Page 38 of A Wolf for Winter

The server quickly joined her side, and Lilac turned away from the others and lowered her voice. “I’ve had time to reconsider your request. About the love potion. Do you still want it?”

The woman’s eyes sparkled. “Seriously?”

Lilac glanced back at the open double doors of Hawthorne Hall where Boar had disappeared inside to raid the totes and make sure her potions were destroyed once and for all. No doubt he would issue recalls for everything else, despite the Healing Elixir’s success. He had ruined her dreams not once, but twice, and had publicly shamed her to boot. A little love potion—and the senseless fool he would become—weren’t payback enough, but it was a start.

She smiled her little serene smile, the one he and all the rest of her family expected of her. “I’ve never been more serious in my life. I’ll hide it in that yew bush by the front door and you can pick it up before the Hanging of the Green, okay?”

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

The wolf plowed through the snow with great stomping steps. He wanted to howl, wanted to release his rage at the starry sky, but he couldn’t risk discovery. So he marched his patrol with a snarl on his jaws, blasting the powdery snow at his feet into a chaotic flurry with each exhale.

Allen Chase had been a fool.

He’d overreacted earlier that day, misinterpreting the Hall’s alarm for an attack. He’d jumped to a conclusion, already on edge from what had happened to Landen, all because of her.

Or rather, his feelings for Lilac.

It was unprecedented. The moment he’d sensed—assumed—she was in danger, he’d seen red. Forget everyone else; his only need had been to protect her, to spirit her to safety. And then to discover that ill-wish had been for her, to lodge in her throat with all those barbs pumping venom into her veins? He’d nearly wolfed out right then and there.

Since when did he let his emotions govern him? Hadn’t he learned that lesson already, and the hard way too, since he’d been forced to give up his brothers and leave the service? If he didn’t get ahold of himself, he would ruin his second chance with the Coalition. Then he would be doomed to wander for the rest of his days alone. Not even his older brother Lewellyn would take him in, at least, not for long. He was a retrieval specialist, a job that took him all over the world and sometimes put him in bed with unsavory characters. The same individuals Allen had vowed to protect against when he’d joined the military.

The golden-white wolf put on a burst of speed in an attempt to outrun his waspish thoughts. The storm had moved on, leaving a frigid chillness and a flawlessly clear sky behind. He could smell another one rolling in on its heels, though. It would be here in a day or two, dampening everything in white.

There were no unusual prints in the forest, nor in the lawns surrounding Hawthorne Hall, but the wolf couldn’t shake the feeling of the alarm. Of the eerie prickling of his skin, as if a colony of invisible ants had mistaken him for a succulent leaf and were gnawing on him. He couldn’t shake how it had made his hair stand straight on end.

He returned to the grove, finding the symmetrical nature of it just as unsettling as before. There had been power here once, long ago, and maybe a remnant of it still lingered.

There were some scratches on the trees, probably by the local herd of deer or from a bird searching for hibernating insects, but no scents or footprints, so the wolf swung around to return to the Hall.

Whoever had set off the alarm was holed up in the village, and without another clue or scent to act upon, there was no use in pursuing them. Though, they all had their suspicions.

The hedge witches were the most likely culprits, Prue Stonewell in particular, but the Hawthornes had all agreed that they couldn’t outright accuse her without hard evidence. She’d vanished shortly before Landen’s poisoning, but then again, so had a lot of people. Allen had left the punch bowl unattended, and while Boar blamed Rose, it was no one else’s weight to bear but his.

“No more mistakes,” Allen growled aloud as he pulled his clothes out of the plastic trash bag. “Your head stays in the game, Chase. Your heart, and that girl, have no say in this.”

Lilac couldn’t be the home he was desperate for. She was a Hawthorne, for one, his kind forbidden to her, and secondly, she didn’t trust him. Occasionally she seemed to forget that fact, allowing him to glimpse her true self, and those were the times he questioned everything.

“No,” he reminded himself, and his wolf, who got this stupid happy grin on his muzzle anytime he thought of her. “No.” He had to stay away from her, as much as his mission would allow, so he could remain impartial. It was the only way to get the job done. It was the only way he could leave when Zofia reclaimed her role as caregiver and the Coalition welcomed him into their ranks.

The Hall’s barrier recognized him and his opal ring, washing over him as he passed through before tightening back down for the rest of the night. Allen locked the cellar door behind him, stopped to raid the fridge for a leg of leftover chicken, and trudged up the stairs to the first floor. He needed to add some more wood to the fire before turning in for the night. The Hall’s hearth was a magical thing indeed, consuming wood at a fraction of the speed a normal fireplace would, and the logs he’d place would easily last until the morning.

As he shouldered open the door to the first floor, he heard a squeak that definitely didn’t come from the hinges.

“Lilac?” he exclaimed around a mouthful of chicken. He hastily swallowed.

The witch was, yet again, in just her nightgown and slippers as she knelt before the fire. Her unbound hair undulated down her back, the edges flashing golden in the firelight. The same teasing light penetrated the thin cotton of her nightgown and left little of her curves and swells to the imagination. He ripped his eyes away even as a painfully hard pulse throbbed deep in his abdomen. Spirits above, this woman needed to invest in a robe.

Lilac plucked her drawstring purse from the floor at her knees and snatched the mug from the nearby coals. “What are you doing here?”

“I’m the caretaker. It’s my right to wander these halls like a ghost if I so choose.” He tore his gaze from where it had landed on the woodpile and shifted it to her face. And only her face. Which was still a mistake.

The witch was a little disheveled, as if she’d just come from bed, and her cheeks were rosy from the fire. Embers from the hearth reflected like sparks of gold in her ivy-green eyes. Her full lips were slightly parted, like she was on the verge of saying something, but she only wet them quickly with her tongue. Nervously. Expectantly?

Stop it, Allen reminded himself roughly. She doesn’t want you, plus she’ll hate you if she ever figures out what you are, and she is not the mission.

“What are you doing here?” he asked. “Shouldn’t you be in bed?”

“Who are you, my brother?”