Page 4 of Christmas with a Cursed Werewolf

Rakan's ears flick back, but he doesn't challenge my tone. With a slight dip of his head, he turns and disappears into the shadows, leaving me alone with thoughts I'd rather not examine.

Music drifts up from the main hall where the holiday gathering continues. Despite the urgent problems demanding my attention, I find myself drawn there. My steps slow as I spot Briar across the room. She's examining one of the old tapestries, her fingers hovering just above the fabric. The magic responds to her presence, threads shimmering where her hand passes over them.

She's changed into an evening dress, deep green silk that catches the light. The sight of her hits me like a physical blow. She moves with unconscious grace, unaware of how the castle bends toward her like a flower seeking sun. My wolf stirs, wanting to claim, to mark, to possess.

I force myself to look away, but my senses remain locked on her—her heartbeat, her scent, the soft sound of her breathing mixing with the holiday music. Other guests mill around, laughing, drinking, completely unaware of the magic crackling through the air. None of them notice how the candles flicker when she passes, or how the shadows seem to lean toward her.

But I notice. I notice everything.

The curse pulses through me, a warning. I can't let her get closer. Can't let her unravel everything I've built to keep this place, and myself, contained. But watching her move through my castle like she belongs here...

Back in my study, I pour a drink but don't taste it. The castle's magic swirls restlessly around me, making the lamplight dance. Every instinct warns me that Briar Everly is a threat to the careful balance I've maintained. Her presence alone seems to agitate the curse, stirring both the magic and something darker within me.

Tomorrow, I'll have Alistair arrange for her early departure. It's the sensible thing to do. The safe thing. I've spent too long containing this curse to let one curious woman unravel everything.

But even as I make the decision, the castle's magic pulses in protest. The fire in my study gutters and dies, plunging the room into darkness. In the distance, I hear another hearth sputter out, then another. Like dominos falling in the night.

From my window, I watch snow fall in the moonlight. Below, Rakan's dark form patrols the grounds, a shadow among shadows. The pack follows his lead, their movements precise and purposeful. They'll guard the castle tonight, but I wonder what exactly they're guarding it from.

My reflection stares back at me from the frosted glass—a man haunted by his own choices. The curse thrums through my veins, a constant reminder of what I am, what I've become. Andnow Briar's presence threatens to upset the delicate balance I've maintained for so long.

The castle groans around me, ancient stones shifting in the cold. Magic seeps through the walls like bleeding wounds, leaving trails of frost in its wake. I press my forehead against the cold glass, closing my eyes against the evidence of decay.

Tomorrow, she leaves. She has to. Before the curse takes notice of her. Before I forget why I need to stay alone.

But as I settle behind my desk, the castle's magic pulses once more—a warning, or perhaps a promise. And somewhere in the darkness, another fire dies.

The Enchanted Library

BRIAR

My hands shake as I close Ronan's office door behind me. His words echo in my mind. “The West Wing is forbidden."

But the anger in his voice can't mask something else I noticed.Fear.

The great and powerful Ronan Wolfe is afraid of something in his own home.

The corridor stretches before me, holiday decorations casting strange shadows on stone walls. I should return to my room. Should follow his orders.

But something about this place pulls at me, a strange pressure in the air that I can't explain. Maybe it's just the old heating system, or the way sound echoes off these stone walls, but each step deeper into the hallway feels inevitable.

A door stands partially open ahead—heavy oak with brass fittings, carved with symbols I've never seen before. Beyond it, moonlight catches the spines of countless books. My heart skips. This must be the library Alistair mentioned.

Snow taps against frosted windows as I push the door wider. The hinges creak, and cold air rushes past me, carrying the scent of old paper and something else—something that makes the hairon my arms stand up. The holiday music from downstairs fades, replaced by an expectant silence.

I step into darkness that slowly resolves into towering shelves. Moonlight filters through the windows, casting strange patterns across the floor.

Dust motes swirl in the air like tiny stars, moving in ways that make me blink and look again. Must be a draft somewhere. The shelves stretch up into shadow, their tops lost in darkness.

"Hello?" My whisper echoes strangely, bouncing back distorted, as if the room is larger than it appears.

No one answers, but the air feels thick, heavy with something I can't name. My skin prickles with awareness, like the moment before a thunderstorm breaks. Books line every surface, their spines a mix of leather and cloth, some so old the titles have worn away completely. The space feels... watched. I shake my head at the ridiculous thought. Old libraries always feel this way—it's just the weight of history, nothing more.

I move deeper into the stacks, drawn by my historian's curiosity. My fingers trail along the spines, and where I touch, the dust seems to vanish.

A trick of the light makes it look like a faint glow follows my hand. The air vibrates with what must be the building's ancient heating system, though the shelves seem to lean closer, as if studying their visitor.

Too many gothic novels, Briar.

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