Page 23 of The Wolf and the Witch

Greta grunted, snorting out a breath and frowning in her sleep now that she no longer rested on his chest. His heart squeezed painfully, but he steeled himself against the hollowing feeling. He’d lost one mate and leaving another behind for a few days didn’t compare.

He looked forward to reuniting with his witch and knotting her again, hearing her incoherent moans in his ear and her nails dragging along his back. He almost wished she had claws, so she could mark him for days instead of the minutes it took for his flesh to heal.

His bare feet touched the floor, eyes observing the rise and fall of Greta’s chest. Helen packed his bags disapprovingly a couple of days ago. Gabriel remained a smart male and didn’t comment on his plan to sneak away from his mate to visit a foreign pack.

He held back a sigh, striding toward his closet on the other side of the spacious bedroom. He looked forward to the day Greta considered Blood Moon her home and decides to leave her mark on it. To make her feel at ease, he desired for her to redecorate the house in any way she wanted.

His hands pulled open the closet door, reaching down for the small duffel lightly packed with a few pairs of clothes. He didn’t expect an extended stay or a warm welcome. Helen packed light, intimately familiar with how such a trip could turn deadly.

His jaw clenched, briefly thinking of his own father, who never returned from a similar trip to a different pack. Protect mate, Ryker snarled in his head, his fear bleeding into Geralt. Geralt closed his eyes, trying to reason with the beast. Ryker wanted to leave Greta even less than he did. Geralt suspected the beast chafed from the inability to bond with Greta, since she lacked a wolf for them to bond with.

Gabriel and Helen will protect Greta, he soothed. Ryker prowled his mind restlessly, unappeased. Geralt pulled on clean sweatpants and a plain shirt, darting frequent glances at his sleeping mate. If she woke up and saw the bag at his feet, he wasn’t sure he could talk her out of insisting on coming with him. She is a warrior, Ryker proclaimed proudly. A smile stretched Geralt’s lips. He could agree with his animal on that. Greta was a worthy mate, strong and brave.

He hefted the duffel on one shoulder, looking longingly at Greta’s sleeping form. His feet carried him to her side of the bed, wood flooring groaning with each step. Fighting back his wolf, he bent down to place a gentle kiss to her furrowed brow. His lips smiled wider. A week and already she’d grown used to sleeping with his body heat warming her.

His nose brushed the top of her head, letting her silky strands caress his face. He ached for her, his body fighting him against leaving her. Clenching his jaw and curling his claws to dig into his palms, he forced himself to step back, to walk to the bedroom door without another glance or he’d never leave.

Ella’s last message spurred him on even further. Soon, Abbigail would be too far in her pregnancy to travel. He had to get his pup back, or he risked losing her forever. He’d lost enough family and so had Greta. Together, they’d heal, rebuild, and grow. That couldn’t happen without Abbigail.

Get Witchy

Greta hissed, blood welling from the nick she’d made with her athame. She stuck her finger into her mouth, sucking on the cut, trying and failing to tune out the downpour pounding the roof of the log cabin.

“Sarciant carnes,” she whispered over the minor cut, watching the flesh stitch itself back together. Mend flesh spell remained one of her favorites. Pity, it didn’t work if supernatural means made the wound, such as a hex from a witch or the claws of a Lycan, their very existence defying natural laws.

“Do you need a hand?” Greta jumped at the kind voice coming from the doorway of the room Geralt dubbed her “chapel” after stumbling on her kneeling bare ass before her altar, arms splayed outward from her body and forehead kissing the floor. Of course, the male took advantage of her nakedness and knotted her after bringing her to two screaming orgasms.

Her cheeks heated, eyes avoiding Helen perched in the doorway. The entire pack probably heard them occasionally and with Lycan senses, Greta prayed to Hecate that Geralt’s stepmother couldn’t scent the stale musk of day’s old sex.

“I’m fine,” she mumbled, unable to look at the older she-wolf. Thunder cracked, light flashing through the window to her right from lightning. Greta blinked, clutching her healed hand to her chest. It appeared even nature raged against Geralt’s absence.

“We might lose power,” Helen said, shoes scuffing the polished wood floor as she walked further into Greta’s sacred space. Greta fought the instinctive urge to tell the female to get out. Geralt wasn’t far off referring to the room he gifted her as her “chapel.” A witch’s practice room was sacred.

A witch guarded her space religiously, preserving the natural flow of energies and dispelling disruptive ones.

“I’ll meet you outside,” Greta stated, eyes landing meaningfully on the spot Helen’s sensible shoes stood on.

“Of course. I’ve got a few of those pot pies you like in the oven,” Helen said, stepping back cautiously, smiling apologetically. Greta blinked rapidly, fighting tears. The female truly embodied motherhood, and she felt bad for insisting Helen step out.

Greta hurried from her position behind the long wooden trestle table bisecting the small room. Helen’s smile widened, a hand reaching out for Greta to take. Their fingers entwined and Greta returned Helen’s smile, letting her lead them to the kitchen.

The mouthwatering aroma of baked yeast and cooked meat lured them down the hall at the back of the packhouse. Greta appreciated Geralt’s foresight in selecting a room for her to practice her craft in the furthest from the flow of Lycans cycling in and out of the house. She couldn’t blame them, guilty of gluttoning herself on Helen’s cooking frequently.

Once they stepped into the open foyer serving as an entryway, a few feet shy of the kitchen, overlapping voices carried to them. Her jaw clenched, and she unconsciously squeezed Helen’s hand tighter. She jumped when Helen’s other hand came to rest on top of hers, cocooning her hand between both of the she-wolf’s.

Warm brown eyes speared into her, witnessing the root of Greta’s anxieties as if she’d confessed them aloud. Sympathy instead of judgement swirled in the brown pools of Helen’s eyes.

She battled tears for the second time that day. Like mother, like son, Greta thought, even though Geralt wasn’t Helen’s biological child. Both patiently allowed her to warm to them, never forcing the connection. It contradicted everything she thought she knew about Lycans from her time in the king’s palace.

Helen jerked her head toward the kitchen, silently asking if Greta still wished to proceed. Her head nodded slowly while she took a deep breath, magick swirling violently in her veins and the rain intensifying outside.

So far no one had commented on the rainstorm that erupted the same hour she learned of Geralt’s deceit. The longer the pack went without word from their Alpha, the harder the storm raged. Other than Helen and Gabriel, the other Lycans gave Greta a wide berth, and she spent most of her time in her practice room, experimenting with different spells, desperate for a solution to rescue Geralt’s daughter and secretly fearful of what would become of their relationship once she served her purpose in aiding the rescue.

Helen gently led her toward the kitchen and they both froze when silence choked the room, all eyes turning to them. Dread crept into her gut. Her hand wrenched from Helen’s and she stepped forward, ears buzzing from the increasing storm outside.

“What is it? Where’s Geralt?” Her voice shattered the quiet, and every Lycan avoided meeting her eyes.

Gabriel stepped toward her, a solemn expression on his normally stoic face. Greta was already shaking her head, magick blazing hot, begging for an outlet.

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