Page 6 of Rejected By the Winter Wolf

Help me with what, Mom? Not to mention, I have no idea about any curse, or who he is. If her they refers to demons, and not the wolves as I originally suspected…

I shudder.

Wolves hunt witches and demons alike. While demons are true monsters, witches have always tried to live in peace. We’re humans with magic—that doesn’t make us abominations. That doesn’t make us evil.

My ugly truth is that I’m grateful for the demons. I’m grateful that they give the wolves something else to chew on. Because when the wolves aren’t focused on those black-souled beasts, they’re hunting witches.

Their mortal enemy.

They know no bounds when it comes to witches—and I’ve seen their ruthlessness firsthand.

Demons, they hunt because it’s their duty. They kill them to keep our world safe.

Witches…

Well, it started with one witch.

One wolf.

And one betrayal.

Now we’re all paying for it.

Wolves strike fear in my heart like no other, simply because I know I’m dead if they see my Mark. I’m dead if they smell my magic. Or worse—I’d be dragged back to their pack for them to do with me what they please.

There are too many stories.

Too many nightmares that keep us from lulling into a sense of safety.

It doesn’t matter how many witches are in a coven. It doesn’t matter how much power we have. Wolves will always be the predator. And we’re their favorite prey.

So why do I get the sinking feeling the him my mother referred to is a wolf?

Chapter 2

Kian

My hunters come back with their heads bowed, reeking of failure and fear.

I grit my teeth and remain where I am, kneeling in front of the fireplace. A single candle burns in the grate, the flame twisting and turning in the air. In it, I’m supposed to be able to see my future. The Silver Ridge Pack’s future.

But there’s nothing.

My father could do this with ease. I still remember sitting on his lap as a child, one of the few times he had me laughing as he made the flames jump and dance at his will. And when I was learning, trying to adapt the fire to my desires, nothing.

Diluted power, my father would mutter, extinguishing the fire and leaving me sitting in the dark.

But after he’d died, I realized it wasn’t diluted.

Just different.

Now, their failure rankles as sharp as mine did to my father. The quiet, simmering rage under my skin flares hotter, but I don’t tear my gaze away from the flame.

“Speak,” I order.

Even if I can’t control the flame, I will control my pack.

“The demons took the Seer, Alpha,” one says.