by Callie Rose
Instead… he strips nude, baring every last inch of his body to me.
Seeing him naked reminds me of what was happening before the darkness swallowed me up and the transition began.
We were all on the bed. All five of us. Me and the four gorgeous, masculine shifters. Their hands were on my body, their mouths on parts of me no one had ever seen or touched before. Heat flashes over me as Archer takes my hands again to help me into the shower.
He’s so beautiful. Golden skin shifts over thick muscles, and his full lips and high cheekbones make him look almost regal. As he holds my arm and carefully navigates me into the shower, all I can think about is what else he’s done with those hands on my skin.
I’m still weak and shaky, so I keep one hand firmly on the shower wall and the other on his shoulder. The water cascades over me, warm and inviting, and Archer picks up the soap and a rag, lathering it up to wash me. Then he gets a firm grip on my elbow to keep me from falling and begins to run the rag over my body.
He starts with my face, gently brushing the soapy rag over my hairline, careful to avoid my eyes. He moves lower, massaging my neck and shoulders with a bit more strength, and I groan at the way he kneads my aching muscles.
Desire blooms inside me as the rag slides lower. Even though there’s cloth between his fingertips and my skin, I close my eyes and lean into his touch when his palm crests over my breast. He rubs over each one in turn, the washcloth chafing over my nipples. As he moves lower, I open my eyes, breathing harder, feeling more turned on than I should right now, given how weak and exhausted I am. I wonder if he can sense it, but then I answer my own question when my gaze drifts lower down his body.
He’s just as turned on as I am.
But Archer, ever the gentleman, stoically ignores the hardening of his cock as he keeps washing me. His touch is gentle but obviously without sexual intent, despite the fact that his hand on my body is doing a lot more to me than getting me clean. He focuses entirely on the task at hand, keeping our bodies several inches apart.
I watch him as the rag brushes over my thighs. The water sprays down from above, washing away the lingering anxiety that clings to the edge of my mind. But his presence is doing the same thing. He’s so beautiful it tugs at my heartstrings, and the way he’s taking care of me, respecting me even as his body begs for more, makes him even more handsome. He’s a good man.
So damn good.
“Why didn’t you run away?” I ask suddenly. My voice startles both of us in the silence. “Why didn’t you run like Dare? You’ve got just as much reason to hate me as he does.”
Witches may have killed Dare’s pack, but they also abducted Archer when he was a boy, torturing him and hurting him. He’s lucky to be alive today, and during our time together, I’ve seen just how he’s had to cope with his fears and anxiety over what happened to him. Me turning out to be a witch is a much bigger, more personal deal to Dare and Archer than it could be for Ridge or Trystan.
But Archer didn’t leave me.
He stayed.
The blond man straightens, then puts the rag down on the soap tray and takes my face between his hands. For a wild moment, I think he’s going to kiss me. I want him to, but he just tilts my head back beneath the spray to soak my hair. A thoughtful look settles over his face as he pours shampoo into his hands, lathers, and then slides his fingers into my wet locks.
As he works the soap into my scalp, he finally answers. “Dare and I are vastly different people, and our situations are very different too. I think he partially blames himself for what happened to his pack, even though none of it was his fault. He’s lived with that guilt for so long, and he’s sat with his pain for way too long without finding a way to deal with it. That changes a person. Closes them off to everything.”
I can understand that. Even in the midst of my awful life at Uncle Clint’s, I found every way possible to cope with what was happening. That was how showers became a foundation for me, somewhere I could breathe through the panic and find myself again.
“I think Dare feels like he deserves nothing better than complete solitude,” Archer says. “He lost his pack. He lost the people he loved most in the world. He’s never said as much to me, but I think he feels like loneliness is his penance. So getting close to someone? Falling for someone? It was probably a lot for him to handle even before your transition. And then seeing you like that? It wasn’t easy for any of us, but I think it hit him the hardest.”
