This book is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real people, or real locales are used fictitiously. Other names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

Cursed with Benefits, The Witches of Hollow Cove, Book Twenty

Copyright © 2025 by Kim Richardson

Cover design by Kim Richardson

All rights reserved, including the right of reproduction

in whole or in any form.

CONTENTS

1. Tessa

2. Tessa

3. Tessa

4. Tessa

5. Marcus

6. Tessa

7. Tessa

8. Tessa

9. Tessa

10. Tessa

11. Marcus

12. Tessa

13. Tessa

14. Tessa

15. Tessa

16. Tessa

17. Tessa

18. Tessa

19. Marcus

20. Tessa

21. Marcus

22. Tessa

23. Tessa

24. Tessa

25. Marcus

26. Tessa

27. Tessa

28. Tessa

29. Marcus

Trial by Spell

The Starlight Witch

Books By Kim Richardson

Newsletter

About the Author

1

TESSA

I jolted upright, my breath shallow and fast. Sweat clung to my skin, cold against the sheets. The room felt too quiet, too still—like it was holding its breath with me. My eyes darted around, struggling to make sense of the familiar shapes in the early dawn light. The dresser. The bookshelf. That ridiculous oversized houseplant Beverly insisted was “mood-cleansing,” its leaves drooping like it had been up all night too.

Home.

I was home. I exhaled and let my head fall back onto the pillow. My body, however, remained tight and twitchy, like a wound-up spring desperate to snap.

This had been my nightly routine for the past four weeks, ever since that message from the Gray Council arrived, scrawled in that fancy blood-red ink with the creepy, official seal.

We know what he is. We will be in touch soon.

That was it. No signature. No helpful follow-up. Just vague, chilling ambiguity that made it sound like they were either going to arrest my baby or ship him off to a magical orphanage. They were going to take my kid and separate him from us, from everything he knew, like he was some kind of threat they needed to contain.

My aunts had told me not to worry. That the Gray Council was all bark and no bite. Ruth made a few calls. Dolores pulled out an old grimoire from her “secret and hands-off” collection. Beverly poured wine and said if anyone showed up at the door in a robe, she’d handle it with a shovel and a smile.

They’d tried to reassure me, and I appreciated the effort. I even pretended to believe them. But deep down? I hadn’t had a decent night’s sleep since. Every creak in the house made me flinch. Every shadow felt like a magical enforcer crouched behind a curtain. I was one persistent caffeine drip away from becoming a full-blown conspiracy theorist with a foil hat and a color-coded suspicion board.

The Gray Council had made a threat. A real one. Directed at my child. That alone had turned me into an anxious, semi-feral mother with violent tendencies and a strong desire to magic the hell out of anything wearing a robe.

Motherfrackers.

And then there was him. Soren Tex.

He hadn’t shown his annoyingly handsome, manipulative face since the auction mess. No cryptic messages. No smug magical projections. Not even a single passive-aggressive raven sent to deliver a monologue. It was… unsettling.

Which honestly made it worse.

Because my witchy instincts told me that Soren didn’t vanish. He was waiting. Plotting. Lurking like an eerie threat with a god complex and better bone structure than he deserved.

I didn’t know where he was or what he was doing, but I knew one thing for sure. He wasn’t finished with me. Or any of us Davenport witches.

He only cared about bloodlines, history, and revenge. Specifically, ours. He wanted the Davenports wiped off the magical map, our legacy reduced to dust and our name stricken from every record like we’d never existed.

Exactly what was done to him.

Yeah, he was coming for me, for us, eventually. Because deep down, I knew he’d be back.

I sighed. The sheets were damp, twisted around me like I’d been wrestling ghosts all night. Even the pillowcase was soaked through. I sat up, grimacing at the way the fabric peeled off my back. Gross. The mattress gave a subtle squelch under me—never a good sign. I felt like I’d run a marathon in a sauna and forgotten to shower. I reeked of stress sweat and nightmares, like an exhausted swamp creature.

Also, the other side of the bed was empty.

“Marcus?” I called, already knowing I wouldn’t get an answer.

No reply. No hulking wereape body beside me. No warmth. No blanket thief. Which meant he hadn’t come home.

I pushed myself up, groaning like an old witch with bad joints. I needed a shower. A change of sheets. And a bucket of coffee. But first—water. I was probably dehydrated from stress sweating all over my sheets.

I crept down the hall and tiptoed into my son’s room.

Darian snored like a tiny chainsaw. It was, bizarrely, the most comforting sound in the universe.

I walked over and looked into his crib.

And immediately did a double take.

“Wait a minute…”

He had definitely grown. Again. I’d just put him down a few hours ago, and now? Now his long legs were draped over the edge of the crib like he was trying to Houdini his way out. His once-chubby cheeks had thinned slightly—still adorable, still rosy, but with sharper features. His fingers were longer, and his curls had grown thicker.

And his head. His head was almost touching the bars.

I stared at him in disbelief. “You’re not even two months old. How are you built like a toddler linebacker?”

He snorted in his sleep and muttered something that suspiciously sounded like “no frogs,” which… sure. Whatever that meant.

I reached down and gently brushed a dark curl from his face, my fingers lingering against his warm cheek. He sighed, and something inside me unclenched just a little. He was okay. Safe. Sleeping like a magically enhanced angel.

But I needed to buy a new crib. Or maybe a twin bed. Or a full-sized mattress if he kept this up.

I left his room and shuffled downstairs to the kitchen. Water. Water was the goal. Rehydration, survival, and maybe the accidental bonus of having lost three pounds of sweat weight.

I grabbed a glass from the cupboard and chugged one down followed by another. And then, of course, I had to do the one thing I never should’ve done in a dark kitchen—walk.

Because as I was walking out of the kitchen back upstairs, my right foot stepped into something cold and squishy and not at all water-like.

And then—gravity betrayed me.

My arms pinwheeled, my heel slipped, and my hip twisted. My body went full cartoon-mode as I landed on the kitchen tile in a gloriously humiliating butt-slide that ended with me sprawled out like a crime scene chalk drawing.

“Ow,” I groaned, on my knees, wincing. “Why? Why am I like this?”

I blinked at the floor. There was something dark. Wet. Thick.

“House?” I rasped. “Kitchen lights. Now, please.”

House—my ninja-butler pal—answered with a soft pipe rattle and clicked the lights on with a warm golden glow.

And that’s when I saw it.

The smears. The drips. The handprints on the wall. The streaks across the tile, leading to the front door like some horror movie trail.

My stomach dropped.

“What the hell?”

Blood. I’d slipped in blood.

It was everywhere. Not fresh, but not fully dried either. It painted a trail across the floor and toward the door like something—or someone—had crawled or stumbled.

I patted my own body quickly. “Not mine,” I muttered. “Definitely not mine.” And not Darian’s.

That left one person.

“Marcus,” I whispered, panic climbing up my throat like smoke.

Something had happened to him. And I hadn’t felt it. I hadn’t sensed anything. My magic hadn’t even twitched.

Which meant it was either something incredibly dark… or something meant to avoid detection.

I ran back upstairs, grabbed my phone, and called Marcus. After the fifth ring it went straight to voicemail.

Damnit.

I washed the blood from my feet as fast as I could, pulled on a pair of yoga pants and ran back downstairs with my phone. I yanked on a coat, shoved my feet into my knee-high boots and ran out the front door, my heart pounding and my mind already listing every spell I might need to bring my husband back alive.

If anyone had hurt him…

Gray Council be damned. I’d burn the world down.

I didn’t even bother with a real weapon. I had magic. That was my weapon.

I pulled my phone out of my coat pocket as I slammed the door shut behind me, and I tapped on the flashlight app with trembling fingers.

A narrow beam of white light cut through the early morning darkness.

Blood streaked down the porch steps, already starting to freeze at the edges. Drops in the thin layer of snow glistened like rubies under the beam of my flashlight, stark against the pale ground.

I spun on my heel, ready to wake up my aunts to ask them to look after Darian while I tore through the woods in full-panic-witch mode, but I stopped short when something golden flickered in the darkness.

Tinker Bell. She was hovering next to the dogwood bush, her tiny wings buzzing faintly. Her eyes were narrowed at something in the branches.

“Are you... bug hunting?” I asked.

She shot me a look that clearly said, “Don’t judge my hobbies.”

I stared at her. “Right. Okay. Change of plans. I need you to watch Darian.”

Tinker Bell zipped closer, frowning. “What’s going on?” Then her gaze shifted downward, and her eyes widened. “Is that blood?”

“Yeah,” I said, the word sitting like a lump in my throat. “I think Marcus is in trouble.”

She hovered there a second longer, her expression unreadable, and then gave a sharp nod as she zipped past me. I opened the door, and she darted inside like a bullet.

“Thank you,” I said to the empty doorway, my voice tight.

I shut the door and followed the trail across the backyard, my boots crunching softly over the icy grass as I swept the flashlight left and right. Tracking wasn’t easy. The blood trail stopped and started, broken by patches of snow and wind-swept ground. It looked like he’d stumbled, wandered in a daze… or maybe shifted mid-stride and bolted ahead on four paws instead of two.

Either way, it wasn’t good. And the cold wasn’t helping.

“Marcus?” I called, quietly at first. Then louder. “Marcus!”

No response. Just the wind in the trees, sharp and biting, whispering through the bare branches like it knew something I didn’t.

My phone’s light flickered over more blood, this time a larger smear, frozen at the edges against the bark of an old pine. Another few steps, and I spotted a torn scrap of fabric caught on a low branch. Black, like one of Marcus’s shirts, it fluttered weakly in the wind, stiff with frost.

I moved faster, my breath clouding in front of me and my footsteps crunching over a layer of snow and brittle ice. The ground was slick in places, half-melted footprints mixing with paw prints, blood, and broken twigs.

Every sound sent a jolt through me. Every shadow made my grip on the phone tighten like it was a weapon.

I’m not a shifter. I don’t have their uber scent-tracking ability, night vision, or spooky “my mate’s in trouble” radar.

All I had was blind luck and a whole lot of mom rage.

But I didn’t have to go far.

The blood trail thinned, but a new clue appeared. Bare footprints in the snow. Big ones. Human. No shoes, no socks. Just skin against ice.

I followed them, my chest tightening with every step. The tracks veered off the trail and into the trees behind Davenport house, the snow disturbed and stained in spots. The cold bit at my cheeks, the air sharp and still. It was too quiet.

Then I saw him.

Maybe fifty feet in, hunched behind a cluster of thick pines, his back turned to me. His shirt was gone. His broad shoulders glistened with sweat and streaks of frozen blood. He was crouched low, his massive hands braced in the snow and body shaking like he was caught between forms.

Not gorilla. Not man. Not anything graceful.

This was Marcus’s beast, his silverback gorilla form, and it was pushing to the surface.

His arms were lengthening, muscle swelling beneath skin. One side of his face had already shifted, his jaw distended and dark fur curling along his cheek and down his shoulder. The growl that rumbled from his chest made the air feel heavier.

Half-man. Half-gorilla. Fully terrifying. Yet—still him. Somewhere in there.

“Marcus?” I whispered, not daring to move closer just yet.

He was panting, hard, his shoulders heaving like he’d run miles in a fever dream.

“Marcus?” I said, gently.

His head snapped up.

His eyes locked on me, and for a terrifying second, nothing was behind them. No recognition. Just raw instinct. Animal instinct.

I stood frozen, not even daring to breathe.

Then he blinked. His face twitched. His chest rose and fell in a sharp, shuddering breath.

“Tessa?” he croaked, his voice half-human, half-beast.

I took a careful step forward. “Hey. I’m here. You’re okay.”

He looked down at his hands, or what used to be his hands. They were still thick and heavy, his fingers elongated, knuckles swollen and bruised. Patches of coarse black fur clung to his arms and shoulders, slowly receding as the shift pulled back. His massive frame shrank inch by inch, bones cracking audibly as his body tried to return to human form.

He trembled, his chest heaving and arms hanging limply at his sides as he collapsed into a crouch—a half-naked, blood-streaked heap in the snow.

“I… I don’t…” His voice was rough, gravel dragged through ice. He turned in a slow, shaky circle, as if only just realizing where he was. “I don’t know what happened.”

I was already moving toward him. “You were bleeding,” I said, crouching beside him. “There was blood all over the house. The floor, the walls, the door. Marcus, what the hell happened to you?”

He stared at his hands. “I don’t know.” His voice cracked. He wasn’t faking this. He wasn’t hiding anything. He looked… afraid.

That scared me more than anything else.

Marcus Durand was many things—grumpy, loyal, strong enough to snap a boulder in half. But afraid? Never. That just wasn’t him.

But this version of him, bloodied, shaking, confused, he looked like he was trapped in his own skin.

“I woke up here… outside,” he whispered. “Naked. Covered in blood. My back hurts. My… my head’s fuzzy. It’s like I blacked out.” He grabbed his head with both hands. “I don’t remember anything, Tessa. Nothing.”

I reached for him, laying a hand on his arm. His skin was cold, nearly frozen, stretched over muscle still thickened from the shift. Patches of black fur clung stubbornly to his shoulders and spine, and steam curled up from his skin where heat met the winter air.

He flinched at my touch but didn’t pull away. He was still trembling, his whole body tense like it was bracing for another shift—or a memory he couldn’t find.

“Okay,” I said softly, even though my voice felt too small in the freezing air. “It’s okay. We’ll figure it out.”

My heart was doing acrobatics, and my brain was spinning out in fifty directions at once, none of them good. But if he was panicking, and I was panicking, one of us was going to make a very bad decision. And I couldn’t afford to be the one who broke first.

“Come on,” I said gently, sliding an arm under his. “Let’s get you home.”

He didn’t move right away. His breath came in ragged bursts, fogging the air between us. His eyes were unfocused, darting over the snow-covered trees and the trail of red behind him.

Then he whispered, “It’s not my blood.”

I froze. “What?”

He shook his head slowly. “I checked. I’m not cut. No wounds. It’s not mine.”

A fresh wave of cold rolled through me that had nothing to do with the temperature.

“Did I—” He swallowed hard. “Did I hurt you?”

“No,” I said immediately, firmly. “You didn’t touch me. Or Darian. We’re both fine.”

He gave the smallest nod, like that was the only thing anchoring him to reality.

Then, in a voice that barely sounded like his, he said, “What’s happening to me?”

I didn’t have an answer. Not one that wouldn’t make everything worse.

“We’ll figure it out,” I said, tightening my grip on his arm. “Okay? Whatever this is, we’ll deal with it.”

Even as I said it, my insides twisted. Because I had no idea what the hell we were dealing with. This wasn’t a bad dream or a random shift accident. This was something else.

I swallowed hard and kept my voice steady as I guided him slowly back toward the cottage, one step at a time through the crunching snow.

As soon as Marcus was safe, I knew what I had to do. I had to wake up my aunts, that’s what.

Ruth would know something about shifter blackouts. Dolores had books older than most countries. And Beverly—well, Beverly wouldn’t get out of bed if it didn’t involve some handsome single guy.

But as I helped him through the snow, his weight heavy with half-shifted muscles still unstable, my thoughts raced louder than ever.

He blacked out. He’d never blacked out.

And now there was blood, someone else’s blood, on him, and he had no idea where it had come from.

Something was very, very wrong.

2

TESSA

What does a witch do when she finds her husband in the middle of the woods, naked, blood-soaked, half-shifted into a gorilla, and mumbling that he has no idea what happened?

She panics. Then she panics more. Then she pretends to have a plan while internally screaming into the void.

By the time I got Marcus home, my hands were frozen, my boots were soaked, and I was barely holding it together. But survival mode was strong. I got him inside, into the bathroom, and into the shower—me included—because there was no way I was letting him stand there, shaking and covered in blood.

Don’t get me wrong. I’m never going to complain about my husband being naked. The man looks like a sculpted Greek god times ten. But this wasn’t sexy shower time. This was “please don’t collapse or shift again and punch through the tile” time.

The blood clung to him in streaks and smears, half-frozen in his hair and caked beneath his fingernails. I scrubbed his back, careful around the patches where his skin was raw from shifting. He didn’t say much, just stood under the hot water with his eyes closed and his jaw clenched like he was holding back an avalanche.

I wanted to ask him a thousand questions, but I didn’t ask any.

Instead, I rinsed the blood from his chest and hoped it would wash away whatever the hell this was.

It didn’t.

By the time we dried off and got dressed, the sky was turning pink with sunrise. I hadn’t even realized how early it had been when I’d gone tearing into the woods like a half-awake banshee in boots.

