Page 80 of Cruel Moon
When my tears finally slow, he helps me out of the tub, wrapping me in thick towels. My legs are shaky, but he scoops me up easily, carrying me to the bed. I curl into him the moment he slides under the covers with me.
“Sleep,” he whispers, pulling me close.
Safe in his arms, our bond humming perfectly between us, I finally let exhaustion pull me under.
Chapter Thirty-Five
Bast O’Connor
Pieces of Truth
A shaft of late afternoon sunlight falls across Bridget’s sleeping face, painting her dark hair with hints of gold. Every breath she takes feels like a gift after coming so close to losing her.
The new mate marks shimmer faintly on her collarbone where they peek above the borrowed robe—emerald swirls that saved her life. My fingers trace them gently, remembering how they appeared just when I thought… No. I push the memory away. She’s here. She’s safe. We won.
A soft knock at the door makes me tense. My wolf rises. After everything that happened at the Court, nearly anything is going to feel like a potential threat for a while. Bridget stirs slightly but she doesn’t wake.
I ease off the bed and cross to the door, already scenting who’s on the other side. Lawrence. His massive frame fills the doorway when I crack it open, a leather-bound book clutched in one hand.
“We need to talk,” he says quietly, his eyes flicking past me to where Bridget sleeps. “I found something in the Court records. Something about her family.”
My wolf bristles at the idea of leaving her, even for a moment. But Lawrence’s expression is grave enough to hold my attention. “Give me a minute.”
I grab a shirt from the pile of clothes Martha—the owner of the place—brought up earlier, then scrawl a quick note in case Bridget wakes:Gone downstairs to talk with Lawrence. Back soon. Love you.
The floorboards creak under our weight as we head downstairs. For a building that’s stood since colonial times, the bed-and-breakfast smells surprisingly clean—just old wood, fresh coffee, and something sweet baking.
Lawrence picks a corner table in the attached café, the fancy wrought-iron chair groaning as he settles his bulk into it. The whole place is done up like some historical society’s wet dream—all delicate teacups behind glass and fancy maps of old Salem on the walls. Tourist trap shit that has nothing to do with real magick or real witches.
A waitress bounces over, blond ponytail swinging. Her name tag saysJennyand she smells like strawberry shampoo and nervousness. Can’t blame her—Lawrence and I probably look like we just walked out of a fight. Which we did.
“Coffee?” she asks, already setting down cups that look like they’re made for dolls, not grown men.
“Yeah, thanks,” I manage, though my attention is locked on the leather book Lawrence brought. The nameWinslowstands out on the cover in faded gold letters that make my gut clench.
Bridget’s still sleeping peacefully upstairs. Safe. Every instinct screams to get back to her, but Lawrence’s grim expression tells me this can’t wait.
Jenny returns with coffee and a plate of scones that smell fresh from the oven. Once she disappears behind the swinging kitchen door, Lawrence leans forward.
“I didn’t want to wait on sharing this.” His scarred hands dwarf the delicate cup as he takes a sip. “The official record says Bridget had a twin brother.”
My fingers tighten around the tiny cup. The wolf in me wants to pace, to move, to do something. But I force myself to stay still. I do vaguely remember Elsa saying something during her fight with Bridget, but I was in and out of consciousness. “Had?”
“According to their records, he was drowned at birth.” Lawrence’s voice drops lower, though we’re alone in this frilly excuse for a café. His massive shoulders hunch forward as he opens the book. “But there’s more. The record describes the baby in detail—including a distinctive birthmark on his neck.”
The way he says it makes my wolf’s hackles rise. “You know something.”
“I knowhim.” Lawrence’s eyes meet mine across the table. Twenty years of secrets and pain live in that look. “He’s not dead, Bast. He came to White Fork with me.”
The coffee cup cracks in my grip. Shit. I set it down carefully before I shatter the damn thing completely. “How sure are you?”
“The birthmark is shaped like a crescent moon. Sits right here.” He touches the left side of his neck. “I’ve seen it every day for twenty-four years on Reid Marshall. He grew up in my coven. He’s actually back in Colorado with the others. I don’t think you met him.”
Damn.Makes sense, though. TheMathairswould never have let a male child live—which is exactly why their mother had to get him out. “No, I don’t think I did.”
“He’s strong. Talented. Their mother found a way to get him smuggled out of Salem.” His fingers trace the aged pages. “The official record says she died in a training accident several years later when her youngest girl, Brianna, was only six months old.” His lip curls. “Which I think is complete bullshit. Elena Winslowwas one of their best. Meredith knew her. Elena wouldn’t have made that kind of mistake.”
“They killed her.” The words come out in a growl. “For saving her son. But it’d been years.”