“I hate that this happened.” I swallow, trying to force down the emotions rising in my throat. “All of it. I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be.” Archer’s voice is serious. “You didn’t ask for this. You didn’t choose it. And no matter what happens, I’ll always be grateful for whatever luck of fate brought you into our lives.”
His hands move lower to my neck, and he tilts my head back again to rinse my hair. I close my eyes, reaching up to hold on to his wrists as suds and water wash away down my skin. After a few moments, he gently straightens me and smiles, his thumb tracing a path down my cheek.
“Nothing will ever change how I feel about you, Sable,” he says, his gaze moving over my face. “I don’t see a witch when I look at you. I just see you.”
4
Sable
Archer’s words hit me right in my chest, and my heart beats a little faster. He’s so earnest, so open as he gazes down at me, nothing but truth in his eyes.
I just see you.
Not the witch I’ve become, but the Sable he already knew. The girl he spent the past few weeks getting to know, the girl he thought was his mate. Maybe he even still hopes I could be his mate—that the bond will choose him over the others.
The honesty in his statement sends warmth cascading through me. Acceptance isn’t something I’m used to, even though all these shifter men have made me feel welcome every moment since I arrived in their world. Well… mostly. Ridge’s brother Lawson is a notable exception.
But their kindness has been a new feeling in my life, something vibrant and all-encompassing. My uncle never missed a chance to reject me or tell me I didn’t deserve to live, and I carry that negativity with me everywhere I go. But right here, right now, this is real acceptance. No strings attached.
It makes me feel stronger, but even more vulnerable at the same time. Archer has no idea how much it means to me.
I want to tell him, but I’m afraid of what his reaction might be. Sure, he says he’s my mate, but things have changed now. What if I bring up my feelings and he backtracks? He was tortured by witches, after all, so no matter how sweet and kind he is, the fact that I’m a witch will always be there between us. I don’t know how someone hurt so badly by witches could look past that magic boiling beneath my skin. Especially when that magic makes itself seen through the marks on my body.
I can’t hide it. Not from him. Not from the other shifters. Not even from myself.
Archer is even more gorgeous with the steam from the shower making his golden skin a little darker, and his wide green eyes a little brighter. His cheeks are flushed from the heat and his blond hair curls wetly against his forehead. His good looks are so damn wholesome—a funny word to use when we’re standing less than a foot apart, both of us naked.
There’s nothing wholesome about the way he makes heat roar through my veins.
He smiles at me as his fingers work the rest of the soap out of my hair, even though I’m sure it’s already gone. His fingertips massaging against my scalp send tingles down my neck and across my skin. I don’t want him to stop touching me. I want his chaste ministrations to turn heated and primal. I want his hands to move lower.
I want him.
Before I can think too much about it or talk myself out of it, I lean into him and press my lips to his.
The moment our lips touch, I’m paralyzed by fear. What if he rejects me? But I know I’m being ridiculous and falling back into my old habits of panic and expecting the worst. Not even five minutes ago, Archer assured me all he
sees is me, not the witch, and I didn’t even ask him for that confirmation. He gave it freely.
But the emotional damage my uncle raged on me for most of my life is hard to claw my way through sometimes.
When Archer’s split second of surprise passes, he responds. His warm hands catch my waist and his mouth moves against mine, slick with water. As his tongue teases my lips open, desire rises between us, and I lean closer to him—not all the way, because I’m too shy to breach those last few inches. Our wet skin slides together just barely, the fine blond hairs on his chest scratching over my breasts and sending a rush of need through me.
Despite my weakness, I’m burning to feel Archer’s body against mine, aching for his hands to move from their chaste position at my waist, to touch me the way he did before my change. I don’t feel as sick as I did when I awoke. Standing beneath the water with Archer as he gently took care of me helped me feel more like myself, and actually kind of invigorated me. Energy hums beneath my skin. And whether I’m a witch or wolf, the pull I feel toward him—toward each of the shifters—hasn’t changed in the least. The only thing that could make this moment even better would be to have the other three men here to join us.
