Page 24 of Cruel Moon
The water runs cold over my hands and that’s when I see them. Intricate green tattoos encircle both my wrists. Celtic knots, complex and beautiful, shimmering slightly metallic in the bathroom’s unforgiving light. My heart lurches, then begins to hammer wildly against my ribs.
I jerk my hands from the water, twisting my wrists to examine the markings more closely. I stumble backward, crashing into the wall behind me with athunk. Then slide to the floor, my legs suddenly unable to support me. The room spins. The floor tiles are cold against my skin.Where did these come from? I didn’t have them last night. Did Bast do something to me while I slept?
My fingers scrabble at the markings, nails digging into flesh as if I could scrape them off. But there’s nothing—no raised skin, no ink, just an impossible, shimmering design that wasn’t there before. Bile rises in my throat. I lurch toward the toilet, retching, though nothing comes up.
“No, no, no,” I moan, rocking back and forth on the bathroom floor. The walls seem to close in, air growing thin. I gasp, lungs burning, unable to draw a full breath. What have I done?
My heart races as questions flood my mind, each one more terrifying than the last. TheMathairswarned us about intimacy with men. But it’s only supposed to steal our magick for a few days. And it does. I’ve slept with men before. But it doesn’t do…this. I look down at the tattooed bracelets, my stomach churning.
Whatever this is.
I grab the counter and pull myself back to my feet. Taking a deep breath, I focus again on my reflection.Fuck.My eyes are still glowing green too.I shouldn’t have magick.
My hair is a tangled mess, evidence of last night’s very pleasant activities. A memory of Bast’s fingers running through my hair flashes through my mind, and I push it away. If my eyes are still glowing, maybe I still have magick? I close my eyes, centering myself, and whisper the words of a simple grooming spell. It’s basic. Barely takes any energy.
But I shouldn’t be able to do it.
The familiar tingle of magick courses through me, but this time stronger than ever before. I gasp, gripping the sink as power crackles along my skin, setting every nerve alight.My eyes snap to the mirror, and I nearly scream.
My hair isn’t just styled—it’s a cascading masterpiece, each strand gleaming. The spell didn’t just style my dirty slept-on hair, it cleaned it and primped it to perfection.
“Impossible,” I choke out, voice strangled. This can’t be happening. I slept with a man. My magick should be gone, drained, leaving me powerless. Instead it’s roaring through me like a hurricane where there should be stillness.
Hysterical laughter bubbles up, bordering on sobs. I clap a hand over my mouth, muffling the sound. My wide, terrified eyes stare back at me from the mirror.What the actual hell is happening to me?And these fucking tattoos—
I slam my fist against the mirror, not even wincing as it cracks, spiderwebbing my reflection. “What did you do to me?” I snarl at my fractured image.
I need answers, and I need them now. And there’s only one person who might be able to provide them.
I take a deep breath, steeling myself for the confrontation ahead. With one last glance at my reflection—perfect hair, glowing green eyes, and mysterious tattoos—I turn and march back into the bedroom.
Bast is still asleep, his chest rising and falling in a steady rhythm. For a moment, I allow myself to admire him—the strong lines of his jaw, the way his dark lashes fan against his cheeks. He’s so handsome it almost hurts to look at him. The desire to crawl back in bed and just be held by him crosses my mind. Then I shake myself.Focus, Bridget.
I don’t want his comfort. I want answers. “Bast!” I snarl. “Wake up. Now.”
He stirs, blinking groggily. A smile starts to form, but falters the second he sees my face. “Bridget, what’s—”
I thrust my wrists in his face, showcasing the strange markings. “What the hell did you do to me?”
To my shock, Bast doesn’t look surprised. He sits up, revealing identical tattoos on his own wrists. “I didn’t do anything,” he says, too calmly. Way too fucking calmly. “It’s a sign of our bond.”
“Bond?” I spit the word out like poison. “What are you talking about?”
“When wolves have sex with their fated mate, we get—”
“Wolves?” My mind reels. “What the fuck do you mean, wolves?”
Bast’s eyes widen and the color drains from his face. “You said you wanted this. I asked you if you were sure. That this was forever. I thought you knew I was a werewolf too. Your eyes areglowing green. Rachel said that meant I was your Kindred. You knew I was your mate—”
Werewolf? Kindred? Mate?My breath comes in sharp, panicked gasps. This can’t be happening. Werewolves are scary stories theMathairsback in Salem tell us so we’ll behave and follow the rules. They can’t be—people. They can’t be. ThemanI just slept with can’t be a werewolf. He can’t be my mate…fate wouldn’t be so cruel.
“No,” I whisper, then louder, “No!”
I back away, hands raised defensively. Magic surges through me. The sheets suddenly come alive, wrapping around Bast’s arms and pinning them above his head.
A jolt of pain lances through my own wrists. I yelp. “What…how…?”
Bast winces. “It’s the physical bond,” he explains quickly. “What one of us feels, the other—”
