by Callie Rose
And I do. I plunge my tongue into Archer’s mouth, kissing him almost desperately as pleasure crashes through me again. And when I come hard around Dare’s cock, he follows me over the edge, cursing in a low voice as he digs his fingers into my hips.
We collapse forward a little, and I find myself in a sandwich that feels like it’s made of pure muscle, pressed tightly between my two mates’ bodies. I can tell Dare is trying to hold some of his weight off of me, but he doesn’t need to. This has to be one of the best things I’ve ever felt.
The room is quiet for a long moment as we all breathe heavily. Then Archer’s chest vibrates beneath me as he speaks.
“Did we tire you out enough?”
I chuckle against his skin, a warm and happy feeling spreading through me like honey. “Yeah.”
“Good.”
He presses a kiss to my hair as Dare pulls out of me and rolls over onto the mattress beside us. Then he turns onto his side too, depositing me gently on the bed between them. One hand tucks a lock of wild blonde hair behind my ear, and my eyelids droop as his fingertips brush my cheek.
My earlier argument about tiring each other out was mostly just an excuse to have sex with the two of them, but I realize now that I was more right than I realized. Tension is draining out of my muscles, and as Dare reaches out to turn the bedside lamp off, my eyelids droop closed. I’m vaguely aware of the two of them cleaning me up and crawling beneath the covers with me, but sleep is already tugging at me.
Then it wraps me in a blanket of darkness and pulls me under.
20
Sable
When I open my eyes the next morning, I feel better. Physically stronger and much more refreshed—but mentally, I’m still worried and anxious. That moment last night with Dare and Archer was a nice break from reality, and was exactly what I needed to let go of my swirling emotions and thoughts for a short time. But in the harsh light of day, that bit of peace feels like it was ages ago.
Too bad I can’t just have sex with my mates all day, every day. Life would feel infinitely easier that way.
Archer is gone, and Dare is on watch beside the bed when I wake up. He’s clearly been awake a while—his messy black hair is still wet from a shower, he’s wearing clean clothes, and he’s clutching a steaming mug of coffee.
“Did I explode?” I ask him, my voice a mumble with my cheek pressed against the pillow.
He shakes his head. “Archer saw your scars go black late in the night, but otherwise, you slept peacefully.”
I push away from the mattress and sit up to shove my tangled mess of blonde hair out of my face. “One day, you won’t have to monitor my sleep like I’m a ticking time bomb.”
Dare reaches out and touches my face with affection in his eyes, then he offers me his coffee. “One day, you won’t be a ticking time bomb.”
God, I hope that’s true.
After my own shower and another cup of coffee, I spend another few hours practicing magic in the backyard. Then Archer, Dare, and I set out to meet with Malcolm.
Archer’s father lives in one of the larger homes in the village just a few streets over from his son. On my first visit to meet Malcolm, the house was dark and shadowy, all the drapes closed as if someone was trying to keep the sickness from being seen.
Now though, the curtains are open everywhere—in the small front room, in the dining room, even in Malcolm’s bedroom. Hope, the alpha’s live-in caregiver, is at his side with a bottle of water and a smile when we enter, and she greets us kindly. She’s older than Archer, though not quite Malcolm’s age despite the sprinkle of gray in her brunette hair, and she’s wearing a fresh set of pale blue scrubs.
Malcolm beams at me from his hospital bed. He’s angled up and toward the window beside his bed, as if he’s on the lookout—protecting his pack as best he can, I guess. “Sable! It’s so wonderful to see you.”
I give Malcolm a small hug, careful not to hurt him. It’s obvious to look at him that he used to be a big, burly man, but his illness has wiped that away from him. Now, he’s thin and frail, his skin tinged with yellow and his cheeks gaunt. But it sure doesn’t affect his smile.
“Any news?” Malcolm asks Archer as I step away from the bed.
“Not yet.” Archer’s tone is grave. “We expect them back any moment.”