It was six in the morning. I’d already experienced panic, terror, cold-induced emotional numbness, and full-body exhaustion—all before breakfast.

After the shower, I told Marcus I’d talk to my aunts. That I’d figure this out. That he should rest.

And that’s when my loving, recently blackout-shifting, blood-streaked husband looked me dead in the eye and said, “I’m going into work.”

I blinked. “Uh… no.”

Marcus, cool as a cucumber, pulled on a fresh pair of jeans like we hadn’t just peeled frozen blood off his neck thirty minutes ago. “I have to go. It’s my job.”

“I’m sorry—what?”

“I have to go,” he repeated.

“You’re allowed sick days. Today is a sick day.”

Marcus glanced at me. “Chiefs don’t get sick days.”

“You were naked in the woods covered in someone else’s blood, and had no memory of how you got there. That qualifies as a sick day.”

Marcus sighed and grabbed a long-sleeved shirt. “I don’t want to make this into a thing. I need to do something normal.”

I folded my arms. “Normal people don’t get dragged into the woods by mystery blood and shift mid-hypothermia.”

“Wereapes don’t get hypothermia.”

“Look,” I said, softening just a fraction. “I get it. You want to feel in control. But you’re not. Not right now. Something happened to you, and we don’t even know what that is yet.”

He tugged on the shirt like that somehow made everything fine. “I’m the chief. I need to be there.”

“Says who?” I asked. “You need to stay here so my aunts can have a look at you. You know, so you don’t beast out into another violent gorilla episode.”

“I need normal,” he said, quieter now. “I need to be out there, doing something that makes sense. Sitting around waiting isn’t going to help.”

I stared at him, taking in the sharp lines of his jaw, the tension in his shoulders, the way his fists tightened even though he thought I wouldn’t notice.

This wasn’t just stubbornness.

He was scared.

And Marcus Durand didn’t do scared, which terrified me even more.

This wasn’t about work. It was about control. About grounding himself in routine before the fear swallowed him whole.

“Besides,” said the chief. “If I did something, if I hurt someone, and that person is still out there… I need to find them. I have to go.”

He was right. That wasn’t his blood I’d seen all over him. There was still a chance someone was out there in Hollow Cove bleeding, but with the amount of blood I’d seen, it was highly doubtful they were still alive.

I let out a slow breath. “Fine. But you so much as feel dizzy, lose a minute of time, or start chest-thumping and throwing people into walls, you call me. Immediately.”

He gave me a small nod and kissed my forehead. “I will.”

And with that, Hollow Cove’s chief walked out the door, leaving me standing there in my bathrobe, heart pounding, magic twitching, and a million questions echoing in my skull.

So, I did the only thing I could do.

I got dressed, mentally shoved all my anxiety somewhere deep, and hustled down the hall to Darian’s room.

And stopped.

Mid-step. Mid-breath. Mid-everything.

My son—my sweet, two-month-old baby—was sitting cross-legged on the floor like a tiny monk in footie pajamas, levitating his crib.

Not just wiggling it. Not just nudging it an inch. Oh, no. It was spinning. Slowly. Gracefully. Like it was on a magical rotating platform. Yup, he liked spinning things, like his grandfather.

“Okay,” I said, rubbing my eyes like that would reset reality. “I don’t have time for this.”

The crib made a slow, gentle half-turn midair and then bumped the ceiling.

I pointed a stern mom finger at it. “Stay.”

It hovered there, slightly offended but obedient.

I opened his dresser, grabbed a pair of stretchy jeans and a cozy red sweater—both labeled 2T, because apparently that’s the stage we’re in now—and scooped him up before he could levitate anything else. Like, say, the floor.

“We’re going to see Aunty Ruthy, Dolores, and Beverly,” I told him. “Because Mommy’s having a magical existential crisis and needs backup.”

Darian’s little face lit up like I’d just said we were going to Disneyland. He loved my aunts. They spoiled him absolutely rotten.

He clapped his hands, which triggered a spark of gold light from his palms.

“Cool it, sparkles,” I whispered, kissing his cheek. “We’re doing low-drama magic today. Okay?”

He gave me a mischievous grin that said no promises.

With Darian in my arms, I jogged downstairs, took a look around at the now-spotless kitchen and floor—no traces of blood anywhere, which told me House had cleaned it up for us—slipped on my snow boots, and stepped out into the frozen world of Hollow Cove. The air bit at my cheeks and snow crunched underfoot as I made my way through the backyard and pushed open the back door of Davenport House like I lived there—which, let’s face it, I practically did.

“Hi, Ruth,” I called, kicking snow off my boots and setting Darian down.

Did I mention he was walking now?

Yup. Walking. Climbing. Leaping. Practicing ninja landings on the couch like he was a professional gymnast. At two months old.

Ruth, who was at the stove stirring something, turned around, her signature white cloud of hair tied into a messy bun stabbed with two forks. She wore a long denim skirt, a white blouse, and an apron that read: STIRRING CAULDRONS AND DRAMA SINCE 1973.

“Hi, Tessa. Darian,” she chirped, sliding a stool from the kitchen island toward him. “Are you guys hungry?”

“We are,” I said, making a beeline for the coffee machine and pouring myself a cup of delicious brown heaven.

Darian scrambled up like a pro, hoisting himself onto the stool like he did it every morning, which, honestly, he might’ve been doing when I wasn’t looking.

“What a good boy,” Ruth said proudly, patting his tiny back.

And then—

“Pancake,” said Darian, clear as crystal, in his sweet little voice.

Ruth and I both froze.

Completely still. Like we’d been hexed with a solidifying curse.

My lips parted. “Oh my god.”

“That was his first word,” Ruth whispered.

“He just spoke. He spoke,” I said, grabbing the counter for balance. “Like—he formed a word. With his tiny mouth. A real word.”

“He can talk.” Ruth beamed, one hand over her heart like he’d just recited a sonnet.

I thought about his crib, how it had been spinning. He could do a lot more than just talk. But I couldn’t let my amazement, or rising fear, distract me from the reason I was really here. Marcus.

Still, Ruth clapped her hands together like this was the best news since indoor plumbing. “And his first word was pancake. It means I’m his favorite aunt.”

Oh boy.

Ruth kissed Darian’s head with glee. “Pancakes. Coming right up!” She spun toward the pantry like she’d just won the Hollow Cove lottery.

A moment later, pots were clanging, cabinets opening, eggs cracking.

“What’s all this racket?”

Dolores, wearing her eternal scowl and bathrobe layered under a black cardigan that could double as a cloaking spell, stepped into the room like she expected an ambush. She swung her long gray braid over her shoulder. “As the new mayor, I need my sleep. Eight hours of undisturbed slumber.”

Ruth rolled her eyes. “Here we go.”

I laughed and took a sip of my coffee. “Sorry to wake you. But it’s just… Darian just said his first word—”

“Pancake,” Ruth cut in, swinging her pink spatula and sending clumps of beige all over the floor and her feet. “He said pancake.”

Dolores moved to the coffee machine. “That boy is full of surprises.”

Ruth glanced at me and grinned, like we both shared some secret, the secret of her thinking that Darian loved her more.

Darian was sitting up straight, staring at Ruth’s sizzling pan. Was he drooling? Yup. There was drool.

I leaned against the counter, watching Darian giggle as Ruth whipped batter and sang an old fae song under her breath.

He was happy. Bright-eyed. Magical. And growing faster than any baby should.

And somewhere, under the glee and wonder and pancakes, I still had a husband who was blacking out in the woods covered in someone else’s blood.

I had questions.

And now that caffeine, carbs, and cranky witches were in reach, I was getting answers.

“Is Tinker Bell here?” I asked. She’d been a huge help with Darian earlier this morning. I wasn’t sure if she was back at the big house or still out with Hildo, doing their usual nighttime “hunting.” But if she’d come back, she would’ve told Ruth about Marcus.

“Not yet,” said Ruth cheerfully.

Okay then. I took another sip of coffee and said, “Something happened to Marcus last night.”

That got their attention.

Ruth looked over her shoulder at me, her brows set in a frown, and Dolores lowered herself into a chair at the kitchen table, mirroring the worry from her sister’s face.

“Tell us,” ordered Dolores.

I quickly filled them in on how I woke up and found blood all over the floor and walls and how I had followed the trail out into the back woods.

“He was in mid-shift, covered in blood,” I continued. “And he can’t remember anything. How he got there. Where the blood came from. Nothing. He blacked out. This isn’t like him.”

Ruth and Dolores shared a look.

“What?” I gripped my coffee mug. “Do you know what this is?”

“Sounds like a curse or a hex,” said Dolores, and I felt the blood leave my face.

“What sounds like a hex?” Beverly sashayed her way into the kitchen wearing a pair of dark jeans and a silky blue blouse. Her blonde hair was styled half up, and with her perfect makeup, she looked like she was going out on a date at six in the morning.

I stared at her. “It’s not fair that you look that good at this hour.”

Beverly gave a one-shoulder shrug, beaming. “I’m blessed with the looks of a goddess,” she said and kissed Darian’s head. She walked over to the coffee machine and poured herself a cup. “Now what’s this about a hex?”

“Marcus,” I said, speaking fast. “He blacked out last night. Mid-shift. Couldn’t remember how he got there. Blood everywhere. None of it his. He was freezing and confused.”

Beverly’s brows lifted. “That sounds awful.”

“That’s the cleaned-up version,” I muttered.

Dolores leaned back in her chair, frowning like she was doing some kind of internal magical calculus. “A few curses can cause memory fractures, but not many affect shifters. Their regenerative magic usually burns off most hexwork.”

“Unless it’s something old,” said Ruth, flipping a pancake with a little extra flourish. “Or tied to his bloodline.”

I stiffened. “Meaning?”

“Blood curses,” said Dolores, tapping a finger against her mug. “The deep stuff. They latch on through blood magic. Usually ancestral. Sometimes someone places it on a family line and lets it simmer until something triggers it.”

“Well, great,” I said, grabbing a chair at the table and letting myself fall into it. “That sounds exactly like what I need—mystery legacy murder magic.”

Ruth gave me a soft look. “We’re not saying it is that. But we’re not ruling it out.”

“Could it be a binding curse?” asked Beverly, her brows knitted. “Something slow-acting? I’ve seen those. The victim doesn’t even feel it until it starts stealing pieces. First memory, then control, then magic.”

“Could be,” agreed Ruth. “But binding spells leave residue. We’d have to check him. Where is he?”

“He went to work.”

Three heads snapped toward me in perfect witchy synchronization. They stared at me like I’d just sprouted the biggest zit in history on my forehead. The silence was thick. Judgy.

“I tried to stop him,” I said and raised a hand in my defense. “I pulled out the ‘concerned wife’ voice. I even threw in the ‘chain you to the couch’ threat, and not the sexy kind.”

“You should have tried harder,” snapped Dolores, her eyes narrowing like I’d committed some kind of high magical crime. “He’s blacking out, Tessa. Covered in someone else’s blood. He should be under observation.”

“I know that,” I said. “But he was in full chief mode. You know how he is. Once his stubborn switch flips, good luck prying it off.”

“He shouldn’t be out there,” muttered Ruth, pacing now with her hands wringing a dishtowel. “If it is something magical, or worse, contagious, he’s a danger to himself and others.”

Beverly made a face. “He’s a wereape, Ruth. The only thing he’s contagious with is stress and emotional repression.”

Dolores ignored her. “Until we know what’s happening, he should be somewhere we can monitor him. Test him. Evaluate the level of magical interference.”

“He’s not exactly the ‘let’s sit down and let Dolores scan my soul’ type,” I said.

Beverly sat on the edge of the table, her arms crossed. “So what’s the plan? Wait until he shifts and hurts someone else?”

“We don’t know if he did hurt someone.” Yeah, I was lying to myself. I couldn’t help it. That blood, well, it was a huge red flag. Someone was hurt or dead, and my wereape had something to do with it.

“I’m going to bring him back,” I said, already feeling my pulse kick into problem-solving mode. “He just needs to feel like he’s not being ambushed. If I push too hard, he’ll dig in deeper. So we do this my way.”

Dolores arched a brow. “Your way better involve binding circles and maybe a taser.”

I smirked. “If it comes to that.”

“You know,” began Dolores, her eyes darkened. “There’s also Lunaris Splintera.”

“That sounds like a cheap wine.” I laughed. They didn’t.

“It’s a neurological hex,” she replied. “An old one. Usually used in war. It causes momentary rifts between the conscious mind and the primal self. Very rare. Almost extinct. But if someone used a modified version…”

Ruth set a plate of pancakes in front of Darian, who squealed and clapped like she’d just summoned joy itself.

“Pancake!” he said, making Beverly spit out her coffee.

She wiped her mouth. “Did he just say…”

“Pancake,” beamed Ruth. “Such a smart boy.

Darian smiled back, totally understanding Ruth’s comment. Yeah, this cute bundle was trouble.

“There’s another possibility,” said Dolores, pulling my attention back to her. “But you’re not going to like it.”

I didn’t breathe. “Say it. Don’t hold anything back.”

She looked at me. “He could be sick.”

“What kind of sick?” I asked.

“Arden’s Hollow.” Ruth’s voice barely carried.

“Okay,” I said slowly. “That sounds ominous. What is it?”

“It’s... like rabies,” said Beverly gently. “For shifters. Weres. It attacks the mind. Breaks down memory, triggers feral shifts. Blackouts. Confusion. Rage. There’s no cure.”

“No cure,” I repeated, my stomach sinking like a stone.

“But that’s worst-case scenario,” Ruth added quickly. “And it usually starts with exposure. Bites. Contamination from another infected were.”

“Has he been around anyone acting off?” asked Dolores. “Any odd injuries?”

I shook my head. “Not that I’ve seen. I checked him. Nothing.” I checked him in the shower, thoroughly, and there were no cuts, scratches, nothing.

Beverly took a sip of her coffee, her expression thoughtful now. “What if it’s not sickness or a hex? What if it’s... something new? Something crafted just for him?”

I stared at her. “Like a custom curse?”

Dolores grunted. “That would explain why it’s slipping past detection.”

My mouth went dry. “But who would even know how to make something like that?”

The kitchen fell silent. No one had an answer.

Darian, blissfully unaware of all this, shoved a pancake in his mouth and gave a happy “Mmm,” his cheeks round and sticky with syrup.

I ran my hand through my hair, my pulse thudding in my ears.

“We need to test him,” Ruth said. “Full magical diagnostics. Scans. Potions. Everything.”

“I’ll drag him here myself if I have to,” I muttered. “He left for work like this was a normal day. Like he didn’t wake up with blood on his chest.”

Dolores gave me a look. “Typical man. But I’m his boss now, so he has no choice but to listen to what the mayor asks. If I say to come here and be tested, that’s exactly what he’ll do.”

Doubtful, but I didn’t want to burst her mayoress bubble at the moment.

Still, they were right. Marcus needed to be here. With us. Monitored. Supported. Watched like a hawk.

Because until we knew what this was—curse, hex, illness, or worse—he was walking around Hollow Cove like a ticking magical time bomb.

And I wasn’t about to let him explode.

A beep sounded from my phone. I yanked it out of my jeans front pocket.

“It’s Marcus,” I told them, reading his text message.

“What does it say?” asked Dolores, leaning forward. “Does he remember something?”

I shook my head, my insides filling with dread. I glanced up at them and said, “Something’s happened to Ronin.”

3

TESSA

I pulled my aunts’ ancient Volvo station wagon to the curb in front of the blandest building known to man, or witch, in this case.

The sign above the door read: HOLLOW COVE SECURITY AGENCY.

The building was gray brick with square windows and had the general energy of a place where filing cabinets went to die. It gave off serious “municipal office with bad coffee and worse lighting” vibes.

I killed the engine and sat there for a beat, my heart thrashing and fingers tight on the steering wheel.

Marcus’s text had been short. Too short.

Marcus: You need to come to my office. Ronin’s here. He’s not in good shape. Come quick.

No details. No emojis. Not even a dramatic pause.

I threw on a coat, left Darian with my aunts—who immediately launched into “Operation Baby Snuggles and Pancake Seconds”—and took off like my boots were on fire.

Now, I climbed out of the car and shut the door. My half-vampire friend was in trouble. “Not in good shape” was not something I associated with Ronin. He did smirks, sarcasm, and lingering stares that could melt steel.

So whatever had happened, it was bad.

I yanked open the front doors and stepped into the lobby.

