When witch Bella's visions of blood and horror reveal a dark secret in her coven's past, she is torn between saving those who have scorned her and sacrificing the enticing werewolf who accepts her.
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As a descendent of the cursed Black family, Be...
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Outside, the gale and rain pound against the stone hall. Tree branches scrape down the outside walls, their crooked fingers clawing at the windows.
We're all soaked to the skin, huddling in the chilly comfort of the old hall. The largest structure of the village. To anyone who stumbles upon us, we're just a small, quaint little village, and this moss-covered relic, with its arched windows and wooden-beam ceiling, resembles a simple church. This room smells like mould and wet clothes. We sit on uncomfortable pews and watch as High Elder Alasdair paces on the wooden stage. Behind him, his most trusted elders stare out at us blankly.
We know why we're here.
I glance at Lark, who is staring ahead defiantly. Mum is sitting beside her. Dad on the other side, struggling to stay upright. His face shiny and red from the drink. Mum looks nervous. I have no doubt she knows what Lark has been doing. Mum purses her lips, glancing anxiously around the room.
Alasdair clears his throat. His black robes drag along the floor as he walks to the edge of the stage and stares down at us. "I had hoped by now... After my warnings... All of you would know that visiting the BloodFrost pack isn't just discouraged. It's forbidden. If some of you..." He glances down at Frederick, who is hunched over in the front row next to Alec, and though I can't see his face, I know it's still a mosaic of purple bruises. His broken arm was still in a sling. "... Were under the impression I was merely discouraging you... That I was stating a preference, well... The wolves are not our allies. The goddess has her own reasons for agreeing to this union, but let me make this clear. We are sharing our land, and nothing more. If I discover anymore of you has been spending time with them, disregarding our ways..."
The door flies open, and the sound of gasps is drowned out by the roar of the wind and unrelenting downpour. The icy air slips between benches, bringing with it the crisp scent of the wet wood. I flinch, my hands gripping the bench.
The wolves walk in.
Half a dozen men and women storm in. All look fearless and unaffected by walking into a room with a hundred witches. Their hair wild and soaking from the storm. Their eyes alert and sharp in a way that is undeniably inhuman. Alasdair walks across the stage towards them, his eyes burning with rage. Behind him, the elders mutter, anger flaring on their faces.
The wolves barely acknowledge Alasdair or the elders. They stop before the stage and glance around the room. Their clothes are simple - plaid shirts, leather jackets, torn denim. And unlike most of our clothes, they don't look handmade. I knew their pack had come from a city, but never had seemed so obvious that they had more of a connection to the human world than we do.
I practically leap off the bench, searching through the wolves, scanning for his face. My heart pounds at just the thought that he could be here, that those midnight-blue eyes could find me in this crowd. Bringing with him all the frightening but exciting feelings he always stirs in me. When he strides through the door, my heart threatens to burst out of its chest. He stalks towards the huddle of wolves. His mercury hair dripping from the rain. His dark shirt stuck to his skin, clinging to every defined muscle of his arms and torso.
