Page 25 of The Wolf and the Witch

A poisonous voice whispered for her to keep her suspicions to herself. She recalled Geralt dealing with challengers when the pack learned his second mate was a witch. With rogues racing to Blood Moon pack to bring her to the king, dead or alive, she didn’t dare let anyone in the pack know she suspected she carried their Alpha’s child.

She tried to keep quiet, listening for threats and letting Helen’s hand remain clamped over her mouth. The night signaled not just a fight for her life and freedom, but for that of her child and the pack belonging to her mate.

She sent frequent prayers to Hecate for Geralt’s safe return, refusing to believe he died at the hands of rogues, leaving her to raise their miracle alone. The fates wouldn’t be so cruel.

Her tongue slid along her teeth, debating an extra prayer to Selene, mother of wolves, queen of the night. She fought the urge, tensing against Helen’s slight frame. Her skin pebbled with goosebumps, a sixth sense informing her they weren’t alone.

Little light illuminated their area, the better to hide from predators. But intuition screamed something stalked her. Her hand slid into the grass beneath her, magick pulsing through her and connecting with the first mother. Teeth ground against each other, trapping a gasp.

Something living lurked nearby, the rush of blood in their veins calling to her magick, traveling into the ground and teasing her with their location. Lightning flashed quicker, threatening to give their location away, but Greta held little sway over the volatile nature of her magick tethered to Geralt. He’d changed her, and the past 24 hours failed to inform her of the extent of those changes.

One hand came up, tapping a finger against Helen’s slender fingers, a signal for freedom. Helen relaxed her grip slowly, reluctance slowing her movements. Once freed, Greta crawled in the grass, following the thread leading her to the Lycan lurking nearby.

A sliver of moonlight provided a shadow for Greta to crouch in. The new moon barely gracing the sky over the past couple of days served as more confirmation of her potential pregnancy. A waxing crescent barely illuminated the woods surrounding the packhouse.

Rustling behind her had her tensing until she remembered Helen probably followed her lead, not letting Geralt’s mate out of her sight. Greta resumed the snail’s pace across the rough earth, attempting to guess the direction of the wind, praying nature didn’t give their scent away.

Teeth clamped down onto her lip, holding a gasp. Red eyes peered through the gaps of trees. Her heart thumped loudly in her chest. Thunder fired in quick succession, lightning streaking hot on its tail.

Her fingers curled in the dirt, skin tightening, eyes never leaving the threat. A growl behind her raised fine hairs on her nape. She jerked her head to the right, nearly missing the rapid transformation of Helen beside her. Helen’s bones snapped at a rapid pace, the shift over in nearly a blink.

A large brown wolf, fur streaked with grey, stood guard next to Greta. Howling erupted from the throat of the Lycan watching them, signaling its companions. Fuck, Greta thought, weakness slowing her movements as she pulled on her magick.

She overexerted herself, creating the traps in the woods. If she wasn’t careful, she’d end up in another week long coma.

A burst of movement signaled the Lycan pouncing in their direction, breaking through the treeline with canines bared. Helen howled before sprinting forward to intercept the interloper.

Greta screamed, fearful for the woman who’d treated her like a daughter since the moment she opened her eyes in the pack clinic.

Thunder boomed, a great rumbling, warning of a break in the natural order, the sound never ceasing. Lightning streaked down, a pained yowl following its landing.

Greta rose to her feet, running toward Helen. The she-wolf turned toward her, growling.

Greta’s head thudded against the ground, a weight settling onto her back, claws digging into her flesh. She could hear Helen’s constant growls beyond her head, but the she-wolf never approached while the unknown Lycan kept Greta pinned to the ground.

Fear clawed her insides. The Lycan’s weight pressed her stomach into the ground, rocks and wet grass staining the front of her dress. Tears stung her eyes, fingers clawing into the earth. She couldn’t lose something that was all hers, something that only Geralt helped her create.

Hot breath kissed her neck, canines slipping over her skin. She knew the creature’s intent. She saw them carry fully grown humans by the scruff of their neck within their powerful jaws.

Her hand reached back for the paw next to her shoulder that wasn’t pinning her. It growled against her neck in warning, but she dug her nails into the fur, scraping skin.

“Mors lectum,” she screamed, fire traveling down her throat, magick ripping free. Another yowl echoed in the night, the Lycan flying off of her, writhing on its back. Rot crawled over its fur, eroding it away and eating at the flesh.

She whirled to her right, relaxing at Helen’s approach, the she-wolf shifting back into her human skin. Greta returned her eyes to the dying Lycan, feeling a sick satisfaction.

Life for death. Her mother had screeched like a banshee at one of her aunts for teaching her the eroding death spell, saying it held no place in their coven. Lifting her chin, Greta walked stiffly back to the front of the house, Helen sticking close to her side, bare skin brushing the sleeves of Greta’s dress.

For the first time since her death, Greta didn’t spare a thought of what her mother would think of her. She defended herself and her unborn child, balance be damned.

Coming Home

An arm rested across each of Geralt’s shoulders, Brice and Rex braced on either side of him. Together, the three males kept each other steady, marching through the pack toward the pack house. Half-healed wounds scabbed over with the rise of the crescent moon, a reprieve from the weakness afflicting them from the lack of moonlight during the phases of the new moon.

Ryker stalked Geralt’s mind, growling in his head with urgency. They’d come across the corpses of several Lycans during their trek. His heart remained constricted in his chest, refusing to relax until he laid eyes on his mate. He blinked weary eyes at Gunter’s tall silhouette standing guard at the base of the stairs to the pack house.

The Elder Lycan snapped his head in their direction, gravel crunching beneath their bare feet, blood staining the opaque rocks.

“Alpha!” Gunter rushed toward them, but Geralt jerked his head at Rex, signaling the male to aid the most wounded warrior. Rex practically collapsed in Gunter’s arms, blonde hair streaked with blood. Geralt winced at the scabs splitting open on the male’s back, fresh blood welling in the vicious wounds.

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