For a heartbeat, I expected to see Iris behind the front desk, flipping through Doris, her new DNA album of all things paranormal.

But Iris wasn’t there. Of course she wasn’t.

Instead, a young female were, judging by the faint scent of wild grass and musk, sat behind the desk. She looked up and opened her mouth like she might ask something, but I didn’t even slow down.

I needed to get to Marcus. Was that rude? Possibly. But I didn’t care at this point.

His office sat at the end of the hall, his name and title stamped in bold lettering across the glass: MARCUS DURAND. CHIEF OFFICER.

I knocked twice and pushed the door open.

The first thing that hit me was the smell. Booze. Desperation. And heartbreak.

The second thing that hit me? Ronin.

He was slumped in one of the guest chairs across from Marcus’s desk, his head in his hands and hair a mess like he’d walked backward through a blizzard. Or maybe a bar fight. Probably both.

He looked up at me as I stepped in, and his eyes were red. Red. Like he’d either been crying or had just mainlined a gallon of whiskey. Honestly, both seemed likely.

“Tessa,” he croaked and then hiccupped like his vocal cords were drunk too. “You came.”

“Of course I did,” I said gently, shutting the door and stepping farther into the room.

My eyes went to Marcus, standing behind his desk, his arms crossed and jaw tight. “He was at Hairy Dragon Pub,” answered the chief. “This early. Already half gone. Got into it with a troll over the jukebox and nearly knocked the guy’s tusks off.”

“Did not,” Ronin muttered into his chest. “He was playing country.”

“Ronin,” I said, sinking into the chair beside him, “that’s not illegal.”

“It should be.” He sniffed.

I loved country music, but I didn’t want to start debating music preferences right now.

Marcus gave me a look. The kind that said, This is worse than I thought.

I turned to Ronin. “What happened? Why did you get so drunk?”

He didn’t answer at first. Just dropped his head back, blinking up at the ceiling like it might hold the answers.

Then, his voice rough and cracking, he said, “She’s really gone, Tess. My girl. She’s gone.”

My chest cracked, and I blinked fast.

“I waited. I thought… maybe she needed space. Maybe she was just mad. But she’s not answering my phone calls.” He leaned forward again, his elbows on his knees with his hands digging into his hair. “I can’t feel her anymore,” he said, his voice low and raw. “It’s like she’s gone. Like—like someone switched off a light in my chest.”

I stepped closer, crouching down beside his chair. “Ronin, listen to me,” I said gently. “Cedric took her. We know that. He dragged her off without a word. Maybe… maybe he took her phone. Maybe he’s keeping her from reaching out.”

He let out a sharp, bitter breath. “She’s a Dark witch, Tess. She could burn his brain out through his ears if she wanted to.”

I winced. “True. But maybe she’s being cautious. He’s her brother, and she must not want to hurt him. We hate him, yes, but she loves him. Maybe he said something—lied to her. Or maybe… maybe she’s just spending time with her family.” Yeah, that was really lame. Iris would have called to let us know if that were true.

He scoffed and wiped at his eyes with the sleeve of his coat, his hand shaking. “Or maybe she’s happier where she is.”

“Don’t say that.”

“I mean it,” he snapped, lifting his head. “Think about it. Her family hates me. It’s been really hard on her these past few months. Maybe… maybe she just gave up on us. It’s easier on her. That way she keeps her family.”

I reached out and touched his arm, grounding him. “She loves you. Whatever this is—whatever’s keeping her away—it’s not about not loving you.”

He stared at me, his eyes glossy. “Then why the hell hasn’t she called? Why hasn’t she tried to get a message out? She would’ve found a way. You know she would’ve.”

“I know,” I whispered. “I know.” Because that’s what scared me too.

There was no way Iris would have let both of us worry like this, not unless something was seriously wrong. And if Cedric had taken her somewhere, hidden her away… what else had he done?

Behind me, Marcus stayed silent. He leaned against the far wall of the office, his arms crossed over his chest, eyes shadowed and distant.

Normally, he’d say something. A quiet reassurance. A plan. Even a grumble about not storming Clairmont property without backup.

But now? He just watched. And I could see it. The tightness in his shoulders, the way his gaze kept flicking to the floor like the blood from last night might still be there. He was still rattled, still in his head, still fighting whatever the hell had taken control of him in the woods.

One crisis at a time, Tessa.

Ronin’s eyes were fixed on the floor, and when he spoke again, his voice low, hoarse, soaked in whiskey and heartbreak. “I was gonna marry her, you know.”

My lips parted. “I figured as much.” The way he adored her, it really didn’t surprise me.

He let out a hollow, wet laugh. “I had the ring. Still do. Been carrying it around like an idiot. Waiting for the right moment. A perfect night. Something that would make her forget the world hated us being together.”

My eyes burned. The rawness in his voice hit me like a punch to the chest.

“I thought maybe, after everything, after Hollow Cove finally stopped looking at us sideways, maybe we could just… have a life.” His hand curled into a fist against his knee. “But now she’s gone. And I don’t even know if she ever meant it. If she ever really—”

“Stop,” I whispered, sliding off the desk and kneeling beside him again. “She meant it. Every bit of it.”

“You don’t know that.”

“I do.” My voice cracked, and I swallowed it down. Because the truth was, he was right. I didn’t know for sure. Not anymore.

Cedric had whisked Iris away without warning, without explanation. Just gone. And she hadn’t called. Not once. Not me. Not Ronin. It wasn’t like her. Not even a little. Which meant something was very, very wrong.

Ronin’s pain flooded the room like a slow wave, seeping into every crack.

My eyes stung. A tear slipped down before I could catch it. I wiped it away fast, hoping neither of them noticed. I needed to be strong. For Ronin. For Marcus. For Darian. For Iris, wherever the hell she was.

This was a nightmare. I was barely keeping it together.

Ronin gave another broken laugh. “You crying for me now, Tess?”

“Shut up,” I murmured, half-smiling and blinking fast.

He leaned back, exhaling like the world had been sitting on his chest. “I just want her back.”

“Me too,” I said. “And we’re going to get her.”

Behind us, Marcus finally moved, stepping forward to rest a heavy hand on Ronin’s shoulder.

“You’ll get her back,” he said, quiet but firm. “I promise.”

Ronin didn’t answer, but he didn’t shake the hand off, either.

I stood slowly, brushing my hands on my coat like that would shake off the pain clinging to me.

One broken half-vampire. One missing witch.

And me, standing in the middle of it all, pretending I knew what the hell I was doing.

I was going to need a stronger coffee.

Or a flamethrower.

Ronin let out a noise somewhere between a laugh and a sob, shaking his head. “I’m sitting here like a drunk idiot, and she’s probably living her best life in a cozy brownstone, sipping cursed wine with Cedric and pretending I never existed.”

I exhaled on the edge of Marcus’s desk, facing him. “You’re not a drunk idiot,” I said. “Okay, maybe you are. But you’re in love. And something is wrong. I feel it. Cedric’s not the kind of guy who offers warm cocoa and bedtime stories. He took her for a reason. And we’re going to find out what that reason is.”

Ronin didn’t respond right away. He just dropped his head again, his shoulders hunched like he was bracing the weight of the world. Or at least the weight of a missing witch he’d give anything to hold again.

I glanced back at Marcus. Still silent. Still pale. Still haunted.

I knew he wasn’t just thinking about Ronin. He was thinking about himself. About what he couldn’t remember. About what he might’ve done.

I had no idea how I was going to find Iris. But I sure as hell was going to try.

Behind me, Marcus cleared his throat. It was quiet, almost hesitant. Not like him. “I’ll reach out to Zeke,” he said.

Both Ronin and I turned toward him.

Marcus rubbed the back of his neck, his gaze still slightly distant, like part of him was stuck in the woods with blood on his hands. “He’s got ears all over New York. If Iris is in the city, or anywhere near it, he’ll know. He can send a few of his pack to check Cedric’s place. Maybe even scope out her parents’ house.”

My eyebrows lifted. “He’ll do that for us? For Iris?” It was no secret that Zeke and I shared no love. But I’d take his help to find Iris if he offered.

Marcus gave a small nod. “He will if it comes from me. If Cedric took her, and she didn’t come back to Hollow Cove, it’s possible he took her somewhere familiar. Somewhere her magic would stabilize. The Clairmonts’ estate would be the safest place for that.”

“Assuming this is about her,” I muttered, “and not something darker.”

“If she’s there,” Marcus said, “Zeke’s guys will find out.”

Ronin straightened slightly, his expression still hollow but more focused now. “You’d do that for me?”

Marcus nodded. “Of course. Iris is part of my pack. She’s a resident here in Hollow Cove. So it makes it my business.”

I eyed my wereape. He was so deliciously hot right now. It was too bad Ronin was here. Otherwise, I might have jumped the chief in his office.

After a long pause, Ronin said quietly, “Thanks, man.”

They weren’t exactly hug-it-out types, but in that moment, the air shifted a little—less pain, more purpose.

“I’ll call him now,” Marcus added, pulling out his phone. “Tell him it’s urgent but discreet. No direct contact. Just eyes.”

Ronin leaned forward, his elbows on his knees again, but this time he looked more like a soldier bracing for orders, not a man drowning in grief. “They’ll need to be careful. Her family’s powerful. They’ll sense anything magical coming too close.”

“I know,” Marcus said, “but Zeke’s pack knows how to move under the radar.”

I nodded. “Especially if they take the ley line routes and cloak their scent.”

Marcus paused, giving me a thoughtful look. “Exactly.”

I tried not to smile, but it was the first time all morning he looked fully engaged—like the gears were finally turning again, despite everything.

“We’re really doing this,” Ronin said, his eyes flicking between the two of us.

“Yeah,” I said. “We’re not letting Cedric get away with this. Whatever game he’s playing, we’re done sitting on the sidelines.”

Ronin scrubbed a hand over his face and exhaled. “If she’s with them… and they’re keeping her from me, I don’t care who her family is. I’ll go through every last Clairmont to get her back.”

I heard fire in his voice now. Controlled but burning hot.

And I couldn’t blame him. I’d do the same for Marcus. I had done the same for Marcus.

And Iris? She wasn’t just a friend. She was family.

Marcus’s phone buzzed.

He looked down at the screen. “Zeke’s responding. He says he’ll call in fifteen.”

I took a shaky breath and nodded. It was a start.

There was a sudden knock at the door.

Three sharp raps. Too crisp to be casual.

“Come in,” said Marcus, already straightening behind his desk, his voice low and clipped.

The door opened and in walked Lori. She was tall, all muscle and presence, dressed in standard Hollow Cove Security black with a badge clipped to her hip and a hard glint in her icy blue eyes that said this wasn’t a social call. Her long blonde hair was pulled into a severe braid down her back, and she had that stiff-backed, squared-shoulder stance that only appeared when something bad had just gone down.

“Sorry, boss,” she said, nodding to Marcus first and then glancing at Ronin and me like she wasn’t sure if we were cleared for whatever she was about to say. “But something’s happened.”

“What?” asked Marcus.

Lori hesitated—just a flicker. Her eyes shifted to Ronin and then to me.

“Just say it, Lori,” Marcus ordered, his tone now all business. “What is it?”

She clasped her hands in front of her, her fingers laced tightly. “We found a body. In the back alley behind Brooms & Brew.”

Ronin froze mid-breath. “Is it Iris?” asked the half-vampire, his voice raw with emotion.

Lori shook her head quickly. “No. A shifter, I think,” she continued. “Male. Early twenties. Torn apart.”

I felt the color drain from my face. “Torn apart?” Oh, no.

She nodded grimly. “There’s blood everywhere. No witnesses. No security footage. We only found it because the cook went out to put the garbage in the bin.”

“Do you know who it is?” Marcus asked, his voice calm, but I could detect the alarm in it.

“Not yet. He had no ID,” she replied. “But it’s… bad. Ripped open. Like something feral got loose.”

Something feral.

My gaze darted to Marcus. His shoulders had gone rigid.

Now there was a body. Torn apart.

Was Marcus responsible for this? I didn’t know, but something was wrong. Deeply, gut-twistingly wrong.

And I was terrified that whatever it was, Marcus was at the center of it.

4

TESSA

I stood in the alley behind Brooms & Brew as the wind sliced through the air, whipping my hair across my face. I pulled my coat tighter around me, trying to find a bit of warmth, but that was impossible with the scene in front of me.

The body was a mess but not in the poetic “tragic death” kind of way. No, this was gruesome—limbs twisted at unnatural angles, deep gashes torn across the chest and down the back. One arm was nearly severed. There were marks, long, jagged, and something else, something worse. The kind of tearing that spoke of teeth. Too many teeth.

Blood was everywhere. Frozen in thick puddles and splattered across the brick walls like something out of a horror show. The metallic tang lingered in the air, heavy and cold.

Lori had been right. Young male. Early twenties. His face, what was left of it, still held a hint of youth, now frozen in horror. And even with everything twisted and broken, I could still feel it—the animal inside him. The residual magic clinging to his body confirmed it. Shifter. Definitely. Maybe even a werewolf.

The magical imprint around him was still fresh, still buzzing faintly beneath the layers of blood and trauma. It made bile rise in the back of my throat.

I’d come straight here after dropping Ronin off at his place with a gallon of water, a blanket, and strict instructions not to start drinking again until at least lunch. He’d nodded in that “I’m not listening but I respect you too much to say it” kind of way.

Now, I was standing in a crime scene, adrenaline surging through me, trying not to throw up or fall apart.

Marcus was already here when I arrived, standing a few feet away with his arms crossed and face hard and unreadable. Lori stood beside him, talking low, quiet. Strategizing.

I didn’t know the other two deputies. Both male, both square-jawed and suspicious, they were eyeing me like I had ripped this poor guy apart. They gave me a wide berth, which was both insulting and slightly validating.

I took a cautious step closer to the body and lowered myself beside it, sending out my witchy vibes, the ones that tingled in my chest and behind my eyes when magic had been spilled, intentionally or not.

What I felt made my skin crawl.

Familiarity lay in the magic lingering here—not exact but close. The way it echoed, primal and angry, something deep and instinctual. Something… Marcus-shaped.

My breath caught. No. Nope. I refused to believe it. My husband hadn’t done this. He couldn’t have. He wasn’t a murderer.

Killer? Okay, technically… yes. But only in the “you came at me first and I happened to be stronger, faster, and slightly more ragey” kind of way. Self-defense. Supernatural rules. Mutual combat with teeth and claws. It was practically etiquette at this point. But this? This wasn’t that.

And if he had done this… I wasn’t sure who I was more afraid for—him or everyone else.

But the scent of violence that still clung to him this morning… the blankness in his eyes when he tried to remember…

I swallowed hard and shut my eyes for a moment, trying to sort through the mess of impressions. If he had done this, some part of his magic, his essence, would’ve woven into the kill. But the energy here was slippery. Masked. Or fractured. It just wasn’t enough.

I stood slowly, brushing my hands on my jeans, more for grounding than anything.

Lori stepped up beside me, her arms crossed over her chest and her face grim beneath the pale glow of the morning light.

“Brutal, isn’t it?” she said.

“Yeah,” I agreed, doing my best not to look at Marcus because I had a feeling my face would betray everything I was trying to shove down right now. “He was a shifter. Young.”

“We’ll know who he is soon enough,” Lori said, her voice low but certain. “But this—” She motioned to the bloodied scene with a grim set to her jaw. “This wasn’t a territorial fight. It’s too savage. Too chaotic. No pattern. No warning marks. There’s no show of dominance or strength here…” She paused, frowning at the body like this made no sense. “This was madness. Like whoever did it snapped and didn’t care who got in the way.”

Like they’d lost control. Or lost their mind. Or worse, never had one to begin with.

I swallowed hard, still refusing to let my eyes drift toward Marcus because part of me was terrified of what I might see on his face.

Recognition. Guilt. Or worse… nothing at all.

I glanced at her. “You think this was another shifter?”

Her mouth pressed into a flat line. “I think this was a feral attack. Pure instinct. No hesitation. No signs of a struggle. Whoever did this didn’t stop to think or second-guess. They just…” She paused. “Ripped.”

My insides turned again.

Lori tilted her head toward the wall behind us, where blood had splattered high, almost unnaturally so. “And this? This wasn’t a scuffle. This wasn’t some brawl gone wrong. This was someone snapping. Full-on shift. Full-on kill.”

