Page 88 of Bewicched

So, We’re Doing This?

“What’s going on with Logan? I don’t know much about werewolf packs, but doesn’t beating the Alpha make you the Alpha?” I needed to pick up some kind ofWerewolves for Dummiesbook.

“I didn’t claim it.” He shook his head. “I don’t want it.”

I checked the time. I had to get baking, but I wanted him to admit this first. “I think you do.”

Brows furrowed, he gave me a dark look. “No. I don’t.”

I pretended to think about it for a minute. “Not buying it. When you stepped foot on pack lands, you felt the power thrum through you. When you took down the Alpha, the land moved. An Alpha had been deposed and a new one ascended.”

He shook his head, but it felt more thoughtful than an outright denial.

“Daniel and Kenji moved to you, recognizing their Alpha. The others were confused but submissive to you. I caught your thoughts in that vision. The pack was weak and poorly trained. You could fix that. They hadn’t learned to fully integrate their dual natures, making some of them dangerous. Again, you could help them do that.

“And a part of that prophetic vision I had when I joined the Council was about the wolves.” At his stern expression, I continued. “It was a bar, kinda divey. A man accidentally bumped another man and the bumpee went nuts on the bumper, beating him to death. Cops showed up and he rushed them before being shot. The thing is, his eyes had turned wolf gold while he was beating the poor bumper.”

He cursed viciously and then gave a quick shake of his head. “I’m not Alpha.”

“But you could be,” I reiterated. “There’s no reason not to. You said you wanted to stay, right?”

He turned to study me again before nodding.

“Okay, then. They need a strong Alpha and you no longer have someone you need to protect.”

He raised an eyebrow at that.

“Do I need to throw you out and dump your ass in the ocean again? Not for nothing,” I continued, checking my phone—where was my grocery order? I needed limes and condensed milk—“you’re looking at one of the most powerful wicches this line has ever produced. Like I need your help dealing with some mangy wolves.” I rolled my eyes to make sure he got the point. I wasn’t his fragile aunt. I took care of myself and always had.

I needed to make the shortbread crust first anyway, but I really needed those limes. I liked to add lime zest to the shortbread. I pushed a finger into one of the wrapped butter packages I’d left on the counter to soften. Yep. Soft.

A knock came from the gallery door. When I opened it, I found Mike holding out a grocery bag. Finally! “Thank you.” I closed the door and looked in the bag. Perfect, the limes looked fresh and healthy. “Oh, no wonder it took so long. That little go-getter found me actual key limes too. I need to up his tip.”

“There are key limes?” Declan asked. “I thought thekeypart was just something you did to limes to make the pie.”

“Nope.” I held one up. “They’re more yellow than regular limes.” I held up one of those too for comparison. “I have key lime juice in the fridge in case he couldn’t find fresh key limes, but he did. Huzzah.”

He walked to the back door, opened it, and then sat on the threshold, his legs dangling over the ocean.

“Good call. Commune with the ocean and figure it out. I need to bake.” I got a grunt in response.

A little while later, shortbread crusts made and the first tartlets in the oven, I brought Declan a beer and a shortbread cookie. He needed fuel for his deep thinking, even though it was quite obvious he should be the Alpha. I supposed the same could be said for me and the Corey Council and look how long it took me to finally agree. So, okay, we both fought against fate.

When my alarm went off, he got up and closed the door.

“They still need to cool,” I explained, pulling one set of trays from the oven before replacing them with a second set.

“Do they?” he asked, leaning over me and sniffing.

I elbowed him. “You’re as bad as Detective Osso.”

Peering into my mixer, he asked, “What’s this?”

“Marshmallow. Once they cool, I’ll add a fluff of marshmallow and a bit of candied lime zest.” I pointed to the wire rack where I had the zest cooling and drying.

“I’m begging you,” he said.

“Fine, fine, fine. Go sit over there. You’re crowding me.” I put together two tartlets—before they were chilled and ready—on a plate and brought them to him.

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