Malcolm shakes his head and sighs. “I still don’t understand why the witches would come here first. The North pack has more property, and the West Pack has more money.”
I glance at Archer to see his cheeks tinged with pink, and I realize he didn’t tell his dad what Cleo said about the East Pack being the weakest. It’s sweet how he does his best to protect his father from the harsh realities. Malcolm’s weak enough without needing to hear that the witches think his pack is easy pickings. Not to mention, he’d likely blame himself for not being strong enough to protect them all, when he has no control over his failing health.
Not for the first time, I can see what a strong, benevolent alpha Archer will be when his father finally leaves this world.
We spend a bit of time discussing the strategy we’ve come up with to fend off a coordinated witch attack. Malcolm has been heavily involved in the planning of it, even though he won’t be physically able to join the fight. A few times, as we discuss flanking strategies and contingency plans, I catch him grimacing slightly.
I think back to my heated response when Archer asked me last night whether I wanted to fight the witches, and I have a feeling Malcolm would give anything to be able to join the battle and protect his pack.
He gives me another hug before we leave, and I drop my gaze to the floor as we break apart, blushing slightly. I have no idea who my parents were, but despite all the lies Clint told me about them, I have a feeling he was telling the truth about them being dead. And in their absence, all I had in the way of family for a long time was an abusive man who turned out to not even be a blood relative.
Malcolm’s kind, fatherly demeanor makes my eyes burn and my chest ache in a pleasant way. It’s strange, but so… so damn nice.
Finally, my two mates and I head back to Archer’s house. We’re seated in the small, slightly cramped kitchen eating sandwiches for lunch when Trystan and Ridge return. I hear the front door open and the low rumble of Ridge’s gravelly voice reaches my ears—and suddenly, I’m running. I race through the house and right into his arms, dragging Trystan into the hug too. They’re both so big and broad my arms barely fit around them together, but I squeeze as hard as I can anyway.
“Well, we’re happy to see you, too,” Trystan teases, dropping a kiss to the top of my head. “You smell like bread. Is there food?”
I roll my eyes. “Yes. There’s food.”
Ridge slides his hands around my waist and kisses me, his honey eyes glittering. “You smell better than food, little wolf.”
Once we’re all seated at the table and Trystan is slathering a pound of mayonnaise on four slices of bread, Ridge catches us up to speed.
“Everything is set. We came back straightaway to get things moving here,” he says, leaning his elbows on the old wooden table. “Our packs are coming later, and they’ll bring what supplies they can.”
My heart lightens a little at his words, and I glance toward Trystan. “Your pack too?”
“Yup.” He nods. “They’ll be here.” He hesitates, then adds, “Took a bit of convincing, but they’re coming. They wouldn’t miss a chance to go up against the witches.”
Something about his tone makes me think it wasn’t quite as easy to convince them as he’s making it sound. I’ll have to ask him about that later. Of the three remaining packs in Montana, his is the one I know the least about. I’ve spent time in both the North and East Pack lands, but the West Pack is a bit of a mystery to me.
“That’s good.” I smile encouragingly. “Combining strength will give us a better chance of standing up against the witches.”
“Much better odds,” Archer agrees. He runs a hand through his golden h
air. “So I guess now we just need to tell my pack what’s happening.”
“And,” Ridge adds, shooting a glance at me, “tell them that they need to get on board with having a witch fighting on their side.”
I grimace and stare down at my half-eaten sandwich, wishing it could give me strength. Getting all three packs to accept me seems a whole lot harder than fighting a coven.
The East Pack’s council building is much nicer than the North Pack’s old corrugated metal barn. The exterior walls are covered by clean, white siding, and the interior is finished with linoleum floors and drywall. There are even enough chairs for everyone in the pack, it seems. When we arrive, the place is absolutely brimming with shifters.
When Malcolm put out word that he was calling a meeting, he’d indicated it was mandatory for all to attend—including himself. His presence alone is enough to drag out every single member of the pack who has been wanting to see him or speak to him throughout his illness.