I tried to keep my voice steady. “Maybe it was an accident. A sick shifter. Someone with Arden’s Hollow or something similar. Out of control. Confused.” I had no idea if she knew of that illness, but I was going with it. At that, I felt Marcus’s eyes snap to me, but I kept my focus on the tall werebear.

Lori gave a sharp laugh. “This?” She gestured to the scene. “This wasn’t confusion, Tessa. This wasn’t panic. This was deliberate. They tore him apart, piece by piece. Someone wanted him dead.”

I looked back down at the body. My chest was tight, breath shallow. Because there were only two real possibilities now, and both of them were horrifying.

Either Marcus had done this and didn’t remember… Or someone else had, and that someone was still out there. Neither of those options made me feel any better.

I stepped back, my mind already spinning, trying to figure out where to go from here.

Lori didn’t move. Her eyes stayed on the body, but I could feel her attention shift toward me. Like she was debating something.

Then she asked, “Can you help us ID him?”

I turned to her slowly.

“There were no cameras,” she continued. “No witnesses. No one saw anything. We ran the standard magical trace, but it’s a mess—too much blood, too many conflicting energies. We could really use your help, Tessa. Anything you can pick up with your… magic.”

I hesitated. I knew what she meant. Witch senses. Magical residue. The ghost of power that lingers when something awful happens. Sometimes it whispered things if you knew how to listen.

I glanced at Marcus. He was staring at the body. Still. Silent. His face blank but his eyes distant. Far too distant for someone standing at the edge of a crime scene. He looked like he was seeing something the rest of us couldn’t. Or trying not to see it at all.

Something was still wrong with him. That much was clear.

I swallowed and turned back to Lori. “My magic doesn’t exactly work that way,” I said carefully. “I’m not a locator witch or a psychic medium or whatever title the council is assigning these days.”

Lori’s brows pinched, but she didn’t interrupt.

“But…” I added, softer now, “sometimes there are… impressions. Wisps of magical aura. Emotional residue. I might be able to sense something.” It was a longshot, but I was willing to try anything to clear Marcus from this.

Lori nodded, her expression hard but grateful. “That’s more than we’ve got.”

Then, for just a split second, she looked at Marcus. It wasn’t long. Just a flick of her eyes, quick and tight with worry. She didn’t say anything.

But she didn’t have to. She knew something was off. Maybe not the full story but enough to feel the edges of it and make her deputy instincts itch.

She looked back at me. “Let us know if you find anything.”

And then she stepped away, giving orders to the others, her boots crunching over frozen gravel and her voice calm but clipped.

I stood there, my hands clamped at my sides and heart pounding as I stared down at the blood-soaked mess of what used to be a person.

I was going to have to reach for whatever pieces of magic were left in this place and pray they didn’t tell me the one thing I couldn’t bear to hear.

That Marcus had done it. And he just didn’t remember.

Resolute, I knelt beside the body again, ignoring the ice soaking into my jeans and the smell of blood that clung to the air like smoke. I placed one hand close to the young man’s shoulder—but not touching—and reached out with my magical mojo.

Not much came through. Just faint vibrations, like trying to hear music underwater.

But there it was again. That flicker. That pulse.

It wasn’t clear enough to identify. Not like a fingerprint or a calling card. Just a whisper of energy that curled through the space like smoke.

And it felt… familiar.

The kind of familiar that made my stomach clench and my breath hitch. It wasn’t identical. Wasn’t definitive. But it was close enough.

Too close.

Pressure built in my chest, hot and sickening, and for a second I thought I might actually throw up right there next to the corpse. Not very professional. But I never said I was.

Behind me, boots crunched over snow and gravel. I looked up as Marcus approached, his expression unreadable and his face taut with a stillness that unnerved me more than rage ever could.

He crouched beside the body, one hand bracing on his thigh. He didn’t say anything.

Then—without warning—he leaned down and sniffed.

Because of course he did. Weres.

His nose wrinkled, and something shifted in his expression, a trace of confusion. Maybe recognition. His gaze lingered on the body’s mangled torso, the torn flesh, the blood-soaked jacket. Then he looked at the young man’s face, what was left of it, and something flashed behind his eyes.

A twitch. A shadow. Like a memory struggling to break through the surface.

He stood abruptly. “Lori,” he barked, his voice tight, “wait for the coroner. Make sure the body’s taken straight to the morgue. I want a full magical work-up—DNA, aura residue, everything.”

Lori, standing nearby with a notebook in hand, gave a short nod. “Yes, Chief.”

And then Marcus turned and walked off. No explanation. No goodbye. Just… gone.

“Marcus?” I called.

He didn’t stop.

“Marcus!” I yelled louder, stepping after him.

But he didn’t turn around. Didn’t speak. Didn’t even flinch.

He just kept walking, past the deputies, past the alley, out toward the street, his shoulders stiff and fists clenched like he was holding back something that might tear him open.

And I stood there, frozen in place, with blood at my feet and fear in my chest, wondering which was worse:

That he remembered what happened last night…

Or that he remembered doing this.

5

MARCUS

I didn’t remember leaving the alley. But my boots hit pavement now, hard and fast, the crunch of frost beneath them with the bite of winter sharp in my lungs. But all I could taste was blood. All I could smell was violence. And it was mine.

It clung to me. Embedded in my skin, buried deep in the fibers of my shirt. Like whatever had happened, whatever I’d done, was too soaked into my bones to ever scrub clean.

And behind me, Tessa’s voice. Calling my name.

I didn’t stop. I couldn’t.

Because if I turned around… if I looked into those eyes again and saw what I thought I saw, I wouldn’t survive it.

That moment in the alley, when she stepped beside the body. The way her magic brushed the air, searching. The moment she looked up at me, just a flick of her eyes—

I saw it.

Confusion. Pain. And something worse. Not fear of me… not yet.

But fear for me.

Like she knew the magic wrapped around that corpse was too close to mine. Not the same. But close enough. Like something had worn my skin and left its signature behind.

And maybe it had. Maybe it was me.

The alley gave way to the back road and then to forest. The cold hit harder here. Trees closed in around me like sentries, the wind slicing through the gaps. My breath fogged in front of me, but I didn’t slow.

Because I was remembering.

Bits and pieces. Not enough to form a whole but enough to gut me. Blood. Teeth. A sound, wet and final, and the weight of something crumpling to the ground.

I pushed harder, my boots digging into frozen earth as I shoved my way deeper into the woods. Low branches clawed at my coat, but I didn’t care. I wanted them to tear me open. Maybe I deserved it.

For a moment, back there in the alley, I saw the body and knew. Not just as the chief but as the predator.

My body had been there. I had been there. And not as the man Tessa loved.

As something else. Something monstrous.

I didn’t remember the boy’s face, but I remembered the smell of fear. The taste of blood. The sound of tearing. My hands curled, fingers twitching at the memory, like they still wanted to finish the job.

“Fuck,” I snarled, driving my fist into a tree trunk.

The bark split. Wood groaned. A sharp jolt rattled up my arm.

I didn’t care. Didn’t bleed. Didn’t bruise. And that pissed me off more.

Something inside me was wrong. Not just off—wrong. Like my skin didn’t fit anymore. Like I was walking around in a body that wasn’t entirely mine. My jaw locked, my muscles coiling tightly. The air burned when I breathed it in. Every sound was too sharp, every scent too strong.

Something in me was cracking.

I pressed my back against the trunk as I dragged a hand down my face. Cold sweat slicked my brow. My chest heaved.

Then it hit. Not a memory. A flash.

Blood. Flesh. A scream, high and panicked. And me—no, something like me—lunging. Tearing.

I jerked forward, my breath catching. No. That couldn’t have been me. Couldn’t have.

But the sound of it lingered in my head. That wet sound. That tearing.

My fingers dug into the bark behind me, anchoring me to the now.

It wasn’t me. It wasn’t me.

But it felt too real. Too familiar. Like the rage had opened a door and something stepped through.

I wasn’t losing control. I’d already lost it.

I pushed off the tree, my boots crunching over frost-bitten leaves. I didn’t stop. I couldn’t.

Because something inside me was hunting. Still hungry. Still pacing the edges of my control, waiting for the next crack to tear through. I didn’t know how long I could hold the line.

If I ran into anyone out here? If I ran into Tessa?

I balled my fists. The way she looked at me in that alley… trying to stay strong, trying to keep faith. But I saw the question in her eyes.

Did I do it? Did she still trust me?

And that terrified me more than anything else.

I barreled through the brush, my boots crunching frozen ground beneath me. The cold didn’t matter. Pain didn’t matter. Only forward.

I couldn’t afford to stop. Not with the thing inside me pulling harder every minute. Not with whatever this was threatening to take me down from the inside out.

And for the first time since it started, I admitted it.

I couldn’t do this on my own.

I needed help.

Not just any help—hers. The witches. The family I married into. The bloodline strong enough to anchor my storm if anyone could.

So I turned toward Davenport House. Toward the people who could either save me or put me down.

Because if I waited too long, if I tried to white-knuckle my way through this—

They wouldn’t have a choice.

And no one would be safe.

Not even me.

6

TESSA

First, I did what any concerned, loving wife would do in a moment of emotional and supernatural crisis. I ran after my husband.

And when I say “ran,” I mean I intended to run. There was a lot of forward movement, some enthusiastic arm swinging, and a noise that might’ve been war-cry-adjacent. But the truth is, we all know I’m not a runner. Or a jogger. I’m more of a fast-walker-in-comfy-shoes kind of girl. The kind of girl who runs only when being chased. Preferably by zombies.

Still, I gave it my best effort. For about half a block.

Then I remembered something crucial. I had the Volvo.

Crap. I groaned, turned on my heel, and awkward speed walked back.

The steering wheel was like gripping an ice sculpture, so I spent a solid thirty seconds shoving my gloves on while doing a little dance in the driver’s seat and whisper-cursing the weather. If the seats had been leather, I’d have gone full buttsicle—one crack away from needing magical defrosting.

By the time I got the engine going, adjusted the world’s squeakiest wipers, and rolled off Shifter Lane, Marcus was gone. Gone-gone.

“Shit,” I muttered. “This is not good.”

Because Marcus didn’t just walk away. He’d disappeared, which was never a fun sentence to say about your husband, especially when said husband may or may not have recently blacked out and woken up mid-murder-mystery.

I decided to drive around town, which sounds productive in theory until you realize Hollow Cove is not exactly a sprawling metropolis. It’s more like a “blink and you’ve passed it” kind of place—only instead of gas stations and chain stores, we’ve got haunted antique shops and a troll-run taco stand.

I drove by the grocery store, which still had the sign Gilbert’s Grocer & Gifts because Ronin hadn’t been himself since Iris had disappeared. So far, the grocery store was open, but I had no idea if anyone had taken over.

No Marcus.

After ten minutes of white-knuckle gloved driving and scanning every sidewalk like a paranoid supernatural GPS, I gave up—not emotionally, just logistically. If Marcus didn’t want to be found, he wouldn’t be.

I sighed, made a slow U-turn, and turned back toward home. If I couldn’t find Marcus… I needed to regroup. I needed to speak to my aunts.

And maybe stress-eat something chocolate-covered while planning my next move. Yeah, sounded like a plan because my husband was spiraling, my friend was missing, and a mangled body lay in the alley.

A moment later I pulled up Davenport House’s driveway, killed the engine, climbed up the front porch, and went inside.

“I’m back,” I called out, kicking off my boots and shutting the door behind me with more force than intended. “I have to tell you something. Something big.”

I was halfway to the kitchen, rehearsing how to say, “There’s a murdered shifter, and I might be married to the guy who did it but also maybe not?” when I stepped through the doorway and stopped cold.

Marcus was sitting at the kitchen table with Darian on his lap, shoving what looked like pieces of banana muffin into his mouth.

Marcus looked pale, tired, and very much like a man who hadn’t slept.

“Marcus… I looked all over for you,” I said, blinking.

Dolores, seated at the table, took a lazy sip of her coffee and looked over her glasses at me. “He’s already told us everything.”

“About what?” I wasn’t sure how much Marcus wanted me to reveal, so I waited for Dolores to tell me.

“Same as you, that he blacked out. That he found himself in the woods. That there was blood. And that they found a body this morning behind Brooms & Brew.” She sipped again.

“He got here about ten minutes ago,” said Ruth, stirring one of her cauldrons on the stove.

Right. Looked like he ran here.

Marcus finally looked up. His eyes were still stormy, still gray and distant. “I’m sorry,” he said softly. “I shouldn’t have run off like that.”

“Damn right you shouldn’t have.” I marched fully into the kitchen now, peeling off my gloves, my coat, and every ounce of patience I had left. “You ran off. I drove all over Hollow Cove looking for you. I was worried.” Hell, I was more than just worried. I was afraid.

Darian waved at me with one sticky hand and shoved another piece of muffin into his mouth.

Marcus didn’t answer at first. He just looked at me, really looked at me. Then he said it, “I killed him.”

The kitchen went silent.

Even Darian stopped chewing.

I blinked. “What?”

Marcus’s voice was low, raw. “That shifter. The one in the alley. It was me.”

I stared at him, heat flooding my cheeks. “How can you say that? You said you don’t remember. You told me you blacked out.”

“I did,” he said. “I don’t remember everything… just bits and pieces… but I know. My scent was all over the body. Strong. Fresh. I could smell it the second I got close.” He paused. “Lori probably picked up on it too, but she didn’t say anything.”

That explained the weird look I’d noticed. If she thought Marcus killed that shifter, this was all going to go to hell.

Dolores, clutched her mug. “We figured this might be the case.”

“You figured?” I turned to her.

Beverly shifted in her seat at the table. “We didn’t know for sure. But… Marcus said he’d blacked out. And then someone ends up shredded like a cheap carpet?” She shrugged. “The math wasn’t hard.”

I took a shaky breath and turned back to Marcus. “So what? You’re just accepting it?”

He didn’t answer. He didn’t have to. The pain in his eyes told me everything.

“Marcus?” I tried again.

The wereape looked at me. “I can’t explain it. I know it was me.”

I shook my head. “No. I can’t accept that. This is not you. You didn’t do this.”

“Enough,” snapped Dolores. “We need facts, not guilt. If this was an attack Marcus had no control over, then it wasn’t him—not really. It was whatever’s inside him. And that, my dear, we can fight.”

“Yes.” Ruth nodded, her face all business now. “The test is almost ready. Another few seconds.”

“You’ve had a cauldron bubbling this entire time?” I asked.

“Yes,” she said brightly, like she was talking about baking bread. “I started this morning after you left. When you told us about Marcus’s blackout. I brewed a detection elixir, designed to identify magical corruption, sickness, possession, that sort of thing. The usual family recipe.”

I tried to smile, but my facial muscles seemed paralyzed.

Ruth’s face was tight with focus as she adjusted the shimmering cauldron in front of Marcus on the table. The potion inside still swirled like storm clouds caught in a bottle, threads of color shifting between sickly green and deep crimson.

“And we’re also testing for Lunaris Splintera,” added Dolores, stepping forward with her usual no-nonsense tone. “Just to rule it out.”

Marcus looked up. “That’s the war hex. Right? Fractures the mind. Separates instinct from logic.”

Dolores gave a slight nod. “Used on shifters to turn them into weapons during the Feral Wars. Banned centuries ago, but that doesn’t mean it’s gone.”

Marcus’s jaw went rigid. “Great.”

“And Arden’s Hollow,” said Dolores.

“I once dated a werewolf who had it,” Beverly chimed in, completely unfazed while casually slicing a banana muffin like she wasn’t about to drop a bomb.

“You did?” Funny how that didn’t surprise me.

“Oh, honey, yes,” she said, her eyes going dreamy. “He was tall, brooding, had the shoulders of a linebacker and the growl of a Harley Davidson. We met during a full moon tango night in New Orleans.”

Ruth muttered, “Of course you did.”

Beverly ignored her. “The sex was unreal. Wild. Animalistic. There were bite marks in the headboard. I wasn’t sure if I was going to survive or be worshipped like a jungle goddess.”

I opened my mouth. Closed it. Tried again. “He had Arden’s Hollow?”

“Oh yes,” she said, fanning herself with a napkin. “Didn’t know it at the time. I just thought the mood swings and violent snarling were part of his charm.”

“Yikes,” I said.

Beverly winked. “Worth it.”

Dolores rolled her eyes and muttered something about magical STDs.

And I quietly promised myself never to ask Beverly follow-up questions again.

Marcus shifted uncomfortably. “I’ve seen shifters and weres infected with it. It’s slow, brutal, and contagious.” His voice was low, steady. “I don’t think this is that… but if we’re testing for everything, it’s worth testing for that too.”

