Page 92 of Enspelled

She shrugs. “The price to get what I wanted was higher than I’d expected to pay, but the cost was—or will be—worth it.”

As I measure the distance between us, I think about how silent Briar has been. No one takes that long to pee, especially not someone as loud as Briar.

My eyes narrow. “What did you do to her?”

“Briar? Oh, nothing. Nothing at all.”

I take a step toward her. “You’re lying,” I snarl.

“You have what you want, wolf. Leave town. None of this concerns you.”

“Not until you tell me what you did to Briar.”

“Briar is not your concern,” she snaps. “Leave while you still can. Layla is dead. You have no reason to stay in Madden Grove.”

“And I’m supposed to believe that Layla was the one responsible?”

“You’ve believed everything I’ve told you so far.”

I freeze.

She played me.

She doesn’t say the words, but I look into her eyes and I know why I didn’t trust her—why I never trusted her. “You used me to get rid of the people you hated.”

“Every witch knows that a wolf is more animal than man. All I had to do was point you in the right direction, and you did exactly what I wanted.”

And then I remember the stone she told me to put in Briar’s pocket. “What spell was in the stone? What the fuck did it do to Briar?”

Her smile is chilling. “Not your concern, wolf. You’ve played your part. Now it’s my turn.”

I stop holding my wolf back. Now I reach for him, embracing the change, letting a snarl of fury roar from my throat.

My shift is seamless. Clothes shred around me as I lunge at her.

Teeth aimed for her throat, I’m seconds from ending her when a wall of magic with a familiar taste flings me away.

I smash hard into a tree. Something snaps. Growling, I force the pain from my mind. It’s not important. Only one thing is. Shoving myself to my feet, ignoring the whirling in my head and the sickness in my gut, I stumble toward the witch.

She smiles and lifts her hand.

I move to dodge, but it’s too late.

28

BRIAR

Agaze probes my face.

I feel the intense focus of it as I groan. Someone is using my head as a drum kit. That must be the reason it hurts so much.

When warm hands grip my arms and ease me into a seated position with my back against something hard and scratchy that feels like a tree, I rest my head against it with a grateful sigh.

Sitting up is a thousand times better than lying down.

“Briar?” Gentle hands brush strands of hair from my face.

That voice…

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