Archer told me it’s a rare occurrence for Malcolm to get out of bed these days. The old man is weak of body, but strong of spirit, and I can see it in the way his presence seems to take up all the space in the room. A steady line of people wait to greet him with a smile and a handshake as he sits in his wheelchair at the front of the meeting space.
Being surrounded by all these shifters makes me nervous, and this is only one of the three packs who need to be convinced to let me help them. But although I’m terrified to broach this subject—even with my mates at my side—I’m determined too.
I used the couple of hours before the meeting to pore over Gwen’s book and practice some more spells. I paid particular attention to sigils meant to keep control, because the last thing I need is to lose control of my power in front of yet another pack of shifters. At this rate, I’ll end up with a reputation I don’t need while I’m trying to integrate with the pack world.
A dull roar fills the room as the shifters greet one another and find their seats, and I wonder how Malcolm will ever get them to quiet down so he can speak. But he apparently doesn’t need any special tricks, unless you count him standing wearily from his wheelchair, using only the podium to guide his weak legs. By the time he positions himself behind the shiny mahogany stand, the room has gone dead silent.
“My pack mates,” he says, his voice booming with an authority that’s a complete contrast to his frail appearance. “It is so good to see you, though I wish it were under better circumstances.”
A mumble of agreement ripples through the crowd, but the sound dies down almost immediately.
“As you can see, I’m still here,” Malcolm goes on, grinning wryly. “Hopefully for a little longer yet. But the subject of my health isn’t why we’re meeting tonight. As many of you are already aware, we are under threat of a witch attack.”
Some people rustle in alarm, but the majority of the crowd nods—Archer spread the news the moment we returned from Gwen’s cabin so that no one would be caught unaware if the witches arrived before the pack was prepared for it.
“Both of our brother packs are on their way to our territory at this very moment,” Malcolm assures the murmuring group. “We must give thanks to Ridge, alpha of the North Pack, and Trystan, alpha of the West Pack, as well as our very own Archer.” Here, he smiles proudly at his son. “These courageous, quick-thinking wolves have brought the three packs together to face the coming threat.”
I steal a glance at Dare’s face, but if he feels any emotion about being left out of the dialogue, he isn’t showing it. I know Malcolm didn’t do it on purpose. His train of thought was about the other two packs coming here to help fight. Dare doesn’t have a pack to come, and as usual, that makes him an outsider. I want to put my arm around him, to reassure him that we’ll be his pack, but Trystan and Ridge are both standing between us.
Still, I manage to catch his eye and shoot him a small smile.
His expression doesn’t change much, but the dark brown of his irises seems to melt like warm chocolate, the flecks of gold glinting in a way that makes my heart flutter.
He knows.
“I am sure you will welcome our sisters and brothers of the North and West packs with open arms,” Malcolm says. There’s a note of warning in his voice, and I take it to mean if anyone doesn’t welcome the other packs, they’ll have hell to pay from their alpha. Even as sickly as his body is, he still exudes an aura of authority that I doubt anyone will want to test.
“Now,” he goes on, his stern gaze sweeping the crowd, “we have another ally with us. Many of you have likely heard the rumors that my son, Archer, has finally taken a mate. And alongside those rumors, I’m sure you’ve also heard that she’s a witch.”
Another burst of noise and movement comes from the crowd, and my heart turns fluttery in my chest. Archer, who stands between his dad and me, puts his arm around my shoulders, his handsome, All-American-Guy face set like stone. I have no doubt if his pack decides not to accept me, he’ll challenge every one of them. And win.
“Those rumors are, in fact, true,” Malcolm says. “However, as is often the case with rumors and gossip, they’re missing half the tale. Sable is a half-witch, half-shifter. As such, that means she is one of us. She intends to fight with us against the witches, which means we will have magic fighting on our side for the first time in our history.”
The low whispers grow louder, and I watch in despair as the crowd shifts in their seats, friends and family exchanging horrified glances.