Dolores studied him for a beat and then gave a firm nod. “Good. We’re not skipping anything. I want facts, not guesses.”

Ruth leaned in, gently stirring the potion again with a pink spatula. The liquid shimmered, shifting colors like it couldn’t decide which disaster it wanted to announce first.

“Once this is ready,” continued Dolores, “we’ll know exactly what we’re dealing with.”

“It’s ready!” Ruth tapped the side of her cauldron with her spatula.

Marcus stood, lifting Darian gently and placing him in Beverly’s arms. “Do it.”

I stared at him. “Marcus—”

“I need to know,” he said, his voice firm. “If I’m sick. If something’s in me. If I’m… not safe to be around you. Or Darian… I need to know.”

I couldn’t argue with that.

The potion inside the cauldron shimmered like oil over water, swirling with threads of green, gold, and deep, blood red.

“You need to submerge your hand,” said Ruth, beaming. “Or your foot. Or your face,” she added cheerfully. “Just don’t open your eyes if you go with face. Trust me.”

Yup, Ruth was eccentric.

“Understood,” Marcus said, completely unfazed because, well, he’s married to me.

He dipped his hand into the cauldron.

The potion hissed. Actually hissed. Magic thickened in the air, prickling over my skin like static before a thunderclap.

And then—flash.

Marcus jerked back, gasping. He looked down at his hand, where something was burning into his skin.

I lunged toward him. A symbol flared to life, glowing red-hot against his skin like it had been branded into him. It was circular, ancient-looking. Interwoven with sharp edges and sigils I didn’t recognize.

But Ruth did. Her face went white. “That’s not just any curse,” she whispered. “It’s blood-bound magic. Deep. Old. Fused to his DNA.”

Dolores stepped forward. “It’s shifter-specific. This wasn’t just thrown on him. This was engineered for him.”

Marcus was panting, gripping the edge of the table. “What is it?”

Ruth’s voice shook. “It’s the Mark of Fenrir.”

The room went still.

I glanced over at my aunts. And when none of them spoke, I pressed, “And what is it? Is it like Arden’s Hollow?”

“No,” said Dolores. “It’s much, much worse.”

Super. I rubbed my temples. “Someone please tell me what it is before I have a meltdown.”

“I don’t advise it,” said Beverly, giving Darian another muffin. “Makes your face wrinkle. We don’t want that.”

I felt my temper rise. “What the hell is a Fenrir?”

“The Order of Fenrir,” continued Ruth, her eyes locked on the brand. “They’re a fanatical shifter sect. And this… this is their mark. Marcus, someone cursed you.”

I looked between my husband and my aunts. “I don’t understand. Why would they do this? I’ve never even heard of them.”

Dolores’s face creased in thought. “They believe in preserving shifter purity and enforcing old laws, secretly influencing packs across the country as well as globally. I remember reading that they created a magical “insurance policy” for high-ranking shifters who deviated from the old ways. Specifically, those who mated outside their kind, left the pack system, or allied too closely with other paranormals. These curses were embedded with ancestral blood magic and hidden until the right conditions triggered them. Marcus became a prime target when he—”

“Mated with Tessa,” said the chief. “When I married outside my race.”

“Are you serious?” My face flamed with my anger, and only when I noticed Darian staring at me with wide, confused eyes did I remember that he was with us and to tone this down.

Marcus turned to Dolores. “Then how did it happen? How did I get cursed? I don’t remember anything.”

“You wouldn’t,” said Dolores quietly, her gaze steady. “The order doesn’t strike with swords. They use subtlety. Precision. You could’ve been cursed through the smallest contact, brushing against someone in a crowd, a handshake, helping a stranger off the curb. They count on you not noticing.” She paused. “They count on good people doing good things.”

I shook my head. I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. “Then let’s get rid of it. Now.”

My aunts all shared a look. Finally Dolores was the one to speak. “We can’t. I mean… I’m not sure we can.”

“That’s not good enough.” I glared at my aunts. “You can break this curse. I know you can. Please. This is Marcus. You can’t let this curse consume him. We have to do something.”

“We will,” said Dolores, though her voice didn’t sound all that convincing. Like she was trying to wrap hope in duct tape and shove it through a keyhole.

“We just need more time,” added Ruth, though her voice lacked conviction, same as her taller sister.

Dolores exhaled, her shoulders tight. “For now, we need a plan. The curse is only going to get worse.”

Marcus looked up at me then, his eyes wild, haunted, like the weight of all of this was crushing him from the inside out.

I wanted to reach for him. To pull him close and tell him it was going to be okay, even if I didn’t fully believe it. But instead, all I could do was stare at the cursed symbol still glowing on his skin.

Whoever did this, they didn’t just want to punish Marcus. They wanted to destroy him.

“I have to turn myself in,” Marcus said suddenly, his voice hoarse.

“No,” I snapped, sharper than I meant to. “You don’t. We don’t have all the facts yet.”

Like hell was I going to let my husband turn himself over to some magical prison system that would eat him alive—and ask for seconds.

Marcus rubbed the spot on his hand where the cursed mark was slowly fading, like he was trying to wipe it from existence. His expression was dark. Determined. “Then I’ll chain myself up.”

“I’m sorry—what?”

“It’s the only way,” he said, his eyes not leaving mine. “I can’t risk blacking out again. I won’t let another person die because of me. Until we break this thing, that’s the best option.”

I stared at my husband, waiting for the words he just said to register in my brain because, well, because they were just insane. He wanted to chain himself up? No. This was just crazy. Just crazy.

“He’s right,” said Dolores quietly. “He could hurt you, Tessa. Or Darian. It’s not safe.”

Not safe. My husband. Not safe. That was a sentence I never thought I’d hear. And one I wasn’t ready to believe—not now. Not ever.

Marcus stood, the heavy silence in the kitchen following him like a second shadow. He gave Darian one last look before turning and walking out the back door without another word.

I didn’t stop him because part of me knew he needed space. And a plan. And iron chains, apparently.

But just because I didn’t stop him didn’t mean I was giving up.

I wasn’t.

This order wanted to curse him? Break him? Turn him into a monster?

They picked the wrong witch’s husband.

Because I was going to break that damn curse.

Even if I had to burn every last bastard in the Order of Fenrir to ash.

Watch me.

7

TESSA

I spent the rest of the afternoon doing what any responsible wife would do when her husband was potentially cursed by a fanatical shifter cult. I spiraled.

And I did it in the most productive way possible.

I scoured the Merlin Database like my life depended on it. Because, well, it kind of did. But instead of life-saving answers, all I got was magical déjà vu. Every article, every scrap of data, all of it just reiterated what Dolores had already told me.

The Order of Fenrir. Secret. Ruthless. Founded by a bunch of crusty old pack elders with superiority complexes the size of Mount Doom.

Their mission? Preserve shifter “purity.” Their solution? Enforce the old laws by any means necessary. And for high-ranking shifters who dared to deviate from the sacred were playbook? They had a backup plan. A magical insurance policy. A curse.

For guys like Marcus. Guys who had the audacity to fall in love with someone like me—a witch.

Apparently, mating outside your kind was still a cardinal sin in some circles. And by “some circles,” I meant psychotic were-cults who thought interspecies love was more dangerous than opening a cursed grimoire while drunk.

You’d think by now (modern era, thank you very much) that this kind of archaic, outdated nonsense would’ve been wiped off the magical map.

But no. Nope. Some people just refused to evolve.

I slammed the laptop shut before I threw it across the room. It wasn’t the computer’s fault that ancient, bigoted weres couldn’t let go of the past.

My eyes drifted to the couch, where I’d tucked Darian in under his favorite blanket, one Ruth had knitted that was somehow both warm and probably hexed to ward off colds. His little body was sprawled out, limbs too long for his tiny crib now, his mouth slightly open as he drooled on the edge of a cushion. I seriously needed to get him a new bed. Add that to the ever-growing list: break ancient, blood-bound curse, find Iris before Ronin drowns in whiskey and heartbreak, stop fanatical weres from turning my husband into a literal monster, and buy toddler bed for my freakishly fast-growing magical child.

Easy. No pressure.

And speaking of Iris…

My stomach did a double flip at the thought of her still missing. It had been too long without a word. Not a whisper. Not a single magically encoded “I’m fine. Don’t freak out” spell. That wasn’t Iris.

And Ronin was barely holding on. I could still hear the pain in his voice. “She’s gone, Tess. I can’t feel her anymore.”

I rubbed my eyes, blinking away the sting. No time for tears. Not now. Not when I had so much to deal with.

That’s when I heard it.

A loud crash echoed from the basement, followed by a string of curses that would’ve made a sailor blush.

My head snapped up. “What the hell is he doing down there?”

I pushed myself off the couch, checked that Darian was still sound asleep with mouth full of muffin dreams, and headed toward the basement door.

I took the stairs two at a time, the chill in the air getting thicker with each step. The basement wasn’t creepy exactly. It was the exact replica of the big Davenport House, just smaller, and we used it mostly for storage. My father also visited that way since the door to the basement was a portal to the Netherworld, if you will.

I made it to the bottom and stopped, immediately wishing I’d brought a camera.

Marcus was shirtless—because why wouldn’t he be—and currently hammering massive iron chains into the concrete floor. He barely looked up as I approached.

“Honey,” I said, crossing my arms and leaning against the doorway. “Either you’re redecorating for an industrial dungeon aesthetic or you’ve lost your damn mind.”

“Not funny,” he grunted, bringing the hammer down again with a force that cracked the concrete.

I arched a brow. “I really do like the whole sweaty, grumpy look. But you realize that House could have done this for you. Right?” That’s right. My pal, our ninja butler could have encased these chains for him if Marcus had asked.

Marcus paused, his gray eyes darker than usual. He ran a hand over his face, smearing dirt and sweat across his skin.

“I have to do this myself,” he said quietly. “Until we figure out how to break the curse.”

A sharp ache bloomed in my chest at the raw pain in his voice. “Marcus…” I stepped closer, my boots crunching against stray bits of broken concrete. “Chaining yourself up in the basement isn’t the solution.”

“It is for now. It’s the only way.” His gaze locked on the chains like they were the only thing keeping him together. “If I shift again… if I lose control…”

I swallowed hard. “You won’t.”

“I might.” His voice broke. “And I can’t risk hurting you. Or Darian. I won’t let that happen.”

Dammit. He wasn’t just scared. He was terrified. Of what he might become. Of what he might do. And I couldn’t blame him.

I knelt beside him, placing my hand gently over his. His skin was warm, solid. But I could feel the tension thrumming just beneath the surface, coiled tight and dangerous.

“Marcus,” I whispered. “We’re going to fix this. From what I know of curses…” I swallowed, squeezing his hand tighter. “They always have a counter-curse.” Or so I told myself.

His eyes flicked up to meet mine, gray and stormy. “And if they don’t?”

“They do,” I said, firmer this time. “There’s always a loophole. Always a way to undo it. Curses aren’t perfect. They’re built on rules, laws of magic. And laws?”

“They can be broken,” he murmured, his jaw tight.

“Exactly.” I brushed my thumb over his knuckles. “If we can figure out how they cursed you. How the Order of Fenrir did this, we’ll know how to counter it.” I had no idea if I was right, but I was going with it because it felt like the right way.

Marcus’s face was still, but I could see the cracks forming. His fingers tightened around mine, just enough for me to feel the tremor.

“Even if we figure out how…” His voice trailed off, and when he spoke again, it was quieter, like he was afraid saying it out loud would make it real. “What if we’re too late?”

“We’re not,” I said, but the words came out softer than I intended. Because that fear? I felt it too. Deep in my bones.

“Tessa…” His eyes locked on to mine, filled with a raw vulnerability that made my throat tighten. “If I can’t stop this… if I lose control… I lose everything.” His voice broke on the last word, and suddenly it wasn’t just fear in his eyes. It was grief. “I’ll lose you.” His hand slipped from mine, his gaze dropping to the floor. “I’ll lose Darian.”

I felt my heart shatter, right there in the basement. “No,” I said, shaking my head fiercely. “That’s not going to happen.”

“You don’t know that,” he continued. “If this curse takes over… I’ll be a threat to both of you. And if I hurt either of you—” He cut himself off, his voice hoarse, like he couldn’t bear to finish the sentence.

I felt the sting behind my eyes, but I blinked it away. Not now. Crying wouldn’t help.

“Marcus,” I said softly, cupping his face with both hands and forcing him to look at me. “Listen to me.”

He did, but I could feel how hard it was for him to meet my gaze. To face the nightmare that had been shoved into his life.

“You are not going to lose us.” My voice was steady, but I could feel the weight of every word I spoke. “I don’t care how long this takes, how many spells I have to cast, or how many ancient texts I have to read. I will figure out how to break this curse.”

“And if we can’t?”

“We will,” I said, not giving him an inch. “Because I’m not giving up on you. I refuse to give up. You’re my husband, dammit. Darian’s father. And I don’t care if I have to go toe-to-toe with the entire Order of Fenrir or burn their precious laws to the ground. I will break this curse.”

For a long moment, Marcus just stared at me, his breathing uneven and his body still trembling slightly, not out of fear but frustration, anger at this situation and those who did this to him, to us. “Do you really think we can find a counter-curse?”

“Yes,” I said, and I meant it. “Every curse has a counter-curse. They’re like… magical algebra. The sides of the equation can always be balanced. The problem is finding the right variable.”

“Magical algebra?” he asked, one corner of his mouth twitching despite everything.

“Would you prefer magical geometry?” I quipped softly. “Because I’m not great with angles. And I sucked at math.”

That earned me a small, broken laugh. It broke me a little more just hearing it.

“But,” I added, my voice growing serious again, “we can’t do that until we know exactly how they did it. Curses that bind to DNA? That’s advanced, deep magic. Blood-bound curses can’t be undone with a flick of the wrist. They have to be unraveled, piece by piece. And the way they’re woven tells us how to break them.” That’s what Dolores and Ruth had told me, and I was going with it.

Marcus nodded, gears turning behind the exhaustion in his gaze. “So, if we can figure out the exact ritual they used…”

“We’ll know what counter-curse we need,” I finished.

He exhaled slowly, nodding, but the tension in his shoulders didn’t ease.

“Then we’ll start there,” he said softly. “But until we figure it out… I need to be chained.”

A cold knot formed in my gut. “Marcus…”

“I’m not risking it,” he said, steel lacing his voice again. “Not with you. Not with Darian. I can’t.”

My throat tightened. “I hate this.”

“Me too,” he whispered, his forehead pressing gently against mine. “But I won’t risk losing you.”

I closed my eyes, breathing him in and feeling the steady beat of his heart, proof that he was still here. Still him.

But for how long?

“Then I’m staying down here with you,” I murmured.

“Tessa—”

“Don’t argue,” I whispered. “I don’t care how stubborn you are. I’m more stubborn. I win.”

He laughed softly, but it wasn’t his usual confident, cocky laugh. It was quieter, more vulnerable. Like he was trying to hold on to me through all the chaos threatening to pull us apart.

His forehead pressed harder against mine, and I felt his breath warm against my lips—steady but laced with worry.

“Besides,” I purred, letting my body melt against his and feeling the heat ripple between us. “I can think of a few ways to pass the time in this basement.”

His eyes darkened, a trace of something primal pushing past the fear.

“You can. Can you?” he growled, his voice low and rough, sending a delicious shiver down my spine.

“Mm-hmm,” I hummed, tilting my head just enough to brush my lips against his, teasing. “I’m pretty creative, you know. Comes with being a witch.”

“Good thing I’m married to one,” he snarled, his mouth capturing mine before I could say another word.

And just like that, everything else disappeared.

The fear. The curse. The blood and chaos waiting for us beyond these walls. None of it mattered right now. Because this? This was us.

His lips were demanding but gentle, rough but reverent. Like he was afraid this might be the last time.

And dammit, I wasn’t having that.

I pressed closer, my hands sliding up his chest and fingers tracing the lines of muscle that I knew better than any incantation. His body was tense, coiled tightly with emotion and frustration, and I wanted—needed—to unravel him.

To remind him he was still here. Still Marcus.

“You’re so fucking sexy,” he breathed, his hands slipping down my back to pull me against him like he was anchoring himself to me. “I don’t want to lose this. I don’t want to lose you.”

“You won’t,” I said between kisses, my mouth trailing down his jawline. “We’re not losing anything. I swear—”

He kissed me again, harder this time, his grip on my waist tightening.

