldered, with Gen’s same golden hair—leans against the counter. Bast mentioned Gen’s brother was mated to Emma—Finn Gallagher. This has to be him.
Then I see her—Emma Banfield.
My breath catches. The woman I’d studied in photographs, the target I’d been ordered to eliminate, stands before me in the flesh. She’s small, redheaded, looking so much like the young Meredith Banfield from my dossier that it makes my chest tight. Relief floods through me at seeing her alive and whole, followed immediately by crushing guilt.
I could have been the one to snuff out that life, to end her story before she had the chance to write it. The weight of what I almost did—what I was trained to do—sits like lead in my stomach.
My self-recrimination shatters, though, as the man I assume to be Finn pushes off from the counter beside her. His attention fixes on me with the kind of hatred that makes my magick sparkdefensively beneath my skin. “The Salem witch. What the fuck is she doing here, O’Connor?” he spits at Liam.