“Settle down,” Malcolm booms. Even though there’s no anger in his voice, if I can see the hard glint in his eye, I’m sure his pack can too.
The crowd silences immediately.
Malcolm turns to me, and that hard glint disappears, replaced by affection. “Sable? Would you show the pack a spell to calm their concerns?”
Oh fuck.
I swallow hard, despair flooding me and sending heat rising into my cheeks. Malcolm’s putting me on the spot, and I know he means well—but I’m not prepared for this. A few hours of practicing spells from Gwen’s book hasn’t given me that much more control over my magic than I had before.
What if I fail? What if I hurt someone?
Archer leans into me, his lips close to my ear as he murmurs, “It’s all right, Sable. You can do this. Remember to breathe.”
He nudges me forward, and I take a few steps closer to the edge of the podium. My heart’s hammering so hard I feel like it’s going to give out at any moment, and I’ll drop dead of fear right in front of the whole East Pack. But even as I have that thought, something occurs to me.
If this were a couple months ago, I’d be hysterical. I’d probably curl up into a ball on the floor, rocking and cowering as I got lost in my panic attack.
But now… Here I am. Stronger than that girl I used to be. Surrounded by four men who give me strength just by their presence at my back, where I know they’ll stand until the end of time. Bolstered by that thought and the knowledge of how far I’ve come, I swallow hard and gather my focus.
Then I raise a hand and etch a sigil in the air.
Using any kind of offensive or battle magic would just frighten the crowd and make this situation worse—not that I’ve mastered many of those anyway. So I pluck a harmless little charm out of my head, one I only recently learned from Gwen’s book.
Black smoke pours from my hand as I finish out the sigil, then I turn my palm up to the ceiling. My scars darken with magic, and I know it’s going to freak the pack out, but there’s nothing I can do about that. The smoke gathers in my hand, and I strain to contain it, willing the sigil to work, willing myself to remain firmly in control.
Gwen told me the magic isn’t in charge—I am. I refuse to let it get the better of me again.
In my palm, the smoke turns to a sparkling golden light. It’s meant for illuminating dark places when one has no light to guide them, the book told me. For a brief moment, I grin, stunned by how beautiful it is.
Until the darkness flares inside me
.
My skin races cold. The darkness billows like storm clouds beneath my skin, and I tense as I feel it trying to take control. Suddenly, I flash back to Dare by my bedside this morning, and his promise that one day I wouldn’t be a ticking time bomb. Right now, I am. In this moment, I am a bomb waiting to go off and destroy these people.
As if to punctuate my own fear, the pack reacts immediately. Several people leap out of their chairs, their faces twisted in horror, while others shrink away from me and the light I’m producing. Their fear intensifies mine, and I can feel myself losing to the darkness.
No. Dammit, no!
I refuse to let the magic take control.
Tamping down on the billowing darkness running through my limbs, shoving it down deep, deep inside me. Away from the surface, away from my heart, down into the very pit of my stomach where it can do nothing but rumble. Sweat breaks out along my hairline from the strain of trying to rein it in, but I do it.
I win.
“Settle down!” Malcolm leans on the podium as he circles around to stand beside me, his voice booming through the room.
To the crowd, I’m sure it looks like I have total control over this, even though I’m not sure that’s entirely true. I stare out over the pack, trying to ignore the darkness where I’ve caged it away from prying eyes. I feel like I’m deceiving the room, pretending to be better than I am.
I wish I had more time with Gwen, because I don’t feel ready for this.
For fighting witches.
For leading a charge against them.
For the responsibility of keeping these shifters alive.
“Sable is our ally,” Malcolm says, “and you will treat her with respect.”
He puts a sturdy hand on my shoulder, even as the light still glows in my palm. I see the movement for what it is—he’s giving me his full support, showing the pack that he doesn’t fear my magic. I also see the alpha in him in that action, in the strength he still carries despite his physical weakness.