The heat between us ignited, sparking into something more. My pulse raced, magic humming just beneath my skin as his hands slid under my shirt, his fingertips grazing my back. I arched into him, letting the warmth of his body chase away the chill of everything we’d been through today.

My pulse kicked up. Oh, yeah. This was happening. Here. Now. Yay!

And honestly? It was about damn time.

But just as his hands skimmed lower, just as my body melted completely into his—

A sharp chime echoed through the house. The doorbell.

I froze.

Again the doorbell sounded.

“Are you kidding me?” I gasped and pulled back, my forehead falling against his chest as I tried to catch my breath.

“Tell me that’s not happening,” Marcus growled, his voice full of frustration that matched mine.

“Maybe if we ignore it, they’ll go away,” I whispered as I brushed my lips against his again, trying to pick up where we left off.

“Good plan,” he murmured, his mouth already moving back to mine, his hands sliding down to grip my hips.

Another sharp ringing blared through the house.

I pulled back. “Guess not. If this is a traveling potion salesman or someone asking if we’ve accepted the moon goddess into our hearts, I’m hexing them.”

Marcus chuckled softly, but the heat in his eyes was still simmering. “Hurry back.”

“Trust me,” I muttered, storming toward the stairs. “If I can get rid of them fast enough, maybe we can still—”

Ding dong.

“Okay, okay! I’m coming!” I snapped, stomping up the stairs like a woman on a mission, because I was. A mission to get back to my husband and finally, finally take the edge off this insane day.

I yanked the door open, ready to unleash my fury on whoever dared to interrupt what was about to be a much-needed stress-relief sexy-time session.

“This better be good,” I growled.

But whatever snarky comment I had loaded died instantly on my lips.

Because standing on the doorstep wasn’t some potion salesman.

It was a woman.

Her hair was shaved on both sides of her head, the top pulled into a long, intricate braid trailing down her back. She wore a thick, linen gray robe that was unmistakable.

My blood went ice cold

The Gray Council. They were here.

Shit.

8

TESSA

I stood there, my mouth slightly ajar, rocking what was probably my best “deer in the headlights” look. And honestly? It was a solid performance.

The woman’s presence hit me like a cold gust of wind laced with static. My skin prickled, the fine hairs on the back of my neck standing on end the way they did before a lightning storm or when Ruth tried a new experimental potion.

The woman was tall—taller than me, and I wasn’t exactly short. The fact that her head was shaved clean on both sides gave her an even more intimidating air while the top, dark brown and glossy, was braided into an intricate plait that trailed down her back like a lethal whip.

Her gray robe was immaculate, the smooth and heavy fabric draping around her body like it had been tailored by ancient sorcerers who specialized in making people feel very uncomfortable.

But it wasn’t the robe or the intimidating braid that had me frozen in place.

It was the magic.

I felt it the moment I opened the door—thick, precise, and ancient. It rolled off her in waves—controlled, structured, and perfectly contained like a storm trapped in a glass jar.

Mage.

Not a witch. Definitely not. This wasn’t chaotic, instinctual power like mine, wild and unpredictable. No, this was methodical. Built on discipline, incantations, and runes etched in blood.

And it was strong. Strong enough that I had to fight the urge to take a step back.

Her dark eyes, almost black, scanned me like she was cataloging every flaw, every weakness, and filing them away for later.

Lovely. Just what I needed.

“What do you want?” I managed to ask, finally finding my voice and shoving it past the lump of anxiety lodged in my throat. It came out sharp, but not sharp enough.

Because I knew what she wanted. And there was no way in hell she was getting near my kid.

Behind her stood two more Gray Council officers—both in the same dull, shapeless gray robes. I couldn’t tell them apart. I didn’t care to tell them apart. They had that same dead-eyed, judgmental vibe that all council lackeys wore like cheap cologne.

The woman tilted her head slightly, her expression cool and assessing, like a predator deciding if its prey was worth the effort.

“Tessa Davenport,” she said, her voice smooth as silk but laced with enough authority to make my skin crawl. “We need to talk.”

I narrowed my eyes. “Did you make an appointment? No, you didn’t. I’m busy. Call and make that appointment.”

One of the robed lackeys behind her stiffened, clearly not used to being spoken to like that. Suck it up, buddy.

But the woman in front? She didn’t flinch. She didn’t do flinching.

Her eyes shifted, just for a moment, flicking toward the house—toward Darian.

I shifted my body to hide my kid from her view. “If this is about my kid,” I said, my voice dropping into dangerous territory, “you can turn around and march your magical behind right back to whatever cold, soulless corner of the universe you crawled out of.”

Her lips curved, barely. But it wasn’t a smile.

“I assure you,” she said, her tone perfectly neutral, “I’m not here to harm your child.”

Right. And I was the queen of Fairyland.

“Forgive me if I don’t take your word for it,” I snapped, crossing my arms. “I’m fresh out of trust where the Gray Council is concerned.”

The air thickened. The magic humming around her shifted subtly, but I felt it. Like threads of energy weaving through the air, coiling tighter as if preparing for… something.

If she wanted a fight, she’d get one. “My name is Morgana Draeven.”

“Good for you.”

“As a representative of the Gray Council,” she continued, her tone smooth as glass, “we’ve… heard of your child. You know how news travels.”

A wave of nausea swept over me.

“And there is nothing you can keep from us,” she continued.

“Sure I can. Watch me.”

“It is our duty to evaluate all offspring deemed to have special power and significance,” she said, her tone taking on a gentle, almost… maternal lilt. “I’m here to assess your son. Nothing more.”

Was she serious?

“Evaluate?” I echoed, doing my best to keep my magic from flaring. “You mean kidnap. Right? Because that’s what this sounds like.”

“Not at all,” said Morgana smoothly, that sickly sweet smile still plastered on her face. “We merely want to help.”

Oh hell no.

“Help?” I snorted. “Yeah, I’ve seen the council’s version of help. It usually ends with a lot of screaming and people wishing they were dead.”

Morgana’s expression didn’t flicker, but I saw the tiny tightening of her jaw. “We understand that raising a child like Darian can be… overwhelming,” she said, her tone shifting into full-on condescending guidance counselor mode.

“Who told you his name?” Yeah, the fact that they already knew his name told me they’d been doing a lot of investigating on him. Maybe they’d sent spies to Hollow Cove. Maybe this bitch had been here for weeks, watching and studying my child.

Morgana stared at me. “Our intention is only to offer support. To provide resources. To show him the way.”

My pulse pounded in my ears. “The way?” I repeated, my voice dropping. “What way is that, exactly? The way where you take him away from his family? Brainwash him into being your magical puppet?” Yeah, I didn’t think so.

Morgana’s smile stayed fixed in place, but her eyes, those nearly black, unsettling eyes, were laser-focused on me now. “Tessa,” she said softly, and it took everything in me not to deck her right there. “Your son is… extraordinary. Surely, you’ve noticed.”

“Every child is extraordinary in their mother’s eyes.”

“His growth,” continued Morgana as though I hadn’t spoken, her gaze flicking toward the house again. “His… development. It’s far beyond anything we’ve ever seen. Unnatural. And that makes him—”

“Special,” I snapped, cutting her off before she could finish whatever bullshit was about to leave her mouth. “My son is special. Not unnatural. And he’s not some experiment for the council to poke and prod.”

“Of course not,” Morgana said smoothly, but I felt it.

The lie. It slithered between her words, cloaked in sugar-coated promises and fake concern. And I felt it in my witchy bones. She was full of shit. Every single word.

I took a step forward, my magic bubbling just beneath the surface. “You’re not getting near him.”

Morgana’s expression didn’t change, but the magic around her shifted again. Tighter. Closer.

“Step aside, Ms. Davenport,” she said, her expression finally cooling to a frosty neutral. “I’d rather not make this unpleasant.”

I arched a brow. “Honey, unpleasant is my love language.” I could feel her magic growing—controlled, precise, waiting. But mine? Mine was already sparking beneath my skin, ready to explode at a moment’s notice.

And if she thought I was just going to hand over my son without a fight? She was even dumber than her hairstyle.

“Please, Tessa,” she said softly, but I felt the threads of power winding toward me. Subtle. Quiet.

Oh, hell no.

I knew this move.

She wasn’t just trying to intimidate me anymore. She was trying to get inside my head.

My magic screamed a warning as I felt her presence brush against my mind—delicate, probing tendrils of energy, slipping through the cracks and trying to invade.

I stumbled back a step. “Get. Out,” I growled through gritted teeth, shoving against her magic with everything I had.

Her eyes narrowed, and the pressure inside my head intensified, pushing harder as she tried to force her way in.

I clenched my jaw, pushing back.

My magic flared, chaotic and wild, swirling like a hurricane behind my eyes.

“I said—”

The magic snapped like a rubber band, and with one final surge, I slammed the mental door shut—hard.

“Get. Out!”

A crackling snap echoed in my head as I shoved her out so forcefully that I felt her recoil.

Morgana staggered back, her eyes rounding ever so slightly.

Gotcha, bitch.

For a split second, I thought I saw something flash across her face—surprise? Annoyance? But it was gone in an instant.

“Impressive,” she murmured, her tone clipped, but I could see the faint flicker of irritation in her eyes now.

“Yeah, I get that a lot,” I said, my voice shaky but firm. “Now get the hell off my property before I show you what else I can do.”

Before she could respond, heavy footsteps pulled my attention around.

And then—the basement door flew open.

Marcus. Sweaty. Shirtless. Pissed off.

He filled the doorway, his broad chest rising and falling as his eyes, stormy and lethal, locked on to Morgana.

And he’d heard everything. Because, well, he was a wereape with exceptional hearing.

“What the fuck is going on here?” he growled, his muscles glistening. I felt his wereape energy coil tightly, dangerous, protective, and so uber-delicious.

I turned back to Morgana. “She and her minions were just leaving.”

“You heard my wife,” Marcus snarled, his voice low and dangerous. “Leave. Now.”

Morgana’s expression didn’t change, but the magic around her… eased. Just slightly. “Mr. Durand,” she said calmly, as if she wasn’t just trying to mentally assault me thirty seconds ago. “We mean no harm.”

“Bullshit.” Marcus didn’t move. Didn’t blink. But his power filled the space, raw and primal, and I felt it ripple through the air, mixing with my magic like gasoline on an open flame. “I said… leave.”

For a moment, Morgana stood perfectly still, her eyes flicking between us.

Assessing. Calculating.

Then—

“As you wish,” she murmured, her voice as smooth as ever, but I saw the tightness in her jaw as she stepped back.

“This isn’t over,” she added softly, her eyes meeting mine. “We’ll be in touch.”

The second the door slammed shut behind Morgana and her robed goons, I was already moving.

I didn’t think. I didn’t breathe. My feet carried me on instinct—straight to Darian.

“Darian.” His name was barely a whisper, but it echoed through my chest, reverberating with panic and raw, unfiltered fear.

I sprinted toward the living room, my pulse pounding so hard it drowned out everything else.

What if she’d gotten too close? What if her magic had seeped through while I was too busy pushing her out of my head? What if—

No.

I shoved the thought aside, barreling around the corner, my magic already flaring hot and ready to level anything that even remotely felt off.

Darian was still asleep on the couch, safe and sound, completely oblivious to the madness that had just unfolded.

I froze, standing next to the couch, my chest heaving and hands trembling as I took in the sight of him. His little body—except it wasn’t so little anymore—was sprawled out across the cushions, his legs dangling over the side because he was too big for the damn couch now.

One arm was tucked beneath his cheek. His lips were slightly parted as he breathed softly, lost in the kind of deep, innocent sleep. Peaceful. Blissfully unaware.

I pressed a hand to my chest, trying to steady the frantic rhythm of my heart as I took a slow step closer.

He was beautiful. Innocent. And he had no idea how dangerous the world was.

My baby.

A wave of fierce protectiveness surged through me, so strong it nearly knocked me off my feet.

I knelt beside him, my fingers brushing softly against his forehead to push a stray curl out of his face. Still warm. Still here.

“Mommy’s here,” I whispered, my voice barely audible as I stroked his cheek. “I’ve got you.” My throat tightened as I traced the line of his jaw with my thumb, emotions colliding in my chest.

He was so big. Too big. Only two months old, yet… he was already the size of a toddler. His limbs weren’t chubby and dimpled anymore. They were longer, stronger. His face was losing that soft, round baby look, and something… otherworldly about him grew more obvious every day.

No wonder Morgana had noticed.

The thought sent a fresh wave of fury through me, hot and unrelenting.

She had looked at him like he was a thing. A curiosity. A weapon.

And I knew—I knew—she wasn’t going to stop.

Her words echoed in my head.

“His growth… His development. It’s far beyond anything we’ve ever seen. Unnatural.”

I blinked back the sting in my eyes as I cupped Darian’s cheek.

“They won’t take you,” I murmured, barely holding back the rage simmering beneath the surface. “Not while I’m still breathing.”

I sat back on my heels, forcing myself to breathe, to calm the storm inside me. But it wasn’t easy. My magic was still on high alert, crackling just beneath my skin, ready to lash out at the slightest threat.

Morgana had been too close. Too damn close.

I brushed my fingers lightly over Darian’s curls, my magic instinctively reaching out to check for anything, any trace of Morgana’s magic lingering in the air. Nothing. I let out a shaky breath. Good. But I wasn’t stupid.

And even though she was gone, for now I knew this wasn’t over. I’d seen that glint in her eyes. She wanted him.

A shadow fell across me, and before I could turn, Marcus’s arms were around me.

Strong. Steady. Solid. Home.

I hadn’t heard him move, but he was there, right there, wrapping me in the warmth of his embrace as if he could physically anchor me back to reality. I didn’t realize how badly I needed it until I felt the steady thrum of his heartbeat against my back. For a moment, I just… let go.

I melted into him, leaning back as his arms tightened, his body heat seeping into mine, grounding me in ways I couldn’t even put into words.

“Are you okay?” he murmured, his voice low, the rough edge of concern brushing against my ear.

I didn’t answer right away. Because no. I wasn’t okay. My son had been this close to being ripped away from me.

I could still feel Morgana’s magic brushing against my mind. Could still see the cold, calculating gleam in her eyes as she sized up my child like he was nothing more than a weapon waiting to be wielded.

I swallowed hard, my throat tight as I stared down at Darian. “No,” I finally whispered, the truth slipping out before I could stop it. “But I will be.”

Marcus’s jaw clenched against my temple, and I felt his rage simmering just beneath the surface.

He didn’t say anything, but he didn’t have to. His grip tightened, his breathing steady but too controlled. He’d heard everything. Every word. Every lie.

And Marcus Durand? He wasn’t just angry. He was furious.

I could feel it thrumming through his muscles, coiled and ready to explode.

“She’s not coming back,” Marcus murmured, his voice a low, dangerous growl that sent a shiver down my spine.

“Damn right she’s not,” I said softly, my eyes never leaving Darian’s face.

But even as I said it, the weight of what had just happened settled heavily in my chest.

Morgana Draeven wasn’t done. I could feel it. She’d be back. And when she came? She wouldn’t have just two minions. She’d have more. A lot more. And more powerful.

My fingers brushed lightly over Darian’s curls, my chest tight with a mix of fear and fury.

“We’re not ready for this, Marcus,” I whispered, the words barely leaving my lips.

His arms tightened around me, but he didn’t deny it. Because he knew. We weren’t ready. Not for her. Not for the council. And certainly not for whatever hell was coming next.

But that didn’t mean we wouldn’t fight. We’d fight until our last breath.

Because no one—no one—was taking my son.

I felt Marcus’s lips brush lightly against the side of my head, a silent promise that matched the one pounding in my veins.

We’d fight. And we wouldn’t stop. Not until every last threat was buried.

I pulled my eyes away from Darian’s peaceful face, leaning just a little deeper into Marcus’s arms as my magic whispered a warning that made my skin crawl.

This wasn’t over.

9

TESSA

What does a witch do when her child is threatened by the Gray Council and her husband is chained in the basement?

She drinks wine. Lots and lots of wine.

I’d invited myself over for dinner at Davenport House. I’d also called Ronin and told him he was invited. There was no saying no. Not today. Not when I needed to make sure he was eating something other than despair and vintage regret. Not that alcohol could kill a half-vampire, but his liver would thank me later.

Just as I pushed in the back door, Darian let go of my head—yes, he’d been clinging to it like a hat with separation issues—and bolted toward the kitchen. He climbed up onto one of the dining room table chairs like it was a jungle gym he’d conquered a dozen times.

