Page 26 of A Wolf for Winter

“Boar, please,” Lilac pleaded.

Allen stood stock still as the burly witch moved around the big wooden trestle table and closed the distance between them. Spearing Lilac with a brown glare, he snatched the gingham off the crate. Dozens of dark glass bottles glittered like jewels, beautiful script on paper labels revealing Alopecia Soap and Fever Syrup and Follicular Elixir and dozens others.

“Allen,” Boar said in a controlled voice. “Throw this outside. Right now.”

“Brother, please!”

“Boar,” Allen protested. “These are just—”

Boar’s brown eyes flashed green. “I command it.”

Allen shuddered as the Hall trembled and a powerful conviction seized control of him. Perhaps on a human, the compulsion would’ve been complete, but on a shifter . . .. He had enough resistance to glare at the witch and stand his ground. His whole body trembled with the effort, though, and a sweat broke out across his forehead despite the cold.

Lilac was close to tears. “Allen, please don’t.”

Her anguished face cut through the heart of him. What was in this crate meant so much more to her than he’d previously thought. “Boar,” he strained. “This isn’t . . . right.”

“Do it. And make sure it shatters.”

His wolf howled in distress.

Allen gritted his teeth as Boar’s command wrenched his body around against his will and marched him out of the Hall. He had enough willpower remaining to rip the lid from the crate before hurling everything into the snow. The moment he completed the order, the power controlling him vanished, and he sucked in a deep breath. Then he launched himself back into the cellar. He had to talk to Lilac, to convince her—

Sobbing, Lilac was already disappearing up the stairs and Boar was watching her go, fists clenched and a pained expression on his face. He heard Allen’s footsteps and turned. “Allen, I’m sor—”

Boar’s head snapped back as Allen’s fist cracked him on the chin in a textbook upper cut. The witch dropped like a felled tree, and Allen stood over him, chest heaving.

“Don’t ever do that again,” he snarled. “I’ll obey you, Boar, to the extent my conscience allows. You can do your own dirty work from now on, you hear me?”

Boar flipped onto his feet, magic channeling to his hands, but Allen only stepped back. As much as he wanted to run after Lilac, appeasing her brother had to be his priority, especially with that magic directed at him. He retreated to one of the coolers and practically tore the lid off it to get at the frozen porterhouse inside. He offered it to Boar.

“For your face. You hold that there while I get the skillet hot, yeah? Then we’re gonna share that steak and go forth from tonight knowing each other a little better, aren’t we?”

Boar looked like he just might refuse this peace offering, then his magic winked out. He didn’t waste the power it would take to heal himself, choosing Allen’s olive branch instead. The witch took the frozen steak and pressed it against his jaw. “You cook this medium-rare and not a degree over and I’ll forget all about it.”

“Agreed.”

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

Lilac felt dead inside.

And it had nothing to do with the raw egg/blueberry/spinach/oatmeal protein shake atrocity Allen had “cooked up” for breakfast. Even Rose, who would eat anything, had had her misgivings and promised to provide him with a list of her favorite meals if she didn’t die from food poisoning or lack of will to live, whichever came first.

After that initial outburst of tears when Allen had hurled her crate outside and she’d heard it shatter against the walkway, she hadn’t cried. Emotions were for the living, after all. Not even Edith’s gift, Forgotten Lore of the Arcane, with its fascinating Celtic witch’s knots, witch groves, ill-wishes, and green sparks of destiny could perk her up.

She knew, deep down, Allen hadn’t been able to help himself—as caretaker he had to obey any direct order given him—and if she was being truthful with herself, she’d admit it had meant the world to her that he’d actually tried to fight back. But she’d wanted him to fight harder.

Allen Sharpe was a true man, as much as she was loath to pay him a compliment, someone confident and mature and unfazed by others’ opinions. He knew his worth and his morals—while they didn’t align with hers, since he was definitely hiding something from them—and that deserved her begrudging respect. And (still loathing to compliment) he had stood up for her against Prue Stonewell. If any man could’ve truly resisted Boar’s command, to safeguard her future, it would’ve been him.

But it was not to be.

Everything she had worked for, her chance for validation and turning over a new leaf—gone. Poof. Like it had never been.

This had been her only chance, for Boar would surely tell the elders what she had planned when they returned to the manor at the end of the week and she’d probably be forbidden from going anywhere near a cauldron again. That was not her role. She’d been naïve to even think she could break free of the mold in which she had been cast.

“Earth to Lilac,” Rose said, nudging her as she walked past. “Finish growing that last booth or set up these cookies, but both gotta get done in the next five minutes!”

The function hall no longer resembled a vast ballroom. In preparation for today’s Craft Faire, the official start of the Yuletide Gala, the three witches and their caretaker had risen before dawn to transform Hawthorne Hall.