Chapter Thirty-Two
Bridget Winslow
Golden Eyes and Ancient Lies
Pain blooms behind my eyes as consciousness returns. Every heartbeat sends fresh waves of agony through my skull, but that’s nothing compared to the hollow void in my chest. The broken bond feels like an open wound, raw and bleeding, impossible to ignore.
I’m on my knees in the throne room, the same polished marble floor where they ripped our bond apart just hours ago. No physical restraints hold me, but I can feel the weight of binding spells pressing against my skin. TheMathairs’magick wraps around me like invisible chains, familiar and suffocating.
Afternoon sunlight streams through towering windows, painting everything in false warmth. The three white stone thrones loom on their dais, a reminder of the power these women have held for so long. Helen paces before them, her silver braids gleaming, while Margaret and Emily rest on their seats with coiled menace.
“Such a waste.” Helen’s voice carries easily in the vast chamber. Her soft footsteps echo as she circles where I kneel. “You were meant for greater things than rutting with animals.”
Margaret’s laugh is sharp as breaking glass. “The corruption with her line runs deeper than we thought, sister. To bind herself to a wolf…” She spits the word like poison. “Perhaps we were too lenient in her training. Too lenient with her sister’s punishment.”
I keep my eyes fixed on the floor, studying the patterns in the polished stone. Anything to avoid looking at them, to hide the hatred burning in my chest.
“We can fix this,” Emily says softly from her throne. “Purify her mind. Start again.”
The words hit me like ice water in the face. Memory wiping—a fate worse than death. They’d strip away everything I am, everything I feel for Bast, leaving nothing but an empty vessel for them to reshape. My fingers curl against the marble floor. I’d rather die with our broken bond than live without knowing him at all.
A distant sound catches my attention—something between a crash and an explosion. The stone walls vibrate slightly. I peer up through my lashes. The Delta Team shifts near the massive doors, their practiced stillness betrayed by subtle tension.
“The young ones will handle it.” Helen’s confidence fills the chamber like perfume, cloying and false. “A few rabid beasts cannot breach our walls.”
Another crash echoes, closer this time.Something is happening.
“A pack of fucking dogs thinks they can challenge us.” Margaret rises from her throne, moving to stand beside Helen. Her perfect posture reminds me of endless childhood lessons—back straight, chin up, hands still.
Wait. Dogs? She means wolves. Bast?
A scream pierces the air, young and terrified. One of the training class witches. Another follows, then another.
My heart twists with grief for these girls, raised like I was to be pawns in theMathairs’games. But dread quickly drowns out pity—if Bast and the others have breached the outer defenses, theMathairswill make them pay in blood. I’ve seen what these women do when cornered. They’d sacrifice every young witch in this castle before admitting defeat.
“Impossible.” Emily’s fingers grip her throne’s armrests, knuckles white. “Our wards—”
“Are holding perfectly.” Helen’s voice carries a sharpness I’ve never heard before. “Mira, take your team. Show these creatures who the Salem Court witches really are.”
Delta Team moves as one toward the doors. I’ve seen them fight before—seen them break witches stronger than me, seen them end bloodlines that dared defy theMathairs.
Bast. Please. Be careful.I know he can’t hear me or feel me right now, but it helps to try.
More explosions rock the castle. Closer now.
“They have male witches with them.” The words spill from a young messenger as she bursts through the doors, face tight with terror. “They’re calling the leader Lawrence—”
“What?” Margaret’s composure cracks. Real fear flashes across her face before she can hide it. “Lawrence has been gone for twenty years. We made sure of it when—”
“When Meredith fled this court?” The laugh that tears from my throat sounds strange, almost hysterical. “Another lie you told us? Like everything else?”
Helen’s hand cracks across my face, the ring on her finger splitting my lip. Blood trickles down my chin, but I can’t stop laughing. Every crash, every scream, every tremor in the castle walls feels like victory.
“Our defenses are falling,” another messenger pants from the doorway. “The wolves—they’re so strong and fast and our spellsare rolling off of them like they have armor on. And there are male witches—more than just Lawrence.”
A roar shakes the entire throne room, bestial and filled with rage. The massive windows rattle in their frames. Even bound and broken, I recognize that sound. My wolf. My mate.
Hope blazes through me like wildfire, fierce enough to chase away the hollow ache where our bond used to be. For the first time since they tore us apart, I feel truly alive—and truly terrified. Bast’s rage means he’ll stop at nothing to reach me, even if it kills him.
