Page 29 of Cursed Bonds: An Alpha's Destiny

A lot of things ricocheted around in my head. Shayna’s words burrowed deep into my psyche, stronger and louder than anything else. Could I be sabotaging my one chance at happiness? What would happen if this was all I had? My only option?

I’d spent decades pining for a shifter mate. A female wolf to spend my life with. That was all I’d ever wanted. The idea of being tied to a witch was so foreign that it was almost impossible to picture. When I thought of Kirsten, however, that happy warmth spread through my stomach and chest. Was it another trap? One more curse that Dorothy was throwing at me from the grave? How could I know for sure?

“Screw this,” I grumbled, my voice sounding strange in the empty house. I needed to clear my head.

Before the back door had even clicked shut, I’d shifted and bounded up the hill toward the forest behind my home. The late-afternoon sun dipped toward the horizon as I plunged into the forest. At first, I thought I was running at random, enjoying the breeze through my fur. It didn’t take long for me to realize where I was actually going. The cabin.

It came into view twenty minutes later. The sky still held light, but the sun had almost vanished, spreading dusky rays through the trees as I sat on my haunches in almost the same spot where I’d first seen Kirsten.

The wards still held me back, but I could make out the kitchen window, no longer covered by curtains. When Kirsten appeared, my eyes widened. Despite myself, I couldn’t help but sigh at how beautiful she was.

Almost as though she could hear my thoughts, her eyes twitched in my direction. I froze. Had she seen me? No. Her gaze was distant, unfocused, looking at nothing. She appeared confused, introspective. I couldn’t blame her. She had as much on her mind as I did, maybe even more. I’d had a century to deal with the fallout of the curse. She was only now understanding who and what she was. Hopefully, if we put our heads together, we could find a way out of this spell we were both under.

Memories of that night long ago flashed through my mind. My drunken mistake, the dumbass actions of a wolf who had barely become an adult. A wolf who’d lost his parents only a couple of weeks before. Yes, I’d fucked up, but that shouldn’t have been enough to ruin my life for a hundred years.

That old anger filled me again. I could still see Dorothy’s angry and vindictive face when I closed my eyes. The curse had slammed into me, and even now, it was hard to believe that it hadn’t all happened yesterday. The sensation—burning hot agony—was still as fresh as ever.

Lowering my head, I turned and padded off into the forest, heading home. How could I ever love a witch? Whether Kirsten was fated to me or not, my hatred of their kind wasn’t something I could let go of that easily. Maybe I never would have a mate. Even fate couldn’t push me toward a witch if my heart was so full of anger.

Could it?

Chapter 9

Kirsten

I’d slept like absolute shit, tossing and turning and struggling to fall asleep. Too many thoughts were running through my head. When I finally slipped into unconsciousness, my dreams had been chaotic. Witches with green skin and pointy black hats cackling around cauldrons, women tied to stakes with flames rippling around them as they screamed, dark shadows flitting through the sky on broomsticks past the moon.

After each strange dream, I’d awoken, panting and sweating, only to toss and turn again. At one point, my dreams veered away from witches, but they became even stranger. A dark wolf stalked me through a shadowy forest, and then it pounced. Rather than biting or clawing me, he rubbed his fur against me to mark me with his scent.

That had been the final straw. At four in the morning, I’d slid out of bed to face the day.

Now, I sat at the wooden counter of the kitchen as the decades-old coffee machine brewed a pot for me. A pot I would probably guzzle in the next hour. My mind was still spinning with everything I’d discovered the day before. As a teacher, I understood that one of the best ways to solve a problem was with research, so my laptop was in front of me. Nana had obviously never had internet installed, but thankfully, my phone had enough service to work as a hotspot.

Out of my depth, I’d tried searching for information about witches. I turned up literally hundreds of sites, blogs, and articles about the Salem Witch Trials, Hansel and Gretel, some Russian legend called the Baba Yaga, but all of it seemed either fanciful, like the stories, or tragic, like what had happened in Salem. From everything I’d found, though, none of the people killed in any of these witch hunts had been real witches.

I’d seen the look in Jace’s eyes when he told me the stories of witches. He was telling the truth. They were real. The problem was they must have been so well-hidden, all history had for proof were stories and fairy tales.

Desperate, I searched: Real witches near me. Surprisingly, a few results popped up. The first that caught my eye was a blog. The Kitchen Witch of Saint Louis.

“What the hell is a kitchen witch?” I muttered to myself as I opened a separate tab to search the term.

Apparently, kitchen witches were a good-luck charm in the form of a ragdoll people tied up in the rafters or under their cabinets in kitchens to ward off evil spirits. Another definition was a sorceress who specialized in potable or edible potions or spells.

The blog had a link to a separate website, which led me to the homepage of a Wiccan bookstore in St. Louis called Inner Enchantments: Apothecary and Bookstore. I sipped my coffee while reading the website. The photo album caught my eye. It was still on the floor, exactly where I’d left it. For several minutes, I stared at the ancient leather cover, debating in my head and drinking until my cup was empty.

“Saint Louis it is,” I said, shoving my empty mug into the sink.

An hour later, I was in my car, pulling out of the driveway to make the three-hour drive to the city. I had to drive through Crestwood on my way out, and I couldn’t help but glance at Jace’s house. The sun was barely coming up over the mountains.

For the first time since coming back here, I appreciated how beautiful the quaint little village tucked into the Ozarks was. I didn’t think I’d recognized it as a child when we came up here. Now? It was awe-inspiring. Too bad I couldn’t simply enjoy it. Too much had happened already. If I had to guess, it would be a while before I could relax. Would I ever be able to relax again? Sighing sadly, I turned onto the interstate.

The trip to St. Louis was mostly uneventful. The shop didn’t open until eight, and with waking up and leaving so early, I had time to kill. I stopped along the way to get breakfast, though that was mostly perfunctory—I had no appetite. Anxiety and stress had twisted my stomach into knots.

The shop was located downtown. By the time I found parking, the sun was up. I’d only been in Crestwood for a few days, but already, being in a city felt surreal.

The GPS app on my phone led me down a few side streets until I found the shop. It sat in a row of other unique and interesting stores. The sign above the door looked carved and painted by hand, and several items in the window display caught my eye: an old book with runes carved into the leather, a jeweled dagger—an athame, similar to the one I’d found at the cabin—and a small jewelry rack with necklaces and bracelets made with different crystals and stones.

Preparing myself for nothing more than some bohemian or beatnik telling me all I needed was to have my palm read, I pulled the door open and stepped inside, a tiny bell chiming above my head to signal my arrival.

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