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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My feet are bare. They sink into the soft moss, letting the dirt clinging between my toes connect me to the rhythm of the forest. The wind whistles through the woods - the forest whispers with every step I take closer. The lights from the old mill flash between the gaps between trees. I can feel the throb of the music beneath my feet. My heart pounds with every step I take. Each beat is a truth and a lie. My magic curling around my heart as I step closer to him tells me how much I want to be near him. But the lies I have yet to whisper in his ear burst and bubble like acid in my stomach.
This is wrong. But what choice do I have?
I told Mum everything. Or almost everything. I still hadn't been ready to admit that the power the coven crazed was one I already possessed. Mum had listened solemnly as we sat on in the grass, daylight making way for the dark as we spoke. Mum didn't trust Alasdair, but no one knew spell-casting in the coven better than her. Even without magic of her own, she understood it like no one else. And every detail Alasdair told me about the spell matched her understanding, too. I could live with the ways Alasdair and the coven would make me suffer if I didn't do this. But I couldn't live with how he'd make my family suffer.
Mum loathed it even more than I did, but in the end, even she could see no alternative. There was no escaping my fate.
Lark's silk dress moves against my skin as soothing as water. The air was chilly but not unpleasant. The wolves lingering outside the mill watch me as I move closer, their eyes taking me in as I pad up the wooden steps onto the deck. My chest is tight as the throbbing bass and blinding lights grow ever closer.
I slip inside and I'm hit immediately by a wave of heat. By bodies, as they curl together, hips bound in the same rhythm. Moving along with a music beat so potent it wars with my own pounding heart. I move through the crowd and then through the darkness, through lights quivering from the sconces on the wall, through limbs, bodies and tongues knotted together – I see him.
He's sitting at the back. Dressed once again all in black, his hair pushed back like a mercury curtain. The sight of him is as potent as a punch. I feel it low in my belly. He's watching me, and I suspect he knew I was here long before I took a step inside the mill. The church-like space is empty of furniture, just a bare wooden floor and a set of towering windows revealing the darkened forest, and a scattering of stars in the night sky. He sits on a raised wooden platform, on a grand, clawed armchair, lined in dark leather. A rare piece of drama from a man who always strives towards the simple. A few empty wooden chairs surround him. The red-haired wolf is talking to him, though I'm not sure he's taking in a word.
His lips part as he sees me, his eyes raking over my form from my bare feet upwards. Slowly, with a laziness that both infuriates and affects me. When his eyes finally reach mine, he smiles. The packed room parts for me like the sea. The wolves glance up from their embraces when they see me. They move, letting me pass with a respectful nod. It's a strange feeling. But I don't linger on it. I'm too busy staring at him. I want to hold on to the sight of him like this. When this is all over. I want to remember this moment. It might be the only thing I get to keep of him. He leans back in the chair, watching me with every step, his chest rising and falling deeply. The red-haired wolf spots me. He shoots me an amused smile before slipping from his chair and into the crowd.
