Page 103 of Claimed By Prince Daddy

“If you want my help any further, you best keep your bear on a tight leash,” the head witch called from behind me.

I turned around, jaw clenched. No matter how I wanted to lash into her for the derogatory remark, Chelsea’s murder needed to be avenged. Finding the killer was my top priority.

“The garment,” I repeated. “Can you smell it?”

With lips pinched, the head witch asked, “Why?”

I juggled with admitting the whole truth. The Werekind couldn’t always trust witches because of their dealings in black magic and spells. If I revealed my suspicions, would she share it with the Dark Fae?

“We’re doing an investigation into the attacks of humans and they… they killed some as well. I need to know who is responsible.”

The head witch blinked. “Hmmm. I see.” She rested her elbows on the bar top. The soft light overhead caught in her hair, causing the silver strands to look golden. “And what makes you think I would know the identity of whoever is responsible by sniffing this cloth? Aren’t werewolves the ones with a keen sense of smell?” She narrowed her eyes. “Although… you keep your wolf trapped within you.”

I fought to school my features as surprise passed through me like a windswept flame and I wondered how she knew I was a latent.

“Please, can you just sniff the cloth?” I proffered my torn garment to her. “Any bit of information would help.”

The head witch eyed the cloth for a long moment. My inner wolf whimpered, fearing she’d flat out refuse.

Her hand snaked out, and she plucked the garment from my fingers. The witch brought it to her face and inhaled. My gaze locked on her features, searching for any hint of acknowledgement in her expression. Her lips pinched at the corners. My inner wolf went predatory still, spying a subtle movement.

She lowered the cloth to the counter and shrugged. “I smell sun-dappled earth, and rodents.” The witch slid the garment my way. “That is all.”

I gritted my teeth and sighed. “Can’t you identify any more than that?”

The corner of her lips curled into a slow smile. “Do you think I can smell more? If so, why don’t you enlighten me?”

She was toying with me and I fought to keep my fangs from coming out. “Thank you for your time.”

She smiled. “Anytime, child… anytime.”

I pushed back from the counter as she barked at the other witches to get back to work. A sick knot formed in my stomach. After biting my lip in thought, I headed for the bathroom. A quick freshening up would do me good before going outside and facing Damon. An alpha had to maintain a sense of control at all times, especially with a dominant male of his caliber. Tears had no place in this situation.

In the bathroom, I made my way to the sink. The four stalls outfitting the restroom seemed vacant, and the doors were ajar. The dim lights atop the four oval mirrors dropped shifting shadows on the blood-red tinted walls and cast my dark brown hair to onyx. I paused a step, shaking off my unease, and splashed water on my face and grabbed a paper towel to wipe away the droplets. As I gazed at my reflection, the absence of tears in my eyes comforted me. The door swept open behind me. My senses heightened, my inner instincts on high alert, as I realized I was alone in a public bathroom.

High heels clacked as a figure stepped toward the far sink. I kept staring at my reflection, but my body was aware of the female that entered.

“Give me the cloth,” a faint voice called over the running water.

As I spun to face the woman, my mouth parted on a silent gasp. The petite young woman had grown pale when I entered earlier. Suspicion gnawed inside my chest, but I remained still, assessing her.

The woman ran her hands under the water, peering into her mirror. “Do you want me to identify the scent or not?”

I pursed my lips. “Why would you help me? Why go against the head witch?”

“I figured…” She turned off the tap, grabbed a paper towel and faced me, resting a slender hip against the ceramic sink. “Maybe it’s time my heart wasn’t so black. Perhaps I can start changing for the better… by helping you.”

“How could you help me?”

The young witch shot a furtive glance at the bathroom door. Her voice dropped to an indistinct murmur. “By giving you a lead in your investigation. How old was your pack mate?”

“She was eight years old.” The words felt like sandpaper creeping up my throat.

“Damn,” the woman whispered, shaking her head with a frown, tugging at her lips. “Poor little thing. She had yet to live her life.”

All I could do was nod. My throat seemed to close off as the sting of tears threatened again.

The woman extended a hand. I cocked my head. She rolled her eyes and beckoned me with her fingers.

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