My legs tremble beneath me as our lips move together. His kiss is strong, deep, searing hot. But his hands hold me in place, and his body is so far away. If I just move forward…
Screw it.
I close the rest of the space between us, pressing his warm expanse of skin flush against my own. The kiss deepens until I feel his teeth on my lips, and a little thrill races through me. Archer groans against my mouth, finally giving in to the need rising between us as one hand slides up my body to cup my breast.
Not washing me like a gentleman this time, but squeezing me. Claiming me.
His fingers teasing my hardened nipple until I’m gasping into his kiss. I tangle my fingers in his wet hair and rise up on my tiptoes, his hard cock rubbing against my lower belly.
The throb between my legs echoes his desire, and I’m mindless with the need to feel him there, to feel the weight of him sliding into me while water cascades over us. The darkness dragged me under before things could go that far with the men before, so I’m still a virgin. But that doesn’t stop my body from burning with need. I feel wanton and reckless, neither of which are emotions I’ve ever been well acquainted with.
Before I can do something even crazier, Archer abruptly breaks the kiss, his chest heaving and his lips a little swollen. He grips my arms and pushes me away gently, something like regret shining in his green eyes as he gives me a small smile.
“You’re still weak.” His voice is low, just a rumble beneath the thrumming of the shower. “You need to eat and regain your strength. I don’t want to push you too far and hurt you.”
“You won’t hurt me.” I shake my head, surprised by how husky the words come out.
He touches my face, and I lean into his hand. “Maybe not. But I’m not willing to take the chance.”
I’m still close enough to feel his hard length against my belly. It’s obvious Archer’s feelings haven’t changed—he still wants me just as badly as I want him. But he’s also willing to push that desire aside, no matter how much he wants it, to take care of me.
That seems big, somehow.
I’m slowly coming to accept that the mate bond is real, but in this moment, it seems like something even more than just a bond. More real and tangible, like it’s born of mutual respect and affection rather than a primal need to mate. Archer’s desire to care for me doesn’t feel like it’s just because of the bond. It’s because he cares about me.
He gives me one more chaste kiss, then reaches past me to turn off the water. The sudden silence is deafening. “I’ll get us towels. Can you stand on your own for a minute?”
I nod and press my palm to the smooth shower wall for balance. My knees are still weak, but it’s for an entirely different reason now. This time, the wobbliness has more to do with spending time naked in the shower with a hot guy.
As he steps out of the tub and tugs the curtain closed behind him, I notice a ripple of blackness coloring the scars on my hands and arms. It happens so quickly that I wouldn’t have noticed if I wasn’t looking right at my skin.
Fear washes over me. Even though Archer, Ridge, and Trystan stayed with me despite the witch transition, maybe they shouldn’t have. Maybe Dare had the right idea by leaving. The black magic churning inside me means I’m a danger to them all. I’m a witch—not a wolf. No matter what the shifters think or what Elder Jihoon’s magic sticks said or even what my soul wants to be true. I’m a witch, and I’m terrified of what that means.
I close my eyes and focus on taking a few deep breaths of humid air, the way Archer has coached me to do when the panic gets to be too much. After a moment, my fear lessens, and I open my eyes to see the black marks fading away. And I did it all on my own. I grin and flex my fingers a few times, silently congratulating myself on a job well done.
Unfortunately, even as the magic becomes invisible again, I’m entirely too aware of it sitting just below the surface of my skin. It’s there, and it’s there to stay. Some of my victorious feeling fades.
The thunk of the bathroom cabinet closing jars me from my thoughts. I hear a soft brushing sound—Archer drying off before he comes back for me.
