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What if it does? What if coming into my witch power has somehow changed me?
The men keep insisting that they trust me, and I want them to. But I wish I was sure I deserved that trust.
I could be the enemy, and none of us would even know it.
8
Archer
I’ve always been well-organized and clean, maybe even to the point of mild OCD. So living with four other people for the last few weeks has been an interesting experiment and a definite test of my patience. The differences between me and my cabin-mates is more apparent than ever right now as we try to track down our belongings in the madness and chaos of the small dwelling.
I’m folding a handful of Ridge’s shirts into a bag when Trystan strides into the living room, looking frustrated.
“Where’s my shirt?” he demands.
I pause in my folding and exchange irritated glances with Ridge, who’s on the other side of the couch shoving supplies into another bag. Between us, Dare is sound asleep, seemingly unbothered by all the commotion. Or too drugged up on painkillers to even notice.
“I haven’t touched your shirt,” I say evenly, dropping a t-shirt on top of the folded clothes inside my bag. “What did you do with it when you took it off?”
Trystan and I arrived here with literally only the clothes off our backs and the contents of our pockets. We didn’t come to the inter-pack summit planning for an overnight stay, much less a multiple-week sojourn. We borrowed clothes from Ridge, but it’s completely beyond my comprehension how a grown man could lose his belongings when he had so few things to begin with. Especially an alpha who has full and complete control of a wolf pack.
Trystan strides over to my side and digs his hands into the bag I so carefully organized, pawing through the stacks of shirts and shorts. “Did you already pack my shit?”
I fight the urge to throttle him. It’s tempting as hell sometimes, but the fact that Sable is attached to him holds me back.
“I didn’t pack your clothes,” I say pointedly. “I packed all of Ridge’s clothes that we’ve been wearing for weeks.”
“Check the dresser in the bedroom,” Ridge calls without looking at us. He drops a flashlight into his pack then heads for the kitchen, leaving me to deal with the irritated shifter.
Four alphas in a small cabin… takes some getting used to.
“Do a last sweep of the bedroom,” I tell Trystan. “If you don’t find it there, we’ll leave without it.”
We don’t have time to waste fucking around. We need to gather our things quickly and head out, before any loose ends from Dare’s vigilante run come looking for him. Chances are, Trystan’s things are either already in a bag or flung about the cabin somewhere, and they’ll end up packed before we’re done. He just needs to calm the hell down.
Although, to be honest, that’s a hard thing to ask for right now. From any of us. Between Dare’s injuries, the threat of witches, and Sable’s transformation, the little bubble we created here in this cabin feels irrevocably broken.
Trystan nods shortly and stalks out of the room. I cross to the couch and give Dare’s shoulder a shake, keeping my hands as far from any wounds as possible.
His dark eyes pop open, and he stares up at me as if trying to focus on my face through the haze of painkillers. “What?”
“You need to eat.” I grip his elbow and give him a hand sitting up, then pull him to his feet.
With an arm around his waist, I help him limp into the kitchen. His weight is heavy as he drapes his arm around my shoulders. The painkillers seem to be doing their job though, because he can put a little weight on his left leg without falling apart.
I get him settled at the kitchen table with coffee and leftovers, leaving him with strict instructions to fuel up for the trip ahead. We need him in the best shape possible if we’re going to have a chance of reaching my pack lands unscathed.
After leaving Dare, I go to check on Trystan in the bedroom. But I don’t see him there—he must’ve either found his shirt or given up the search for it.
Instead, I find Sable on the bed, seated next to the small backpack of clothes she brought with her. Half the clothes are too long and slightly too large for her, so I know they don’t belong to her. Wearing too-large clothes gives her a child-like, innocent look that suits her personality. She’s clearly packed and ready to go, but her heart isn’t in it. She’s staring down at the backs of her hands, her eyes red-rimmed and glassy. I’ve seen the black magic rising beneath the scars on her skin, especially during her transition and right after, but right now, her scars are pale and untouched.
Regardless, I’m absolutely certain all she can see is magic. It’s all I can see in my nightmares, and my trauma happened a long time ago.
“I don’t think this is a good idea,” Sable murmurs, turning over her hands until her palms are facing up. Shiny scars mar the moonlight-pale skin of her forearms. Sometimes, I get so lost in looking in her eyes that I forget about the constellation of her past decorating her body.
Or maybe I just hate to think of the pain inflicted on her during her years with her uncle. It reminds me that we have a truly awful thing in common. Torture like that is something no child should ever have to endure.
“I think it’s the best idea we’ve got.” Sinking down next to her on the mussed blankets, I nudge her with my shoulder. I keep the rest of the thought—it’s the only idea we have—to myself.
