Page 91 of A Bond in Flames

The hounds gathered around the pit and lifted their hands palms up. Flames danced across their skin, licking over their thick fingers.

Warrick shook his head, and silence filled the room.

The hounds lowered their gazes as they curled their fingers into fists, extinguishing their fires. “What’s going on?” Willow asked Jagger.

“Burning him would send his soul back to Hell. Leaving his body to rot means his soul will be in eternal limbo.”

War met his brothers’ eyes, one by one, rage rolling off him. “You lay your hands on my female, you dare touch what’s mine, and I will fucking end you. You challenge me for head of this pack, you enter the pit prepared to fight to the death. You’ll get no mercy here.”

Growls and grunts of approval echoed around them.

Axton had attacked Willow and challenged War. If it were the challenge alone, he wouldn’t be here, but attacking Willow had been his fatal mistake.

The scene flickered, and it started all over again, the cheers and howls filling the room.

I ran back the way I came, searching my mind, trying to remember everything Willow had said about the den. There would be another way out of here; there had to be.

Then I remembered something. When Wills was telling me about how she and War first got together, she told me about a door in Warrick’s room that led up to the clubhouse that females would knock on, trying to get him to let them in. It had to be the way out.

Axton would be coming for me soon, so I had to be quick. I sprinted to War’s quarters and shut myself in, throwing the bolt after me. It was heavy, strong, made to give a hellhound pause, but it wouldn’t hold for long. Spinning back, I took in the room. This was how it was before War renovated, before he opened it up, combining several rooms for him, Wills, and Violet. Which meant less for me to search, thank fuck. I scanned every inch of exposed wall, but there was no door. Had all the doors been taken? Was that the real reason Nox had sent me here, because there was no way out?

There was a tall dresser against the wall; it looked built-in, but it was definitely big enough to cover a door. I rushed over, running my hands around the edge. Not built-in. I tried to shift it.

The door handle rattled. “Let me in, Willow,” Axton said.

“Just a minute… War. I want everything perfect for you,” I called back and threw my back into it. The dresser scraped against the floor. Hemlock hissed again, scurrying out of my bag and onto my shoulder.

“What are you doing in there?” he called.

Yes! A door. Thank fuck.“I’m making it nice. Now be patient,” I called back, doing my best impersonation of Willow.

I shoved again, and it scraped forward some more.

“Open the fucking door. Now, Willow!” he roared and smashed against the heavy wood.

I dragged the dresser forward a bit more, enough for me to squeeze in behind. He crashed against the charred wood again, trying to break in. I tried the handle, but the door was locked. Cursing, I pulled out my knife and worked on the hinges while Axton roared and continued to slam against the door. Thank fuck it was made by hounds; any other door would have buckled instantly.

I got the first hinge out, and then the second came easily, but the last was wedged tight. I dug my blade in and smacked my palm against the handle of my knife over and over.

The door crashed open behind me as the last hinge gave. Hemy shrieked and hissed, and I slammed my shoulder into the door, and it dropped as the dresser went flying.

Axton roared and reached for me as I fell through—

My hands landed on damp grass. It was night, a false moon lighting the area enough that I could still see everything clearly. I was in a small clearing, surrounded by trees. Hemlock was on the grass beside me, and I scooped him up. “It’s okay,” I said and stood—bumping against something behind me. An iron gate. One that I’d seen before.

A shriek echoed through the trees, and then another one. The same sounds I’d heard when I’d seen Death with the undead.

Only this time, I was on the wrong side of the gate.

I slid my knife free, gripping it tight as more shrieks filled the night. There was movement in the shadows, slow, awkward movement. They were coming. Then, one by one, they shuffled forward. There were three of them, and as they got closer and I got a better look at them, flashes of memory assaulted me.

I knew them from my visions. They’d each housed my soul at some point—the females who had cringed away from Death when he’d brought them to the castle. He’d sensed my soul, but it hadn’t been enough. For some reason, they hadn’t been enough to draw him from the cloak.

They’d all suffered, never content, never complete, sad, alone, confused, always pining for something, for someone, and not knowing what it was. It was Death. He was the missing piece, but they never saw him, they never got to see beneath the cloak, and without him, they’d ended their own lives full of despair, and Death’s hope had been shattered over and over again. He blamed himself, his guilt unbearable.

“Whether you return to me or not, the choice is yours, little witch. But I’m begging you… choose me over everything and everyone, over a life with them, over the possibility of death here with me.”

“Choose me.”

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