Yeah. My two-month-old was growing up way too fast.

The scent of something rich and garlicky hit me the second I stepped in. I took a long inhale.

“Smells fantastic,” I said, yanking off my boots. “What are we having? Please say not-tofu.”

“Vegetarian lasagna,” said Ruth as she stirred a bubbling pot of marinara. “With my famous sauce. And extra basil. Basil calms the nerves.”

Her apron—white with sauce splatters and the words IF YOU CAN’T HANDLE THE HEX, STAY OUT OF MY KITCHEN—was tied snugly over her usual prairie-chic witch attire.

“Don’t forget to add extra cheese,” piped in Tinker Bell, who was fluttering across the dining table with napkins in hand. She tossed each one into perfect place settings.

“I won’t,” said Ruth cheerfully. “I love cheese. Don’t you love cheese, Tessa?”

I tapped my stomach. “Can’t you tell?”

“That’s not cheese weight,” said Dolores dryly as she dropped silverware onto the table with her usual elegance-meets-intimidation flair. “That’s post-pregnancy weight. It’ll vanish. Eventually.”

I sighed. “Sure. Right after I finish this bottle of wine.”

My eyes drifted to the counter, where an open bottle of red sat beside Hildo as he groomed his back foot with all the grace of a drunk gymnast.

Wine. Blessed, emotionally stabilizing wine.

Just as Ruth handed Darian a floppy noodle, which he accepted with wide eyes, I made a beeline for the bottle.

Dolores, not missing a beat, looked up from the forks she was lining up with scary military precision. “Where’s Marcus?”

I hesitated, glass mid-pour. “He’s… uh, tied up in the basement.” Like she didn’t know. She was there when he’d announced it.

Dolores raised a brow. “That’s… unfortunate. But it is the right thing.”

“Yes. Chains and all.” I swirled the wine in my glass and took a long gulp. “It’s consensual. Mostly. He insisted.”

Her other brow joined the first. Ruth paused mid-stir. Even Tinker Bell hovered awkwardly over a place setting.

Their eyes were on me now. I could feel it. That knowing, magical, aunt-level pressure where they were just waiting for me to spill something I hadn’t yet processed. They wanted me to tell them more.

I looked down at my wine. I had to tell them about the Gray Council. About Morgana Draeven and her not-so-friendly magical intimidation tactics.

But the words wouldn’t come. Saying them out loud would make it real. Saying them meant the council had officially stepped into our lives. Into his life.

So instead, I took another gulp. A big one.

I wasn’t ready. Not yet.

“Thanks for looking after Darian this morning, Tinky,” I said to the fairy instead as she finished placing the last napkin.

Tinker Bell beamed. “You bet. Glad I could help.”

I had just taken a glorious sip of liquid patience when the doorbell rang.

“Ronin,” I said, already heading toward the front. “I’ll get it.”

I rushed over to the front door and pulled it open.

And there he was. Ronin. In all his tall, half-vampire, emotionally wrecked glory.

His hair was a tousled mess, like he’d either just rolled out of bed or lost a wrestling match with a shrub. His eyes were red. Not the glowing kind, just the “I’ve been crying and possibly drinking since sunrise” kind. His shirt was wrinkled, half-buttoned wrong, and stained with what I really hoped was coffee.

“Hey,” he said, blinking too slowly. “Is this… the lasagna place?”

“You look like a sad poetry reading threw up on you.”

He smiled weakly and held up a bottle of something that was either an expensive wine or a six-dollar potion from a gas station shelf. “I brought a… gift?”

“Is it self-loathing? Because it’s radiating off you in waves.”

“Ah. That’s just the aftershave,” he muttered.

I stepped aside to let him in. He shuffled past me like a ghost who’d just been evicted from his own haunted mansion.

The second he stepped into the kitchen, Tinker Bell darted up from the table with a frown. “Oh no. I smell melancholy. And possibly gin.”

Ronin gave her a solemn nod. “You are not incorrect, my fairy friend.”

Ruth turned from the stove and gave him a once-over. “He needs bread and cheese. Immediately.”

“Already working on it,” I said, grabbing a plate and piling on some garlic bread and cheese slices.

Dolores crossed her arms. “Have you eaten anything today?”

“I licked the salt rim off a margarita glass around noon,” he offered.

Dolores frowned. “That’s not food.”

“Tell that to my stomach. And my dignity.”

“You have neither,” Beverly called from the hallway as she swooped in like she was working a runway, already dressed for a date in a figure-hugging pair of jeans and a low V-neck top that was surely illegal in some countries. Her blonde hair was swept up in a loose, romantic twist, and her heels clicked with unapologetic confidence.

Ronin blinked at her. “Are you going somewhere or conquering a kingdom?”

“Both, darling,” she said, fluffing her perfect hair. “I’ve got a date with a very sexy werebear who owns a pottery studio and could bench-press a Buick.” She adjusted her neckline and gave the room a winning smile. “Beautiful women go out on Saturdays, silly. Only ugly women don’t have dates.”

“Guess that put us in our place,” growled Dolores, making Ruth laugh.

“See you later,” sang Beverly, tossing a wink over her shoulder as she floated to the front door like a one-woman perfume commercial.

And just like that, she was gone, leaving behind the faint scent of roses, lust, and expensive secrets.

Ronin slumped into the chair next to Darian, who gave him a curious glance and then shoved a half-chewed noodle in his direction like an offering.

Ronin accepted it with the grace of a man who had hit rock bottom and decided to just start decorating.

“Thanks, buddy,” he said, his voice cracking a little as he smiled at my son. “You’re the only one in this house who’s not judging me.”

Darian blinked at him and then proceeded to try and eat the salt shaker.

I pulled my attention back to Ronin for a moment. He looked hollow, and it wasn’t just the drinking, the crying, or the sheer lack of clean clothes.

It was Iris.

She was gone, thus he was unraveling. And none of us knew how to put him back together again.

I took a deep breath, leaned a hip against the counter, and said gently, “We’re going to find her, Ronin.”

He didn’t look up, just nodded, his eyes fixed on the table like it might give him the will to live again. “I know,” he said quietly. “I just… wish I knew what the hell was going on.”

I did too.

“Food’s ready,” Ruth announced, practically singing it like the world’s happiest kitchen witch as she dropped the platter of steaming lasagna in the middle of the table. The bubbling cheese hissed, and the scent of garlic and marinara immediately soothed a layer of my anxiety.

Ruth moved with purpose, grabbing Ronin’s plate first like he was the emotionally unstable guest of honor, which he was, and scooping him a portion that could feed a small werewolf. “Eat,” she ordered with a smile.

Next she served me, then Dolores, a doll-sized portion for Tinker Bell who had made herself comfortable on the table—because why not—and then Hildo. Sitting upright in a chair like this was completely normal for him.

“I could get used to this level of pampering,” mumbled Ronin around his first bite, already looking marginally less tragic.

I took a forkful, chewed, and immediately groaned. “Wow. My taste buds are in heaven. This is amazing, Ruth.”

My aunt’s cheeks flushed a warm red, and she waved a hand like she didn’t want the attention but absolutely did. “Aww. You’re welcome, sweetheart. It’s the basil. I grew it myself in the moonlight. Adds dimension.”

I swallowed another bite and glanced down at my plate, suddenly hyperaware of the warm, cozy atmosphere swirling around the table. And I was about to ruin it.

“Umm.” I cleared my throat, twirling my fork. “There’s something I need to tell you.”

As if on cue, Darian wriggled out of his seat and padded into the living room. He scrambled up to the bay window like it was his personal throne, plopped his butt down on the ledge, and began tapping on the glass with both hands. Tap. Tap. Tap. Like he was trying to communicate with passing birds… or summon a demon. Unclear.

I opened my mouth again, my chest tight. “The Gray Council came to our house today.”

All utensils froze midair. You could’ve heard a ghost blink.

Ruth’s eyes widened. Dolores set her fork down. Even Tinker Bell stopped mid-bite and tilted her head in that unsettlingly perceptive way only fae could manage.

“They what?” said Ruth, her voice sharp.

“They were at your doorstep?” asked Dolores, and suddenly she was sitting straighter, her napkin folded like it was about to become a weapon.

“Yeah,” I said. “A woman named Morgana Draeven. Tall. Intense. Looked like she came from a post-apocalyptic coven in Milan. Mage, not a witch. She said she was there to… evaluate Darian.”

“Evaluate,” Ruth repeated, the word sour on her tongue.

“More like assess, monitor, and ultimately steal him for their super-secret magical agenda,” I said. “She said he’s unnatural. Special. That she wants to help.”

“She said he’s unnatural?” Dolores snapped.

“I know. I nearly drop-kicked her off the porch.”

Ruth was already pushing her chair back. “Why didn’t you say this the second you walked in?”

“Because I needed lasagna, emotional support, and at least one glass of wine to survive the conversation.”

“Did she see Darian?” asked Dolores, her voice low.

I nodded. “Yes. But she didn’t get close. And then she tried to get inside my head. Literally. With mage magic.”

Dolores’s jaw twitched. “And?”

“I pushed her out,” I said. “Hard.”

“Good girl,” said Ruth with a nod, but her eyes didn’t leave me.

The energy around the table had changed. It wasn’t warm anymore. It was sharp. Ready. Protective.

“Do you think she’ll come back?” Ruth asked quietly.

“I know she will,” I said, staring at my glass.

Across the room, Darian was still tapping the glass. Tap. Tap. Tap. Except now the lights near the window were flickering faintly, and the shadows under the trees outside seemed to be… shifting.

But I didn’t pay attention to it. Because all I could think about was the mage in gray robes who’d looked at my baby like he was a magical anomaly waiting to be cataloged and caged.

I reached for my wine again and took another long sip. I had a feeling I was going to need a bigger bottle.

“Tess,” said Ronin, his fork paused midair, “your kid is talking to someone.”

“What?” I turned around. Darian was still tapping the glass, but now I could hear his voice—quiet, rhythmic, like he was repeating something under his breath. I couldn’t make out the words, but he was definitely having a conversation.

“Who’s he talking to?” asked Ruth, already half out of her chair.

My body froze. That prickling sense of magic crept up my spine like icy fingers, and then I jumped to my feet and rushed over to the window. I wasn’t sure what I was expecting—maybe an imaginary friend, maybe a ghost squirrel, maybe nothing.

Just not this.

I stopped in my tracks, my breath catching in my throat. “What the hell is this?” I whispered.

“What is it?” Dolores’s hip bumped into mine as she pushed forward.

I pressed my hands to the glass and leaned in.

Our front lawn looked like a scene from a fairy tale, if the fairy tale had been written by someone with a flair for the unsettling.

There were animals. Everywhere.

Hundreds—no, thousands. Lining the porch, the yard, the driveway. Filling the garden. Perched in the trees. Packed in rows like furry, feathery, whiskered spectators in the world’s weirdest audience.

Squirrels. Birds. Crows. Raccoons. Owls. Skunks. Foxes. Coyotes. Mice. Fishers. Even an opossum.

All of them just… watching.

Not eating. Not moving. Not making a sound. Their eyes were trained on the window. On Darian.

And Darian? He was still perched on the windowsill, tapping the glass with one hand and talking under his breath like he was issuing commands.

Or a sermon.

“Holy shit,” said Ronin behind me, his voice low.

“They’re just… staring at him,” said Ruth, appearing next to me and squinting through the glass. “Not blinking. Not moving. It’s like they’re in a trance.”

“Why are they here?” I asked, inching closer.

Dolores said nothing. Her arms were crossed, her eyes sharp as blades. She was watching Darian now, not the animals. Watching him with a new kind of calculation.

“Is he summoning them?” I asked. “Or… are they just coming to him?”

“Coming,” murmured Ruth. “Like they’ve been called.”

Darian suddenly looked over his shoulder at me and grinned.

That smile. So innocent. So pleased with himself.

Then, as if on cue, half the animals in the yard bowed their heads. Bowed. Like he was their alpha.

I swallowed. My heart was somewhere near my ankles.

“I think we’re past the he’s special phase,” said Ronin. “We might be in chosen one of the animal kingdom territory now.”

“I’ve seen familiars recognize witches before,” Ruth said, breathless. “But this? This isn’t recognition. This is… allegiance.”

“These are not witch familiars,” said Hildo as he jumped up on the window ledge next to Darian. “These are just regular animals.”

And that made it so much worse.

Behind me, Darian giggled, blissfully unaware of how completely freaked out we all were.

Dolores moved beside me. “We need to find out exactly what kind of magic Darian’s drawing.”

“Don’t look at me,” I said. “I didn’t teach him squirrel summoning.”

“It’s like Doctor Dolittle!” expressed Ruth, waving at the horde of animals outside. “I’ve always wanted to be able to communicate with animals like that.”

Of course, Ruth would say that. And I could see the appeal. But my son? He was still just a baby. This shouldn’t be happening.

“This is not a fictional character in a make-believe world, Ruth,” snapped Dolores. “This is real life.”

Ruth shrugged. “All the characters in my books are real to me,” she muttered under her breath.

I glanced at my son, who was now pressing his hand to the glass like he was offering comfort. Or power. Or both.

“It gets worse,” said Tinker Bell suddenly, her voice unusually grim.

We all turned.

She hovered near the hallway archway, holding something small and square between her fingers. A message card.

Tinker Bell flew over and dropped the card into my hands like it was cursed.

I read the first line and felt the color drain from my face.

“What does it say?” asked Dolores, her tone sharp.

I looked up slowly, meeting the eyes of everyone in the room. Ruth’s hands were clasped in front of her. Ronin was watching me, fully alert. Even Darian had stopped tapping the glass.

I swallowed hard and said, “There’s been another attack.”

10

TESSA

Let’s just say my day started in the crapper, and the evening decided to grab a shovel and keep digging.

The message card slipped from my hands as I looked up at my aunts, my chest already tight with panic. “Keep an eye on Darian.”

“Tessa, wait! Where are you going?” Dolores called after me.

But I was already halfway down the hall, muttering something between a prayer and a curse as I yanked my coat from the hook and shoved my feet into my boots.

“Tessa!” Ruth’s voice rang out behind me. “What was on that card?”

I turned just long enough to shout, “It was from Lori. There’s been another attack. Someone else was hurt.”

“What?” Ruth gasped. “Who?”

“I have to go.” I bolted out the back door, the wind whipping across my face. I bounded over to my cottage, shoved the front door open and stormed inside, too frantic to kick off my boots, which were currently tracking snow, dirt, and a fair amount of rage into our cozy home.

I reached the basement door and froze. Open. Wide open.

“Shit.”

I flew down the stairs two at a time, practically somersaulted off the last step, and landed with a grunt that echoed through the cold, empty space as well as my knees and ankles, thank you very much.

And there they were. The chains, on the floor, useless, slack, and mocking me. The person who was supposed to be attached to them? Gone.

“Double shit.”

“You can say that again,” said a voice behind me.

“Ah!” I shrieked, spinning so fast my arm went flailing in what could only be described as a discount karate chop.

Ronin caught my wrist midair with an annoying amount of grace. “Easy, Tess. I bruise elegantly.”

“Don’t sneak up on me like that.” I clutched my chest. “You half-vamps should wear bells or something.”

He just raised an eyebrow. “And you should invest in a better security system. Maybe a moat. Also—where the hell is Marcus?”

“Good question.” I stepped farther into the room. The chains, previously wrapped snugly around my monster-husband, were now slack on the floor, cold and empty. “He was here. I mean, literally chained to this floor.”

“I know.” Ronin squinted into the dim light. “But now it’s just you, me, and the world’s creepiest empty chains.” He nudged one with the toe of his boot.

“This isn’t funny.” I bent down and touched the nearest manacle. “He didn’t just walk out. He couldn’t have.”

“Well, he clearly didn’t sprout wings and fly out either.” Ronin sniffed the air, his nostrils flaring. “But he’s not here. No fresh blood. No sign of a struggle. Which is almost worse.”

“How can that be worse?”

He gave me a look. “Because if he left without breaking anything—or anyone—it means he’s more in control than we thought.”

I’d told Ronin earlier over the phone that Marcus was dealing with some “shifter issues” and that he needed to chain himself up for a while. I’d slipped it in casually while inviting him to dinner. I didn’t go into the details, but it had given him something else to focus on, a break from all the brooding over Iris.

“He wouldn’t leave without telling me,” I told him.

Ronin tilted his head. “Are you sure about that? He’s not exactly himself these days. You said so yourself.”

