We stay like that—me, trying to stay calm, breathing in his scent, trying to trust that he knows how to get us out of this, and Ghost, silently plotting—until Deidre returns.
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Chapter 37: Ghost
For an hour, we sit hand in hand, leaning against the cold cement wall. Mona is the same as she always is, even here in this dank, dark place. Oddly at ease with her environment. As though being beside me is all the security she needs.
I watch her from the corner of my eye, remembering how I once thought she’d never get through my walls. I was determined to keep my distance. But since we met, every conversation we’ve had, every time I sneak into her room at night just to watch her sleep, I’ve felt my resolve crumble. A part of me knew I never stood a chance.
She thinks being down here is her fault. It isn’t. The responsibility lies with me, her mates, her father. We should have been paying closer attention, recognized the danger coming. We were growing complacent because Deidre wasn’t going after Mona on our lands. I failed her when she needed me the most.
I was arrogant. Years of working alone, I wasn’t expecting them to swarm and catch her so quickly. I underestimated Deidre.
We hear the rattling of keys outside the cell. The witches are coming for her blood. I turn to Mona, gripping her hand tighter, searching her eyes. “Do you trust me?”
Heryescomes without hesitation, eyes steady on mine. Not a moment’s doubt crosses her face. The same unwavering certainty she’s shown me since the day we met. I don’t know if I deserve it, but I’m too fucking grateful to dwell.
Her unwavering trust tightens like a fist in my chest. But my mistakes have put her in danger, and to get her out of here, we need to play along with the witches. I steel myself, pulling back from the softness she draws out of me. Vulnerability is a luxury we don’t have time for.
“Don’t fight them,” I tell her.
She inhales slowly, eyes searching mine, questions forming.
Mona’s face shifts through a dozen emotions before she finally nods, right as the silver bars clank open. I’d expected Deidre, but it’s her sister Tracy who steps through, flanked by two more witches, palms raised, magic crackling at their fingertips, warning us—me, really—against resistance.
I slide away from Mona, crossing the cell to lean against the opposite wall. I fold my arms and cross one ankle over the other, feigning indifference. The only thing rattling me is the flash of fear in Mona’s eyes as the witches close in on her. The distance between us feels wrong, but I hold my position so I’m ready to fight if I need to.
They are taking Mona’s blood, and that’s it. And I can only stomach it because fighting back right now would get her killed; we’re too outnumbered. One way or another, Mona walks out of here alive, every witch will die, and I will salt the fucking earth, making sure nothing grows from their ashes.
I asked Mona to trust me, and despite hating every second of this, she does. A younger male witch with short, dark hair jerks her arm roughly. My alpha growls something fierce, and his eyes snap to mine. I can see the fear register, so he loosens his grip but continues his work. Tracy approaches with a silver blade. I can hear Mona’s pulse hammering.
Tracy’s eyes gleam savagely as she brings the blade down with such force, Mona flinches and cries out. I lunge off the wall, but a witch thrusts his hands up toward me, magic crackling between his fingers.
“One more step,” Tracy hisses, “and I’ll carve her up like a cadaver.” She jerks Mona’s bleeding arm closer. A deep rumbling growl tears from my throat. Mona’s breath catches, shoulders going rigid, trying to contain the agony and hold in her scream.
“Tracy…” I warn.
She snarls, eyes burning with hatred. “Fucking try me! I’mdyingto drain every drop from her veins! The only reason her heart isn’t in my fist yet is because Deidre has a plan.”
I force myself to stand still and watch, every muscle in my body trembling with restraint.
Blood wells from the cut, spilling into a small stone vat with intricate detailing, logographic script along the edge.
Lo^wsu^kk ziwi^ps.I silently mouth the translation:Transfer the magic. Transfer to what, exactly?
The jasmine notes of Mona’s scent curdles sour with fear, but I keep my expression impassive. It’s the hardest thing I’ve ever had to do, every muscle in my body strains in effort to remain still, to keep from lunging for her and ripping them apart piece by piece.
Blood pools in the vat until Tracy produces a container with a dozen empty vials. Mona looks away, swaying slightly on her feet from the blood loss. Tracy’s expression glimmers with greed.Her scent puffs in strange bursts, betraying her barely contained excitement.
Whatever this spell is, it isn’t just about Deidre. It’s about Tracy too. All of them. The realization hits me as I notice every witch in the room staring at Mona’s blood with the same desperate yearning as it fills each glass tube.
When it's done, the witches file out, one after another, the door clanging shut behind them. The lock clicks into place. Only then do I let out the breath I was holding.
Mona stands frozen in the middle of the cell, blood dripping from the wound, her body trembling as she hugs herself. When her legs buckle, I’m already moving, catching her before she falls, sweeping her against my chest and carrying her back against the wall, into the shadows. I gently extend her wounded arm.
My hastily formulated plan is shit, but it’s what I’ve got. “I need your blood,” I say, voice tight. “I need to reopen the wound before it stitches closed completely.”
“Okay, okay,” she stutters, still trusting, her skin pale and clammy. I grimace as my fingertips shift into talons. She hates this. I hate it more.
