Page 4 of Shared With The Pack

Not on my land. Not near my pack. My eyes shift into a glare, and I point the barrel of the shotgun back on target. "Heath, get away from him. That's a witch."

Yet Heath, that damn fool, doesn't obey my order. He uses his body to shield the boy, switching rapidly between whimpers and growls. Heath doesn't care. Through our pack bond, I can tell he wants this boy. I don't understand why.

Witches are more than dangerous. They're deadly.

"C'mon. Leave him be and let's go home."

Yet my harsh words can't overrule the tender feeling in my heart. I might hate witches, but this boy truly is a boy. Hardly looks like he'd weigh in at one hundred and twenty pounds, even as soaking wet as he is. He may have nearly destroyed our cabin with whatever bullshit magic it was that flung him all the way out here; I don't know if I have it in me to leave him to the elements.

I look at Heath. Into his green glowing eyes, wordlessly pleading with me to take the boy with us. He maintains his protective stance. There's no Heath will leave the boy...and I sure as hell won't leave Heath behind.

"Fine," I growl. I switch the shotgun's safety back on and grab hold of the little witch. He doesn't weigh much. I curl my fingers into his flank, holding him tight. Heath leaps ahead of us, bushy tail wagging as he leads the way back to the cabin.

We'll shelter him tonight, I'm not a monster, but I want him gone come sunup.

Chapter 5

Wren

"Griff, what happened? Who's that?"

"Take him."

When I come to, I'm being tossed from one set of arms to another. What happened? My head spins as I try to make sense of it all. I was alone in the forest, trying to resign myself to my fate, and then a beast was upon me. Not mauling me, as I'd feared at first, but sheltering me with its hairy body.

I look up into eyes of gold instead of green.

"I got you." His voice is so deep, yet there's nothing rough about it. The pitch is clear and pleasant. "You're okay. Everything is going to be fine."

I almost believe him. He carries me like, well, like I'm a beloved bride. I have to admit it's a little funny when just a few short hours ago I was a doomed groom.

I'm whisked away into a cabin. It's rustic and small, but quaint and comfy. And full of light. Lit by dozens of glowing candles. Most importantly, there's a wood-burning stove in the corner that's been arranged as kitchen space.

"Let's get you warmed up."

In-between shivers, I nod my head. He sets me down on a stool in front of the toasty fire coming from the stove. I look up at him as he frets over me, frowning and shaking his head at my disheveled state. My strange savior has short light brown hair, though his bangs are a little too long and flop over his eyebrows. His beard is bushy and reaches up to his ears.

It's the exact sort of trim I'd expect to see on a lumberjack. Perhaps I've ended up with a logging crew. Even his skin is an even tan of light brown. As if he spends his days out basking in the sun.

"I'm Ridge," he introduces himself as he runs a towel over my head to dry my hair. "The furry one is Heath. And Griff is, well, he'll be back."

The furry one...? A whine pulls my gaze downward. Lounging on the floor is the beast from before, his green eyes peering up at me and his mouth opening as he pants, his bushy tail swaying back and forth. Heath is a wolf.

I blink hard, reaching for sight beyond sight. A moment of magic. All witches can aura read in a pinch, and as I glance between the wolf on the ground and the man, I realize they're neither. A wisp of blue surrounds them both.

Blue is for werewolves.

"What's yours, darling?" Ridge asks.

I blink away their auras, my stomach in a twist, and my vision clears.

"Um, Wren." I almost give my last name as well, but stop myself before the first letter rolls off my tongue. I'm not really a Blackspell anymore, am I? "My name is Wren."

There's a snort from the doorway. That must be Griff.

My breath catches in my throat as I finally get a good look at him. Griff is the exact opposite of Ridge. He's shorter and leaner, but everything about him is sharp. His steely blue eyes glower at me. There's no beard to soften the chiseled jut of his jawline or long, slender nose. Scratchy stubble dominates his face. The specks of salt-and-pepper in his dark hair along with wrinkles on his skin reveal he's older than Ridge.

"Wren, huh? Well, little bird, don't make any plans to nest here. You need to fly back home come daylight. We got no need for a witch."