1
Sable
I’ve never buried a body before.
Most people haven’t, I’m sure. Most people don’t ever find themselves in a position to aid and abet a murder, and I definitely never thought I’d be in the latter camp. I can hardly bring myself to crush a spider, even one that’s taken up residence in my room.
But it’s not quite midnight, and here I am, standing over my uncle’s dead body while two massive wolves dig a grave in the woods. It’s only one more strange puzzle piece in my new life as a hybrid witch-slash-wolf shifter.
Hanging in there? Archer asks through mind-speak, his voice startling me as it cuts into my thoughts.
I glance across my uncle's body at the blond wolf sitting regally on the soft grass opposite me. Archer looks beautiful, almost otherworldly, with his pale fur surrounded by the pitch black of the woods around him. His pointed ears are perked as if he’s listening to the forest, and I know he’s probably monitoring for intruders even as he waits for me to respond. His green eyes study me as if he’s looking for any hint that I’m coming unglued.
His concern isn’t exactly unwarranted. That’s probably exactly what I would’ve done three weeks ago.
But I’m stronger now. Mostly.
I’m great, I tell him with more confidence than I feel.
Archer’s ears twitch, his eyes glinting in the moonlight. It occurs to me that it’s a lot harder to fib through mind-speak—or maybe it’s just the mate bond. Either way, I feel like he’s got a pretty good idea of how I’m feeling right now, and he knows “great” isn’t even close to the right word for it.
Shaking out my fur, I pace a couple steps toward Clint’s bloody head. Trystan’s powerful jaws damn near collapsed Clint’s throat, leaving a bloody, mangled mess that should turn my stomach but doesn’t. My wolf has a stronger constitution than me.
I’m glad Clint’s gone, I admit. Which makes me feel pretty shitty, if we’re being honest. Am I that cold that I don’t care a man is dead?
Don’t feel shitty, Archer replies, letting out a snuffle. Clint deserved what he got. The moment he tried to attack us in that sneaky, underhanded way, he signed his own death certificate. After he… after how he treated you? The things he did to you? He didn’t deserve to live.
I smile at Archer, thankful to always have him near me, calming me and piecing me back together. Although I’m not sure the way I’ve twisted my face even looks like a smile, considering I’m all wolf teeth and lolling tongue, and none of my parts operate seamlessly yet. I still have to get used to this whole shifter thing, including recognizing things like smiles and emotions on my men’s faces.
How he abused me, I correct him. It’s okay. We can call it what it was. He abused me.
He’ll never lay a hand on you again. It’s over now. I can feel the anger underneath Archer’s words, even though I can tell he’s trying to comfort me. I have a feeling if Clint weren’t already dead, each of my men would be happy to tear his throat out just like Trystan did.
Almost, I agree, then glance over at Dare and Ridge. It won’t be over until we have a grave, and we can cover Clint in six feet of soil.
Ridge’s wolf is long and wiry, full of hidden strength beneath his rust-colored fur. His massive paws dig expertly at the ground next to Dare’s upper body. Dare, a big, bulky black wolf, is half in the hole, his tail in the air and his head invisible beneath the edge of the grave as he kicks dirt up and out like a dog in a Saturday morning cartoon. I catch a glimpse of Trystan prowling the perimeter of the woods—a flash of chocolate brown fur and turquoise eyes that glow in the dark.
I have a feeling all four of my mates have buried bodies before.
My senses are in total overdrive. In my wolf form, everything is sharper, brighter, louder. The blades of grass under my paws are abrasive, and the scratch-scratch-scratch of Dare and Ridge’s claws in the dirt sound like gunshots. In the darkest part of the forest, I shouldn’t be able to make out Trystan’s shadowy form slinking around on watch, but I can. I can see him and hear him. All of it is almost too much to handle all at once, and I have to fight the urge to lie down and close my eyes.
I do the next best thing and lower my gaze so that I can’t see all the movement around us. Looking back down at my uncle’s body, I’m surprised—and a little bit horrified—to feel a tiny twinge of sadness.
Maybe I’m not being truthful with myself, I think, realizing as I do that I “spoke” the thought in my head to Archer.
He cocks his head at me. How so?
I feel kind of sad for him. He was my family, you know? I’m glad he can’t hurt me anymore, but it still feels bittersweet. The last of my family. Gone.
I know now, of course, that the dead man at my feet isn’t even my uncle, but there’s still a disconnect in my head, something that mourns the loss of the only family I ever knew, as screwed up as that family was.
That’s understandable, Archer says gently.
Is it though?
But I keep that thought to myself. Clint treated me horribly while I lived with him, and I haven’t forgotten any of that. I remember all of the “accidents.” All the cuts and bruises and torture. All the emotional manipulation. He doesn’t deserve even a scrap of my pity. I was less than a person to him, and I never knew why. Not until tonight, when I found out the truth.
I wasn’t a person to Clint—I was an experiment.
My fake uncle obviously had a purpose in creating me. Before he died, he made it sound like no other witch and wolf hybrid had ever been born before I was, and he had plans for me. It seems clearer now that his torture sessions were purposeful too. When he carved into my skin or pushed me down the stairs or just found any way possible to hurt me, it’s obvious he was trying to force my witch or wolf side to manifest.
It makes sense, in a sick and fucked up way, because I know that strong emotions make my magic come out. Strong emotions finally brought out my wolf too, when I thought my mates were in danger of being attacked.
Thinking back, I can see how Clint’s abuse got worse as I got older, as he channeled his anger over the fact that neither side had manifested into hurting me. The more my two natures refused to reveal themselves, the more furious he got. He kept me alive to see if they would finally materialize, but he considered me a waste of his time, a failure, because neither side appeared like he expected them to.
I wish he’d died without learning his plans had worked.
As if he can sense the swirl of thoughts in my head, Archer stands and pads silently around Clint’s lifeless body to come sit beside me. He bumps into me with his powerful shoulder, then leans in and nuzzles me. Hey. Talk to me. This isn’t just because he’s dead, is it?
I take a deep breath and let it out through my snout. No. It’s not. He… bred me, Archer. He made me. He took a witch and a wolf shifter and, I don’t know, forced them to mate? I am the way I am because of Clint. He deliberately created me to use me as a weapon against the wolves. Lowering my gaze to my white paws, I add, I shouldn’t even exist.
I, for one, am glad you do, Archer says firmly. Warmth radiates through his voice. You’re my mate, and I wouldn’t change a damn thing about you.