by Anne Malcom
That was tricky.
In the end, she used a spell to open it.
“Open sesame!” she shouted at the closed doors.
That one only works in mortal movies, idiot, the soberest part of her—which was still pretty wasted—told her.
“Drat, right,” she whispered.
It took some doing, but she got the right spell and the elevator doors finally opened. Good thing too, because she needed to pee.
“Sesame is open!” she shouted at her empty apartment.
A spike in her power and an immediate rising of her proverbial hackles told her that her apartment was not empty.
She stared at the intruder standing right in front of her.
“I’ve really got to change my spells to make sure they kill anyone who tries to get in here,” she hissed. “Or at the very least makes all their hair fall out.”
Hazel pursed her lips in disapproval. As if her face had any other expression.
“You know, you’re meant to suck on lemons after having a tequila shot,” Sophie slurred. “Not just, you know, all day errday.”
Hazel’s brown eyes were saturated with disdain.
Sophie’s were too. At her outfit. Was she seriously wearing tweed?
“You’re drunk,” Hazel spat at her.
“Am I?” Sophie exclaimed in shock. “Oh my gosh, alcohol makes you drunk? I thought it was to make idiotic people bearable. It’s only working on one of those counts.” She grinned. “Guess which.” She leaned forward. “I’ll give you a clue. You’re still unbearable,” she stage-whispered.
Hazel sighed. “I don’t have time for this.”
“Well isn’t that great,” Sophie said, stepping away from the path to the elevator. “The door is right there.”
“I’m not leaving without you,” Hazel said, her power flickering in threat.
Sophie yearned to answer.
“The coven sent me to bring you back. We can’t let this stand anymore,” Hazel continued. “Your partnership with vampires. Your mercenary ways. Refusing to use your power for the good of the coven.” She gazed at her outfit. Sophie had on a Guns N’ Roses tee she’d cut to have the perfect amount of underboob, high-waisted leather jeans and platform Doc Martins.
“Your lack of taste, of discretion,” Hazel spat.
She stepped forward, as if she was trying to be menacing. Sophie smirked. No one could be menacing in tweed. Even with the considerable amount of power that seeped from her former teacher’s eyes. “We can sense your power growing. We will not stand for your gift to be squandered, to be used in help of the enemy. The power belongs to all witches. For the greater good. I have been instructed to use any means necessary to bring you back to where you belong.”
Sophie laughed off the shot of magic that Hazel had directed at her. “Really?” she said in response. “I’m off-my-face drunk and that was easier than pressing an elevator button.” Sophie stepped forward, letting her own power eat away at Hazel’s, snap at the shards of it. She found great satisfaction in the fact that the other witch stepped back, fear coloring her aura.
She’s afraid of me. She’s afraid because she can sense what’s inside me and it terrifies her.
That makes two of us.
“You really think it’s gonna be as easy as shooting a binding spell at me when I’m piss drunk, or asking rudely for me to come back to a place I hate, full of witches I despise?” she asked, stumbling slightly.
Fuck, that totally messes with the whole menacing vibe I’ve got going. She set her curtains on fire to compensate.
Hazel’s eyes flickered upward and then to Sophie. “You cannot control this, Sophie.”
Sophie laughed. “Maybe not. But neither can you, despite what you think. I know which choice is going to be more fun, and it’s going to be the one where I make you run back to the coven without your eyebrows… and with a snout,” Sophie decided.
She had been just about to cast that very spell when her instincts sensed something in the elevator.
Someone.
Her heart beat a little faster, and her palms dampened.
It was her wolf.
And then a cinderblock hit her square in the chest and she went flying right into the opening doors of the elevator, crashing into the wolf’s arms painfully.
She tasted his fury immediately and he put her down on shaky feet, shoving her behind him with glowing eyes.