My scars may be back to normal for now, but the black marks are emblazoned in my memory. Black and thick, they remind me of the dark cloud that whispered awful things to me. Now that I’m fully awake and out of the transition, I have no clue what was real and what wasn’t during those unsettled days. Could the black cloud have been a manifestation of the witch inside me? Was it a real cloud that hung over my bed and clung to me while I slept? Or was it yet another nightmare?
Just thinking of the witch inside me causes a lump to rise in my throat. What if she becomes stronger than the real me? I couldn’t live with myself if I hurt any of these men, whether it’s by accident or not.
The shower curtain slides open again with the scrape of plastic rings on metal. Cold air and light spills into the dim space, but before I can get too cold or feel too exposed, Archer wraps a large towel around my shoulders. He’s still somewhat wet, droplets glistening on his skin in the light from the fixture overhead, but he’s wrapped a towel around his waist. Probably for both his modesty and my own at this point.
Once I’m in a burrito of plush fabric, he wraps his arms around me and lifts me carefully from the tub as if I weigh no more than a doll.
His embrace is strong and protective as he deposits me on the soft rug. As soon as he’s sure I have my balance, he rubs the towel over me, looking at me with a mixture of worry and tenderness that makes my chest tight.
“You need soft, warm clothes and a good breakfast,” he murmurs, brushing an edge of the towel down the side of my face. “You’ll feel better in no time.”
“Both of those sound great.” I return his smile and focus on the soft touch of the towel on my skin. “But I already feel better, thanks to you.”
Archer pauses in his drying, then lifts one hand to touch my face. “I think you’re just stronger than you know.”
He kisses me. It’s short and sweet but laced with some of the heat we shared inside the shower. My cheeks are flaming when he finally pulls away and goes back to drying me off.
After a lifetime of horror, I finally escaped my uncle’s captivity and discovered true friendship. I found four men I care about who seem to care about me in return—even Dare, wherever he is now.
Before I met them, nobody had ever made sure I had clean clothes to wear or food in my stomach. Nobody would have ever held me on my feet, washed my body, and then dried me off with a smile. Now, that level of care is a staple in my life.
But I don’t deserve it. I’m the enemy.
I close my eyes against my tears so that Archer won’t know the depths of my emotions. All I can see in the darkness behind my eyelids are those black scars on my skin.
&nbs
p; No matter how much I care about these men, I’m terrified I might hurt them.
5
Trystan
Ridge put me on egg duty, which was fucking stupid. Like I know anything about flipping eggs-over-easy. Two eggs in, I’ve already said fuck it, and I’m scrambling the whole lot of it.
Whipping it into a frenzy with the spatula doesn’t frustrate me as much as trying to flip the slimy shit. And after weeks in this cabin sharing breakfast with Sable, I know damn good and well she likes eggs in any form. In fact, I know she loves food of all kinds, and I know that’s because her uncle fucking starved her.
Fucking asshole. I jam the spatula under the sizzling, bubbling eggs, sending several small chunks flying. What kind of psychopath starves a kid? What kind of monster abuses his own niece, someone he should do anything to protect?
I know it’s the tension hanging in the air that’s getting to me, screwing up my patience with cooking breakfast, though I can admit I have a lack of patience to begin with. Even Ridge is on edge, dropping everything he picks up, cursing under his breath, glaring at sticks of butter like they’ve insulted his pack. Dude’s lost his mind, but I’m right behind him.
What the fuck is this? What the fuck is going on?
For years, I’ve prided myself on being capable and smart, able to handle the ups and downs of leading my pack. Shit, it’s why I challenged my father for control of the West Pack. I was more capable of keeping them safe than he was, and I’m damn sure good at it. Nobody’s ever questioned my leadership the way they did my father’s.
But this? Fuck, I’m completely out of my depth here. This whole situation, from forging friendships with Ridge and Archer and letting old grudges fade, to Sable being my mate but also being a fucking witch… all of it is quickly spinning out of my control. And it started spiraling out of control the minute three different wolves claimed Sable as their mate just like I did.