Page 8 of Rejected By the Winter Wolf

“How far along are you?”

She eyes me. “Twelve weeks.”

We’ll get her to forty if we’re lucky—but wolf pups tend to come early. And violently. So, at most, there are twenty-eight weeks to go.

The countdown to her death begins in the back of my mind.

“I wanted you to know first,” she says, rising to her feet. She kisses my forehead. “Soon enough, the women will catch the scent, and my secret will be out. But for now, I’m going home. I’ve been away from Roman for too long.”

Guilt strikes me. I let her go on this forsaken mission when she should be spending time with Roman. What little time she has left.

Her hands slip from mine. I watch her leave. I turn over this new revelation, this new horror. Of course there was a possibility of Jessamine becoming pregnant. It’s the instinct inside all of us that drives us to procreate, even in the face of death. But I thought—I don’t know, I thought there would be more time. Or perhaps, I assumed she would be the one to resist it.

Then I look down at the blood-soaked cloth on my thigh.

A witch’s blood.

Without thinking, I raise it to my nose and inhale.

My eyes roll back.

Her scent is the sweetest poison. It infiltrates my lungs, lingers in my nose and on my tongue. Under the metallic bite, she smells like honey and lemon. Unbidden, I draw up a mental image of her. A girl with a devious smile and daring eyes. A figment of my imagination.

Witches can’t be trusted.

I take hold of the imagery, sinking my wolf teeth into her throat and ripping it out. The girl’s mouth contorts, but she’s not fucking screaming. There’s not a sound I can picture, but blood pours down her front, and she slumps to the ground.

It’s the sort of mental exercise I’ve honed. A way to defeat my fears and enemies from taking over my mind.

It satiates some of the feelings rotting in my chest, but only just enough to think about a plan of attack. My wolf is right there, pressing against my skin. The low whine of discomfort echoes inside my skull. He’s distressed. He wants to save our sister, too.

I know.

But that means making moves I’ve only ever considered in passing. It means a true act of war against the witches. Not just killing them but taking one. Forcing her to use her magic for me—or drain it from her blood and use it myself.

Hunt. Blood. Kill.

I’m in agreement with the wolf.

I shed my clothes and open the balcony doors. The cool night air greets me.

My room is on the second floor, but it’s no matter. I leap out and shift mid-air. The familiar pain of muscles and bones realigning, fur emerging, is over in an instant. I hit the ground on all fours and release a howl.

It isn’t quite an open invitation, but I know there are a few who will take it for what it is.

They sense my distress in wolf form, but I can’t share the reason with them. Let the pack blame it on the demon, on another Seer we’ve let slip through our grasp.

We’re always searching for a witch to end our misery—but none have been strong enough. The Seers we tried to capture have died, too weak or unwilling to help me. They couldn’t stand the torture, and their powers flamed them out… or they saw me coming and ended their lives themselves.

So many witches. So much blood soaking into the ground.

And it’s not enough.

But why did the demons take this Seer?

I turn my thoughts away from the witches and the curse that lingers in our blood. It’s been so long, it seems to have been forgotten by them. They live normal, human lifespans. Eighty, a hundred at most. They know we hate them. They know we hunt them. But the witches don’t know why.

I gnash my teeth.