Sophie recovered quickly, using her magic to push him aside. “Really?” she asked the half-turned wolf. “You think you’re going to be saving me on the reg just because we’ve fucked?” She shook her head and sent a burst of power forth, smashing Hazel into her dining room table, not moving her gaze from golden eyes. “Yeah, not gonna happen. I’m an independent witch, and a powerful one at that. Not only am I capable of fighting my own battles, I enjoy doing so.”
On that, she stepped out of the elevator just in time for the doors to shut in front of the wolf. She bound them closed, and the metal groaned against his body slamming itself against it.
Slightly more sober, Sophie ignored her broken chest bone and sauntered to the mess in front of her where Hazel was crumpled.
“Now I get why Isla is so pissy all the time,” she said, taking stock of the shattered remains of her ten-thousand-dollar dining table. “This is just annoying.”
Hazel was bleeding from her forehead, a bone was jutting out from her wrist and her juice was severely weakened. Sophie couldn’t believe that she used to think this woman was one of the strongest witches she knew—and also the biggest twat. She’d quite literally wiped her dining room table with her, while almost blind drunk, no less.
“If you’re going to come for a battle, then at least come prepared next time,” Sophie said, using her power to lift Hazel to her feet. “This is just embarrassing.”
Hazel’s eyes went to where guttural growls sounded from the doors struggling against the wolf’s effort, even with Sophie’s enchantment. He was pushing past it. Which should have been impossible, but it was kind of hard to miss the fist-shaped indentation in the metal, which was only growing larger.
“You’re aligned with the wolves now?” Hazel gasped.
Sophie shrugged. “I guess we’ll find out when he breaks through. He’ll either rip you to pieces. Or me.” She clapped. “The anticipation is killing me.”
Hazel’s true fear permeated the room. She took one more glance at the doors that were about to give way, then back to Sophie. “This isn’t over.”
Sophie rolled her eyes. “Way to sound like every pathetic villain in every B-grade movie, dude.”
There was a large concentration of magic as Hazel pressed a crystal she was wearing on her wrist, then sank into the air.
Ah, so she had a magical escape route. Such a charm required a lot of power. Likely the whole coven had to contribute to it.
All for little old Sophie. That was just flattering.
It was that moment that her spell and the elevator doors gave way and the wolf sprinted into Sophie’s apartment, wild eyes desperately searching for the threat, claws extended and form lengthening as he prepared to fully change.
Man and beast eyes focused on her.
“Little too late, wolf,” she said. “I already saved myself. Doesn’t that just piss you off?”
His anger and need saturated every part of her skin, his eyes focusing on her chest, as if he could sense the broken bones there. Which of course was stupid. On this rare occasion, she’d covered up her cleavage, so there was no way for him to see the no doubt angry bruises she’d be sporting.
Good thing she was drunk; otherwise, they’d hurt a lot more. Also, bad thing she was drunk, because she wasn’t likely up to a spell to heal herself.
“If you’ll excuse me, I’m going to go throw up now,” she informed him, sauntering toward her bathroom with a sway to her hips to counteract the statement.
He was still there after she’d emptied her stomach, splashed cold water on her face—only maki
ng herself look like Alice Cooper, since heavy kohl was her signature—and brushed her teeth.
She groaned as she made a beeline for her fridge.
He was in front of her, barring her access to cold beer and the leftover Chinese that she was sure would still be good.
Ah, so the wolf wanted to die today.
“You are intoxicated,” he said, voice a low growl as he was still in the process of ridding himself of the change.
Sophie wondered idly how difficult it was to put the beast back inside the cage. It looked pretty fucking hard. Plus his aura was tight, almost concrete with exertion. As were his muscles.
They’re hot muscles, she noted.
She folded her arms, flinching at the motion, and his entire body responded. “Why does everyone keep pointing out that I’m drunk like I don’t know?” Sophie asked. “I was the one spelling the bartender to give me my drinks. I’m aware I’m trashed. It was kind of the point.”
She leaned forward, not to get a whiff of his utterly male scent but to make the narrowing of her eyes that much more menacing.
