She doesn’t accept or deny my proposition, only says, “Why are you here?”
“We heard you’re… unattached.” I hesitate slightly, stumbling over my words. That term doesn’t seem quite right for the situation, but I’m not sure what the correct phrasing is. “Um, unaffiliated with a coven. A solitary witch. We’ve come to ask you for help.”
“I don’t have any help to give.” Gwen lifts her chin stiffly, her voice cool. “You might have taken the hint that I want to stay far out of both pack and coven business. Why do you think I live all the way up here? I know where the pack lands are. You must’ve had to trek through dozens of miles of wilderness to find me. That’s a pretty big damn clue I’m not interested in whatever fight you’re chasing.”
I take a step forward. “We aren’t chasing a fight.”
All four of my men growl and move to follow closely on my heels, but I hold out a hand to stop them. They halt, though I can sense they aren’t happy with the situation, especially when I take one more step forward.
“I love these men,” I tell Gwen, motioning to the wolves behind me. “We’re mated. All of us. But with the power of my witch half and the wolf power swirling around inside me, things keep going wrong. I keep manifesting witch magic. I’m terrified I’m going to hurt one of them. I’ve tried to learn control, to practice what little I could. But I need help from someone who knows what they’re doing.”
Gwen’s eyebrows shoot up. Her green eyes are alight with interest now. “Mated? To all four of them?”
“Yes.”
“How unusual. A wolf-witch hybrid mated to four men…” The witch trails off, her shrewd gaze studying each wolf in turn.
She seemed floored by the fact that I’m both witch and wolf, but her sudden interest in the mate bond worries me. It occurred to me then that maybe I shouldn’t have let Gwen know about that particular secret. Even in shifter circles, a female mating with more than one male is apparently rare and non-traditional.
But it’s too late now. I’m all in, and if this is the piece of the puzzle that gets the witch to agree to help us, then so be it.
“All right,” Gwen finally says with a decisive nod. “Come inside, and I’ll see what I can do.”
She turns on her heel and strides off toward the cabin, not even bothering to check to see if we were following.
I hesitate, watching her squared shoulders march away from us. Could this be a bad idea? Could this be some kind of trap?
Well, it definitely could be.
But is it? And is it worth the risk?
My men glance at each other, obviously debating amongst themselves in mindspeak. I’m sure they noticed the same thing I did—how deeply intrigued Gwen was by the mate bond—and they likely harbor some of my same worries. So I stand and wait, breath held, watching as Gwen vanishes through the door of her homestead, leaving it hanging open behind her.
My hands are shaking as I crouch by my backpack and reach inside for something to wear. It was hard enough to stand before that woman naked and exposed while I begged for her help—I’m definitely not staying that way. I pull out one of Amora’s tank tops and a pair of cotton pants that are just a little too big for me, then quickly pull on both and tighten the string on the pants as far as it will go.
I glance around at my mates, adrenaline buzzing like a swarm of bees beneath my skin. “I have to go in. I have to. Will you come with me?”
Moving like a single unit, they all step closer. Archer nods, and Ridge nudges my side, urging me forward.
Trap or not, Gwen is my only hope.
At the very least, I have my four shifters by my side in case anything goes wrong.
With that knowledge helping me cling to my last shred of hope, I lead the way into the witch’s cabin.
16
Sable
I don’t have any expectations of what a witch’s home should look like, but the moment I set foot inside the small cabin, I know I’ve stepped into a place of magic.
Bundles of dried herbs hang from the rafters, creating a forest of fragrant leaves that spreads out over the room. Some of them hang low enough that I have to brush away long branches of sage and rosemary with my fingers as I head toward Gwen.
A small fire burns in the hearth, making the cabin feel stiflingly warm and intensifying the herbal scent. The mantel above the stone fireplace is laden with a number of glass jars full of strange liquids and other things I don’t even want to guess at.
The cabin is simple enough that it’s just one big room with two doors, and Gwen’s small bed sits in one corner, the blankets neatly made up and a number of quilted pillows perched against the headboard. Other than the bed, there’s a storage chest and an armoire, plus a small kitchenette area equipped with a wood stove, a hand-pump sink, and a kitchen table with three chairs.
But much more interesting than the rustic mountain atmosphere of the place are the sigils.
There’s evidence of magic all around Gwen’s home. I notice sigils painted on the walls and floors, black marks on the furniture, and little bits of black smoke twisting lazily in the hazy air. My skin runs cold as I watch my mates pad softly through the room, too close to the black smoke for my comfort, but the wafting magic doesn’t seem to care about their presence. My men eye the smoke warily, hackles raised as if waiting for the other shoe to drop, but nothing happens.
Even as terrifying as it is to see so much witch magic everywhere, as ingrained
