Don’t do it. Don’t do it. Please. Don’t.
And he doesn’t.
“Guess he doesn’t love you enough,” Margaret says softly, and then she shoves the blade all the way in.
Pain explodes through my abdomen as steel parts flesh and muscle. Warm blood soaks my shirt—Bast’s shirt—spreading like a crimson flower across the fabric and flowing down my legs in warm rivulets.
The pain is white-hot and my vision blurs.
Chapter Thirty-Three
Bast O’Connor
Blood and Binding Words
Just a few minutes ago…
She’s bleeding. There’s so much blood.No.My wolf fights, wanting to charge. We can’t do that yet. The scent of Bridget’s blood hits my senses like a sledgehammer, copper-sweet and terrifying.
The T-shirt is so stained now—the one she stole from my drawer just yesterday. Just yesterday, when everything was perfect. When she was safe in my arms.
Now she’s swaying on the castle steps, the witch’s fingers are still gripped around the knife buried in her flesh.
But I can’t move. Can’t shift. One wrong move and she’ll tear that blade upward, ending everything. The weight of Lawrence’s protection spells tingles across my fur—magick that keeps us partly shielded from their attacks. The moment we shift back, we’ll be vulnerable. Naked. Defenseless. They’ll kill everyone.
Bridget’s eyes find mine across the courtyard. Even now, even with death pressing against her ribs, she’s trying to be strong. Her lips form silent words.Don’t do it.
The scent of her fear mingles with her blood, with the acrid stench of other deaths already scattered across the perfectly manicured lawn and stone. But theMathairsdon’t care about those losses. Their faces remain serene, untouched by the carnage their orders have caused.
“Submit,” the witch purrs, twisting the blade.
Bridget’s gasp of pain ignites the primal beast in my chest. My wolf surges forward, claws digging deep furrows into the ground. Every muscle trembles with the need to tear, to kill, to protect what’s mine. But I hold. We all hold. The other wolves’ growls join mine, rumbling through the courtyard like distant thunder.
“Guess he doesn’t love you enough,” she whispers to my mate. Then shoves the blade deeper, and Bridget’s knees buckle.
The first howl that breaks the silence comes from my alpha—Aiden. Then Liam’s joins. They are here for me. For Bridget. She is pack. She belongs to us.Mine.
We charge as one, a wave of fur and fang and unrepentant rage.
The witch rips the blade free, dark arterial blood spraying across white marble. Bridget crumples, one hand pressed to her wound, the other reaching toward me. The distance between us feels endless.
A magickal shield slams into place, a wall of crackling energy that separates us from our prey. From my mate. My teeth find the barrier, tearing into magick like its flesh. The taste of their power burns my tongue, but I don’t stop. Can’t stop. I feel Bridget’s life force flickering like a candle in the wind.
“Hold them!” Another witch screams, her hands weaving more power into the shield. But she doesn’t see Lawrence coming up behind her.
His power hits her like a baseball bat to the skull, decades of rage concentrated into a single strike. Her body falls immediately.
The shield falters. I rip into it harder.
The other witches from Lawrence’s coven and from ours at home press our advantage, their spells tearing through everything.
Another witch falls to Gen’s wolf, her scream cut short as fangs find throat. This isn’t their carefully controlled Court. They have no stealthy advantage. No surprise. This is face-to-face war, primal and brutal and they don’t stand a chance.
“My queens!” Several remaining witches form a protective circle around theMathairs. “We need to retreat! We can’t hold—”
My teeth finally break through their barrier, power shattering like glass beneath my fury. Blood fills my mouth—my own from fighting through their magick, theirs from when my fangs find flesh. The taste of their fear in the air is sweeter than any kill.
The witch who stabbed Bridget shouts something, but I barely hear it over the sound of my own heart pounding. My focus narrows to one thing—Bridget’s body on the ground, blood pooling beneath her on the marble courtyard like spilled wine.
