Page 120 of Wicked Witch of the Wolf

Was it time to call in my last favor?

I wasn’t sure.

“Please be careful,” I told the witches an hour later at the door. “Stick together as much as you can. There’s strength in numbers.”

It was chilly, one of the last cold nights before summer, so Ronan and I lit the fireplace. We sat on the sofa with glasses of wine and music playing in the background. Ronan’s choice, this time, which meant we were listening to a classic rock mix on my tablet. There was an overlap in our tastes, though I leaned more toward Zeppelin and he toward Metallica.

“So, Cecil and Fennel only scorched the mailboxes?”

“Along with some grass and a few Pallás wolves.” I took a sip of wine. “They’ve already cleaned everything up and apologized to the soil.”

“That must’ve made Cecil happy. He seems to like fire.” He leaned against the sofa cushions and pulled me into him. I laid my head on his shoulder.

“I’m not sure it’s the fire as much as thedestruction.” I wiped a bead of condensation off my glass with my thumb. “I’m letting him destroy theWeret-hekau Maleficiumso that should satisfy him for a while.”

“Destroy it? Is that safe?”

“Safer than keeping it around. Floyd’s going to be pissed.” I smiled and took another sip. It was a sweet white I’d picked up when I stopped at the liquor store for Cecil’s Four Loko.

“Yeah,” he said and set his drained glass on the coffee table.

“I’ve been meaning to ask. What was your plan?”

“Plan?”

“When I picked you up at Felicia Juarez’s house, you said you’d had a plan in place, and it all went to shit when Floyd and the coven moved against you. What was it?”

“I wasn’t lying before. Calling it a plan is a stretch.” He hugged me closer. “It’s more like some actions I’ve been taking to positively affect a future possible outcome. A calculated gamble.”

Ronan reached for his glass, and I picked up the bottle and refilled it.

“I’ve been working with a few of the disgruntled alphas in the pack, reaching out, listening to their ideas, complaints. Helping out where I could. That sort of thing.” He clinked his glass against mine and took a drink.

“Getting them to see you as a leader. Smart.”

“I learned from the best. It’s what Mom did after she obliterated the leadership in our hometown. It worked well, I believe, because she was sincere. People can tell.”

“They can, but they often choose the leader who can do something for them. You’re working both angles.”

“Trying to.”

“So, when did Mason Hartman tip his hand to you—or Floyd’s hand, rather?” I asked, ready for resistance. He seemed unwilling to discuss Mason, and maybe I shouldn’t have kept pushing, but it was eating at me.

“Never said he did.”

“You didn’t have to say it. He’s the one who saved you from the witches. Indirectly, it seems.”

“So it seems.”

“If you think I’m going to let you get secretive again, you better think again.”

He sighed. “Yes, I’m pretty sure it was Mason who helped me. I don’t exactly know why except for what you told me about him wanting me to challenge Floyd properly. Whatever angle Mason’s working, he hasn’t tipped his hand to me. To belabor your metaphor, he’s playing his cards close to the vest.”

“Everyone in this convoluted situation is,” I said. “Even our supposed allies. It’s exhausting.”

“Yeah.”

He buried his face in my throat and kissed the sensitive spot beneath my ear. I leaned into him, accidentally splashing wine on his shirt. One of the two in his size I’d asked the Brittons to pick up from DiscMart, along with a pack of underwear and two pairs of sweatpants.

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