Page 65 of Wicked Witch of the Wolf

“What makes you think I’m here to fight?”

I looked at him then mouthed, “Are we playing this game?” When he only stared at me, I whispered, “Margaux said you’d help. She said this made you square.”

He muttered a choice selection of curse words.

Interesting.

Heavy footfalls overhead reminded me that we weren’t alone in the house.

They must’ve reminded him, too, because he gave up trying to shove me outside and pointed to a doorway that led into the kitchen. “Pantry. Now. You and the cat.”

I don’t know why I listened to him. He was a lying, violent asshole who’d nearly choked me out once. But he was also the guy who’d crawled back to a place where he’d been tortured with silver to dump a handful of soil on my head because he’d known I’d needed it to survive.

Mason Hartman was an enigma wrapped in a secret sealed with a punch to the throat. I loathed him and had wished for him to take a long walk off a short pier more than once, yet there was something about the man that had me thinking twice about where he stood in the grand scheme of things.

I jerked my head at Fennel, and we both ducked into the pantry and shut the door. The room was walk-in-closet sized and filled with neatly arranged canning jars and airtight plastic containers that all matched each other. It was homogenous and entirely devoid of personality, like the brainchild of one of those internet influencers who thought any color darker than pale gray was a sign of the devil.

This was Maya’s pantry? She seemed so much more vibrant than this. It was as if Desmond had done his damndest to drain every last drop of color from her life.

I wanted him to pay for that. I wanted him to pay for a lot of things, but that especially seemed like a tragedy. His systematicdeconstruction of the normally happy, vivacious woman pissed me off.

“We’re going to get this guy,” I whispered to Fennel.

A commotion in the kitchen caught my attention. I thought about backing into the far corner and crouching behind a stack of bleached white dishtowels but decided to inch forward to eavesdrop instead. I was already taking a series of huge risks. What was one more?

“What the devil happened down here? I heard a cat screech, and now you’ve got blood all over your shirt,” a gravelly voice asked.

I knew that voice. I’d spent a lot of time hating it and the man it belonged to.

Floyd Pallás.

“Ran into a trap,” Mason said. “A weak one. My injuries have already healed.”

“Good for you. Problem is, I can’t scent anything in here but your damned blood,” Floyd snapped. “Didn’t I tell you to watch out for Mace’s traps? He told us himself he’d stuck them all around the house.”

Fennel looked up at me with wide eyes. We gave the small room a nervous visual once-over.

“Yes, sir, you did. Should I search the house again?”

“Nah. If he brought Ronan here, we’d have found him by now. Let’s go to the bar and regroup. We’ll find the slippery bastard—he can’t have gotten far.”

“Yes,sir,” Mason said, and damned if I didn’t detect a hint of disdain in his tone.

Exactly what kind of game are you playing, Mason Hartman? Why didn’t you tell him I’m here? Are you protecting me or him?

Or maybe yourself?

I had so many questions.

The wolves left, and I searched the house, setting off several of Desmond’s “traps” while protected by my shield. None of them were deadly—they appeared meant to frighten or ensnare, not injure.Some had contained wolfsbane, though, which was lethal to wolves in high doses, annoying to them in smaller ones.

I didn’t get it. If Desmond was aligned with the pack, why had he set traps to harm them?

Cecil met us upstairs, his null bag sealed and filled to bursting.

“Did you have any trouble?” I asked.

He made atsksound and shook his head.

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