“And it was all your fault, actually.” She flinched again, gesturing to her ruined apartment. “This was all your fault, in fact,” she hissed. “Before you came along with your intense stare and your glorious dick, my apartment was kickass, and I only had an apocalypse and some ancient witches and hybrid factions plus a rebel army to deal with. That was cake compared to this.” She waved her hand between them, flinching again as the motion rebroke a rib that had just knitted back together.
His body was steel, now completely male and completely beautiful. He was only wearing a black tee, ripped at the torso, where she could see a peek of an ab. She ached to see its brothers, but this was not the time. His knuckles were torn and bloodied, though rapidly healing.
His jeans were still perfect, a slight coppery stain, but other than that, nothing. How could he go through bashing his way through an elevator door and not get a mark on them when Sophie couldn’t even eat a hot dog without getting a mustard stain on something.
Oh, a hot dog would be killer right now.
“You’re injured,” he said through gritted teeth, pure fury radiating from his very pores.
It was super hot.
“Another thing I’m aware of,” Sophie snapped, wondering if she was sober enough to render him unconscious, transport him to the Baltic Sea and conjure herself a hot dog from the stand down the street.
No, she only had the sobriety and the power for one of those things.
“Well, heal yourself,” he demanded.
Sophie took a bite out of her hot dog, the ketchup spurting onto the toe of her shoe. “No, I can’t do that, on account of the whole drunk thing you pointed out before,” she said between bites.
His eyes had widened slightly when the hot dog had appeared out of thin air, though it seemed he had bigger issues with Sophie than her conjuring a hot dog for her and not for him.
She licked her fingers as she polished it off. “Oh, I’m sorry, were you hungry?” she asked, mindful of his eyes on her fingers and her mouth, the mood of the room changing rapidly. “I would’ve got you one too, just didn’t know how you felt about the whole ‘dog’ portion of the equation.”
She was in his arms before she even knew what hit her.
“I’m hungry, mo spéir,” he growled, striding through Sophie’s apartment and somehow gliding, as if on air, so her chest didn’t jolt. “But not for anything humans can create or give me.” His eyes burned into her, freezing both her and her magic in place. “Only one can sate me.”
The stark light of Sophie’s bathroom jolted her out of whatever spell he had cast with his words. She was meant to be the fricking witch, damnit.
“No, I’m not doing any sating, now or ever,” she hissed, struggling in his arms despite the pain.
His iron grip paralyzed her. “You do not move, lest you aggravate your injuries more,” he clipped, somehow keeping hold of her and leaning over to turn the taps of her vintage claw-footed tub. “I do not know how long it takes witchlings to heal, but from what I have witnessed, you are stronger than any of your kind,” he continued, in the longest speech she’d heard from the wolf since she’d met him. And then fucked him. And then almost killed him with her magic.
Now there he was, running Sophie a bath.
“I am no healer, and since you admit you’re too intoxicated to do so, you will bathe and I will ensure I do everything in my power to sober you up enough so your injuries no longer contort your fucking face in agony.” He lost whatever cool his tone had betrayed, the air seeming to simmer with his fury.
“It’s not agony,” Sophie argued. “Just mildly uncomfortable suffering.”
This did not help. “You are mine. You do not suffer.”
She froze at the words, at that concrete thread she’d seen just that night in someone else, attaching itself to her.
Nuh-uh, not happening.
“I am not yours,” she gritted out as steam filled the bathroom.
He ignored her, tracing his thumbs along the highs of her cheeks, then downward, trailing the side of her neck, the pads of his fingers rough and gentle at the same time.
The touch made her shiver despite the growing warmth in the room, despite the inferno that seemed to reside under his skin.
Her tee slid off her shoulders, revealing the beginning of the sleeve she’d had inked there as soon as tattoos had become refined and hygienic. Magic helped with the way the illustrations were almost living paintings on her arms.
