I offer her a wolfish nod, and then fall into formation with my mates as we take off back the way we came.
It’s early afternoon, the hottest part of the day, and the sun glares down on the mountains from high overhead. We pass in and out of shadows, cresting over hills and loping across valleys. We run at full speed, faster than my mates have ever pressed me before, until my muscles strain and my lungs burn. But I don’t complain. We are so very far away from pack territory, and we’re the only ones who know about Cleo and the knowledge she now has. I’ll run until I fall apart if it means we can reach the packs in time to stop a needless slaughter.
But the whole time I’m running, I replay my interaction with Gwen over and over in my head, questions burning through me.
Why did she leave her coven? What happened between her and Cleo? Why is she hidden so far in the mountains?
I hope like hell we can trust her, because she certainly seems like a witch with something to hide. She seemed genuine though, especially in her hatred of Cleo. Those two have a history I’m dying to know about, although at this rate, I’m not sure when—or if—I’ll ever see Gwen again. We’re racing headlong into what looks like war, and war has a tendency to keep people apart.
I want to trust her. But it’s hard to know who to trust, and witches have never been high on the list.
I’m so surprised by my own thought that I stumble over my paws and have to take a few uneven steps to get back into the rhythm of running, losing ground on my mates. Archer glances back over his pale blond shoulder and woofs at me, lagging behind just enough for me to catch up with him.
Check your prejudices, I remind myself. You’re part witch.
Sure, the packs have plenty of reason to hate and distrust most witches, but if my men thought that all witches were inherently evil, I’d probably be dead by now. They’ve accepted me despite my witch side, so I have to at least give Gwen the benefit of the doubt. I need to allow for the possibility that not all witches are bad. Just like my mates have had to learn with me.
I’m not bad. I know I’m not, even when my magic is trying to make me feel otherwise.
We stop at the Two-Tone River to drink and recuperate, if only for a few minutes, enough to keep us from collapsing. The sun is sinking into the forest ahead of us, and we’ll lose light soon, but there’s not a chance we’ll be stopping for very long.
Tell me again what you saw, Ridge says as he laps up water beside me.
I’ve already gone over it twice now, but I can tell he’s hurting. Worried about his brother, worried about his pack. Just fucking worried. If rehashing my vision helps him cope, I’m okay with it.
Lawson escaped his cell in the North Pack jail, and he left pack territory where he was captured by witches, I say, stepping into the shallows to let the cold water run over my aching paws.
I repeat everything Cleo and Lawson said as quickly as possible, without delving into the stomach-churning details of his torture. That part, I’m not keen to relive—and Ridge doesn’t need to hear it again either.
The massive wolf lifts his head and stares out over the river. The pack wanted to banish him for his crimes against me. I wouldn’t do it, because I didn’t want him to run afoul of the witches. We have safety together, in packs. Out there on our own, we’re prey. Yet he ran and got captured anyway. Idiot.
The last word should sound angry, but there’s too much grief in it for that.
In wolf form, the connection of our mate bond seems strongest, even more clear and pure than when we’re human. It’s so strong that I can sense his emotions in every word.
Anger. Pain. Betrayal.
He’s furious that Lawson ran away, that he got caught and spilled all their secrets, putting all three packs in terrible danger. But he’s heartbroken for his brother too. Lawson was still alive when I raced away from Cleo’s mind, but that doesn’t mean he’s still alive now, or that he will be for long. And we both know it.
The water splashes beneath my feet as I go to him and rub my cheek along his, projecting my love and support through the bond. He returns the nuzzle, letting out a soft whuff as he leans into me.
I’m with you, I tell him. No matter what comes. No matter what happens. If you have to walk through hell, I’ll be there by your side. Always.
Our break by the water is too short to be truly refreshing. My body protests when we get moving again, but my mind is already lamenting the lost time.
We continue moving as fast as we can possibly run, stopping only for food or water, or to rest long enough to keep moving. We run late into the night, and into the morning, and by noon the next day, I’m so exhausted I can hardly stay on my feet. I’ve done my best to keep up, to not complain even when my legs ache and I feel as if my body will collapse, but Archer is the one to notice me flagging and demands we stop to rest.
An hour. Trystan pants heavily, pacing along the edge of a small mountain stream where we just rehydrated. We have no time to waste.
I’m just as exhausted as Sable is, Archer says. Even in my mind, it sounds like a groan. And you are too. Lie down and shut up for a while.
We’ll be no good to anyone if we aren’t rested. Ridge shakes out his fur. I’ll take watch. Get a little sleep.
He needs sleep just as badly