The wolf’s eyes glowed even brighter as his large finger trailed the decaying castle that housed a skeletal princess, butterflies crowning her corpse.
She ached for him to explore every piece of ink on her skin—with his tongue, preferably—but the movement of her tee had also revealed a stark purple that she had not gotten from a tattooist needle.
He hissed out a vicious breath, immediately setting her on her feet so his claws could cleave through the scant fabric of her tee and reveal the extent of her injury.
Hazel’s spell had been sheer energy, kind of like throwing a bowling ball at someone’s clavicle. Even though Sophie’s healing was accelerated and her pain threshold was high, and she was still as drunk as a skunk, it fucking hurt.
Sophie knew it would only get worse as the bones knitted themselves together; breaking something wasn’t nearly as painful as healing what was broken.
She couldn’t heal herself with a spell with alcohol running through her blood—a witch must have clean blood in order to cast spells on herself—but there was a sobering potion she was a dab hand at since she routinely drank and then just as routinely did magic on herself.
Nothing for vanity’s sake, but she hung around with Isla, was a mercenary for mortals and immortals alike, and she fucked her body up on the reg, so magical healing was necessary. Otherwise broken bones took days to heal.
But she couldn’t make her potion now, because she had an angry werewolf in front of her and she’d used her last stock of eye of newt.
Though she’d never admit to Isla that she actually used that ingredient.
“I will end the witch,” the wolf declared, his fury palpable as his eyes were attached to her chest.
Sophie frowned because he’d taken off her shirt and she wasn’t wearing a bra. She wasn’t uncomfortable, or modest—she had a great rack. No, she was perturbed by the fact that the male was glued to her injury instead of her great tits.
“Well that would be nice,” she said. “But other matters are more pressing at this juncture.” She narrowed her eyes at him as steam made the room murky, ominous. Beads of perspiration formed between her breasts. He noticed that, his desire soaking through fury in a beautiful marriage that had Sophie wet, despite it all.
“I am not your mate,” she said firmly.
His eyes dragged themselves from her nipples, which had hardened. She expected an argument. That’s what these alphas did, wasn’t it? Yelled ‘You
are mine’ until the poor woman got so annoyed she relented because it was easier, and more often than not, the immortal was hot. And great in the sack.
The wolf was both of those things.
But Sophie would not relent.
She could not relent.
Instead of shouting, beating his chest, or pissing in a circle around her, he stepped to the bath, turning the taps off. He pushed her back against the small lip of her large tub, giving her enough room to slide the edge of her butt onto it while he lifted her legs and yanked at her boots.
They didn’t budge, obviously, because of intricate laces she’d secured with multiple knots. She’d dressed for a quiet drink with Isla, which meant she’d needed to make sure her footwear was secure enough that it wouldn’t fly off when she round-housed a demon. Or a hybrid, or, goddess willing, Isla’s family.
Any of those things she’d envisaged that night. She had not imagined a werewolf to be literally kneeling at her feet and undressing her.
His claws cut through the laces instead of taking the time to untie them—typical brute—and he yanked off both the boots and her socks.
Instead of immediately moving upward, he retracted his claws and kneaded his callused hands into the soles of her feet.
Sophie threw her head back and let out a little moan. Normally she would not be about a guy giving her a foot massage—she hated people touching her feet, gross!—but whether it be the booze or the man in front of her, it was sheer ecstasy.
She had never expected a werewolf, and this wild one in particular, to be able to take such care of a woman by doing something as beta as a foot massage, but the wolf took his time, worked relentlessly as if it was the most important job in the world.
Sophie was not complaining.
She was on her feet once more, the soft bath mat curling around her toes. The wolf’s hands trailed up the leather of her pants, circling her thighs to press the pads of his fingers into her ass.
He let out a low growl in his throat, she guessed in appreciation for her well-formed buttocks, or maybe the way the leather of these pants hugged it like a second skin. Whatever it was sent need shooting between Sophie’s legs.