I stood up straight, brushing my palms on my jeans. “Still. This is Marcus. Even cursed, even beast-mode Marcus, he wouldn’t leave without at least saying something.”

“Or maybe a romantic snarl,” added Ronin. “Something subtle.”

I glared. “Not helping.”

He held up his hands. “Just saying. If he’s loose, we’ve got a problem.”

“No shit.”

Ronin sighed and finally looked serious. “Okay, okay. We need to find him. Fast. Before he does something we can’t fix.”

Or someone. I didn’t say it, but the thought stabbed me square in the chest. If Marcus hurt someone else… if the curse pushed him past a point of no return…

I glanced at the broken manacles again. The chains were supposed to hold him. Yet now they were nothing but cold steel and useless.

I exhaled sharply and raked a hand through my hair. “House!” I shouted as I made a beeline for the basement door. “You let him go? House!”

No response. Obviously. House didn’t talk unless he was in butler mode. But that didn’t stop him from flickering the lights dramatically and making the pipes above me screech like banshees with bronchitis.

Ronin blinked. “Guess your butler was on his break.”

“Right.” But no. House couldn’t keep Marcus inside against his will. Right? No idea. But right now I couldn’t let that distract me. Marcus was gone.

“So…” Ronin crossed his arms. “You think he did it?”

I froze and then shook my head—but not with conviction. “I don’t know. The message didn’t say much. Just that someone else was attacked.”

“Who?”

“A witch.”

That sobered him instantly. “Was she killed?”

“I don’t know. The card didn’t say. Just that there was another attack, and Lori’s looking into it.” A queasy feeling settled in my gut. Good thing I hadn’t even started Ruth’s lasagna because I had a feeling it would be all over the floor right now.

Ronin’s expression darkened. “And you think Marcus…”

I pressed my lips together. I had no good answer to give Ronin. No spell to fix this. Just a void where my husband used to be and the haunting truth that I was starting to lose him.

Because whatever this thing was, it was changing him. I’d seen the struggle in his eyes. The agony. The fear. The way he flinched when I touched him like he didn’t trust himself anymore. And if he stayed out there like this, cursed or possessed or twisted by something we didn’t yet understand… it wasn’t just his body that would break. It was his mind. His soul.

And cauldron help me, if we didn’t get to him in time… I didn’t know who would be left to save.

“I have to find him,” I said finally. “Now.” Before someone else got hurt. Before Marcus did something he could never forgive himself for.

Ronin’s expression shifted with something that looked suspiciously like concern. “Then I’m coming with you.”

I nodded once. No time to argue. Ronin might’ve smelled like heartache and cheap liquor, but he was one of my best friends—and right now, I needed backup. Because if Marcus had really done this... if he’d hurt someone... I needed to know. And I needed to stop him before it happened again.

And either way, someone was going to answer for it.

“Where was the attack?” asked Ronin, his voice suddenly all business, the lazy, half-drunk vampire routine gone like a flipped switch.

“Charms Avenue,” I told him. “Not far from here. A few blocks west, near that shop with the cursed wind chimes and the bakery that sells cupcakes too pretty to eat.”

Ronin shoved his hands into his jeans. “You know, I might not be a werewolf or a wereape, but I still have some serious senses. Half-vamp here, remember? If we can get to where the witch was attacked, I might be able to track Marcus.”

I hesitated. “If it’s him.” Who was I kidding? Myself, apparently.

Ronin gave me a side-glance. “You don’t think he did this?” He pointed to the chains on the floor.

I winced. “Yeah. I know it’s him. I’m full of it.”

“At least you’re honest about being full of it.” He managed a dry smile. “It’s very endearing.”

I ran both hands down my face. “He’s not himself. He’s cursed, Ronin. I’m not just saying that to protect him. Okay, I am saying that to protect him but also because it’s true.”

“Cursed,” he repeated slowly. “Like… actual Black magic?”

I nodded. “There’s a group. The Order of Fenrir. A bunch of psycho purist shifter elders who created a magical failsafe to punish shifters who mate outside their species. Guess what Marcus did?”

Ronin raised a brow. “Got cozy with a witch?”

I gave him a look. “You’re hilarious.”

“Wow,” he said, exhaling. “So you’re telling me a racist paranormal death cult out there with a personal vendetta put a curse on Marcus? Great. Just what we needed.”

“Looks like I’m not the only one with supernatural race issues,” I muttered, trying for sarcasm but sounding more exhausted than witty.

Ronin let out a soft, humorless laugh. “You know who would’ve been awesome at finding a way to break that curse?”

I didn’t answer. I already knew.

“Iris,” he said, his voice cracking just a little on her name. “She would’ve figured it out. She would’ve gone full witch-research-mode, locked herself in a room with seven grimoires, three illegal ingredients, and a flask of blood tea. And she wouldn’t have come out until she had a plan.”

I looked over at him. His arms were crossed, jaw tight, but the mask was slipping. His usual smirk, his too-cool-to-care attitude—was all crumbling at the edges. There was grief in his eyes. Raw and fresh and angry.

“She would’ve found a loophole,” he added, softer now. “She always did.”

I swallowed the lump in my throat. “I know. She’s one smart Dark witch.”

Dolores had told me the truth, or at least what she believed was the truth: that curses crafted by the Order of Fenrir had no known counter-curse. That they were bound by blood, by ancestry, by laws so old and dark no one had dared to untangle them.

But I wasn’t about to tell him that.

Not because I didn’t believe Dolores. But because I had to believe there was still a way. That there was always a way. Because the alternative? The alternative meant losing Marcus. Losing my family.

And I refused to accept that.

“There has to be something,” I said, mostly to myself. “Some buried ritual, an unspoken clause, or a way to flip the magic back on whoever cast it. I’ll find it.”

Ronin didn’t respond right away. He just stared out the window toward the dark snow-covered woods, his eyes far away.

“I keep thinking I’m gonna wake up,” he said quietly. “That she’s just gone for a few days. That she’ll walk through the door and roll her eyes at the mess I made in the kitchen. That she’ll call me an idiot and then fix everything like she always does.”

My chest squeezed.

“I miss her,” he said.

“I do too,” I said softly.

We stood there in silence for a beat. Just me and my half-vampire best friend, standing in a basement full of broken chains and impossible questions, trying to keep it together.

“Listen,” I said and then took a steadying breath. “Here’s the thing. We have to find Marcus before Lori does.”

Ronin nodded. “Because if she finds him first…”

“He’ll go straight to prison,” I finished, my stomach tightening. “And once he’s in there, the Gray Council will get involved. And if they get involved, we’ll never get to the truth.”

“Not to mention,” Ronin added, “he’ll be surrounded by a bunch of twitchy shifters who think going feral is contagious. Which… in this case, might not be entirely wrong.”

I rubbed my arms, suddenly cold despite the basement’s stagnant air. “We need to get to that attack site. Now. You think you can pick up a scent? Or a trail?”

Ronin sneered. “If he’s bleeding, sweating, or stressed—and let’s be honest, he’s probably doing all three—I can find him.”

I nodded, determination rising like a fire in my chest. “Okay. Let’s do it. Before the town freaks out, before Lori calls in backup, before someone tries to shoot him with silver bullets or drag him into a holding cell that can’t contain him.”

“Lead the way, boss,” said Ronin, cracking his knuckles. “Let’s go find your husband before the town decides to light their pitchforks.”

This wasn’t just about finding Marcus anymore. It was about saving him from whatever the curse was turning him into. From the fear he might spread. From the damage he could do. From himself.

We climbed the stairs fast, our footsteps echoing through the empty house. The snow outside had picked up again, blowing against the windows like a warning. I barely felt the cold anymore. Not with the fire churning in my chest.

Lori wasn’t stupid. She’d connect the dots soon enough. She already suspected something was off. And if she or one of the deputies caught sight of Marcus like this? Cursed. Out of control. Dangerous.

They’d shoot first and ask questions later. They wouldn’t see my husband. They’d see a threat.

I couldn’t let that happen. I wouldn’t. Because if they found him first, if they put him down like some rabid creature, it wouldn’t just destroy him. It would destroy me. And I wasn’t sure I’d come back from that.

Together, we stepped out into the cold, into the swirling snow, the darkness, and whatever disaster Marcus might’ve left behind.

Because we weren’t just searching for my husband.

We were racing the clock.

And time was running out.

11

MARCUS

I didn’t remember breaking the chains. One moment, I was in the basement, on the floor, breathing slowly while repeating Tessa’s voice in my head like a spell. The next?

I was out here.

Snow crunching under my feet. Wind in my face. Hands trembling and red where the iron had snapped. Snapped. Not unlocked. Not unshackled. Broken.

The links had been layered with magic, reinforced with spells, meant to hold even a wereape at full strength.

And I’d shattered them.

Not because I wanted to. Because I had no choice. Something inside me had risen. Pushed forward. Taken over just long enough to do the one thing I’d feared most—getting free.

Now I was stumbling through the woods like some cursed monster from a backwoods fairy tale, no memory of how I’d gotten out, just the afterburn of rage and heat simmering under my skin.

The worst part?

It felt… good.

There was a clarity in the cold, in the movement, in the sheer force of power still humming through my muscles. I hated it. Hated how much I wanted to give in.

Chains clanked in my memory. Not just the sound but the weight. The feel of them around my wrists, cold and tight and humiliating. I’d asked for them—begged, even. And still, the second they were on me, I felt like an animal.

Not a shifter. Not a man. Just a thing.

I stopped walking.

For a second, I couldn’t breathe. My hands were out in front of me before I realized what I was doing, fingers trembling, knuckles raw—and stained.

Blood.

Dark, dried streaks across my skin. Under my nails. On my sleeves.

I stared at them like they belonged to someone else. Like if I blinked hard enough, they’d vanish, and I’d wake up chained in the basement where I was supposed to be. Where I chose to be.

But the blood was real. And I had no memory of how it got there.

I squeezed my eyes shut and tried to push back into the blank space where the memories should’ve been. But all I found was static, a void full of flickers and shadows and something that felt like teeth.

Nothing solid. Nothing helpful. Just rage. And underneath it, fear.

I wiped my hands on my jeans, like I could scrub away the guilt, the curse, everything. But it didn’t help. The blood was still there. If not on my skin, under it.

I had no plan. No map. Just one thought on repeat: Get away.

Get as far away from everyone I loved before the thing inside me decided to come out again, and this time, maybe I’d stay gone.

I didn’t know what was worse. Blacking out and hurting someone… Or waking up and remembering every second.

And I could feel it again… the curse. Buzzing just under my skin. Like something pacing behind my ribs, eager and angry and ancient.

The curse wasn’t just magic. It was something older. Something designed to hollow you out from the inside, turn your instincts into weapons, until the only thing left was a beast with no name.

The wind whipped across my face, stinging my eyes, but I didn’t stop. Couldn’t. The house was already too far behind me, and I didn’t trust myself to go back. Not like this.

Not when the thing crawling under my skin felt more and more like me.

I clenched my fists. My palms were torn, already healing, but they throbbed with a pulsing ache that had nothing to do with skin.

It was deeper. Older.

The curse wasn’t just poisoning my body. It was crawling into my mind. Making itself at home. Each blackout lasted longer. Each “return” felt thinner, like I was slipping further from myself.

I wasn’t just losing time anymore. I was losing pieces of myself. And I hated it.

I paused at the edge of a ridge, my chest heaving. I didn’t even know where the hell I was anymore, somewhere deep in the woods behind Charms Avenue, maybe. It was hard to tell through the haze clouding my mind. The moon hung overhead, veiled behind a thin layer of clouds, casting everything in a dull silver wash.

I should’ve been able to orient myself. I was a protector. A leader. The damn chief of Hollow Cove. I was supposed to keep people safe. To be the wall between them and the monsters.

And now I was the monster.

That reality hit me square in the gut, heavier than any punch I’d ever taken.

I bit down hard, jaw aching with the pressure. My fists burned where the cuffs had torn skin. My body was built for war. But this fight? This was different.

I couldn’t punch a curse. I couldn’t track it, cuff it, or throw it in a cell. And I wasn’t sure I could survive it, let alone protect anyone else from it.

For just a moment, I let myself picture Tessa, my mate. Her voice. Her magic. Her stubbornness. That wild, unrelenting belief that she could fix the world with enough coffee, sarcasm, and her great ass.

And Darian. My son.

I dropped to one knee, gripping a tree trunk to stay upright. They couldn’t see me like this. They couldn’t see what I was becoming. Because whatever this curse was, it wasn’t just designed to punish me for falling in love with a witch.

It was meant to break me.

I gritted my teeth and pushed forward, deeper into the woods. I didn’t know where I was going, just not toward anyone I cared about.

My feet crunched through ice as I stumbled over a half-buried root. The image of my son, his happy face, already too powerful for the world, flashed through my mind. He didn’t deserve a father like me. He deserved someone stable. Someone who didn’t wake up drenched in blood and guilt. Someone who didn’t chain himself up at night and pray the locks held.

I stopped walking.

The wind howled softly through the trees, snow swirling across my ankles. My feet were bare, cut, raw, streaked with dried blood and dirt, but I didn’t feel a damn thing.

Not the cold. Not the pain. The snow might as well have been ash.

Whatever was inside me now… it had numbed more than just my skin.

The voice in my head, the rational one, the one that still sounded like me, was getting quieter.

And the other one?

It was getting louder.

Kill.

Not a command. Not even a word.

Just a feeling.

A flash of heat behind the eyes. A tightening in the spine. A pulse in my palms that told me I was seconds away from shifting, even though I hadn’t called it. Not willingly.

I crouched down, my hands on my knees, breathing hard. “You’re not in control,” I growled. “You’re not in control, you son of a bitch.”

Whether I was talking to the curse or myself… I wasn’t sure.

But I knew I had to keep moving. Because if I stayed here too long, something bad was going to happen. Again.

And I wasn’t sure I’d come back from it this time.

I pushed off my knees, forcing myself upright. Gotta keep moving. One foot in front of the other. That’s all I had to do. Just don’t stop. Don’t think. Don’t feel.

But every step was harder.

Like the woods were shifting around me, twisting in on themselves, stretching out like some cursed labyrinth built to trap me. Trees I’d passed already now loomed again. The wind buzzed in my ears, sharp and high-pitched, like whispering in a language I couldn’t understand.

No… not whispering. Calling.

The curse was pulling me.

I gritted my teeth and clenched my fists. My fingernails, already cracked and dirty, dug into my palms hard enough to draw blood. Maybe if I focused on the pain, I could stay grounded. Stay me.

But the curse didn’t care about pain. It thrived on it.

My breath came faster. My muscles twitched. Something coiled in my spine, something hot and wrong and ancient.

And then I heard it.

The growl, low and feral.

It took me a full second to realize it was coming from me.

“No,” I gasped, staggering to a tree and gripping the trunk like it could anchor me. “Not now. Not again.” But it was already happening.

My skin rippled as bones flexed under flesh. Pain, sharp, deep, and burning, flashed through me like fire as my body started to shift without my command.

But this wasn’t my usual transformation. When I shift into my gorilla form, it’s instinctual. Seamless. Powerful, yes, but it doesn’t hurt. It never hurts. It feels like becoming more of myself. Like settling into skin that was always meant to stretch.

But this was different. And nothing about it felt natural.

My breath hitched. My vision blurred. The trees tilted around me like a spinning stage as I dropped to my knees, choking on a growl that didn’t sound like mine.

My fingers stretched and kept stretching, bones snapping, curling into something too long, too sharp. Claws. I wasn’t supposed to have claws.

My muscles tore and reformed in uneven bursts. My spine twisted violently, bones cracking in disjointed rhythm as if something inside me was rearranging the blueprint of what I was supposed to be.

The curse wasn’t triggering a shift. It was corrupting it. Rewriting it. Turning me into a version of myself that didn’t exist in nature, something feral, distorted, savage.

And I couldn’t stop it.

“No—Tessa—Darian—” I choked, the words slipping through my teeth as my voice shifted, deepening into something unrecognizable.

They were the last names I managed before the beast inside me surged forward, no warning, no mercy, ripping through me like a tidal wave of heat and hunger.

The world tilted sideways. Trees blurred. The last thing I heard was the sound of my own heartbeat… slowing… stretching…

And then darkness consumed me.

12

TESSA

There’s nothing like trudging through snow, under a starless sky, hoping your cursed husband isn’t out there somewhere turning into a demonic gorilla and ripping people to shreds.

This is what romance looks like when you marry into the paranormal, apparently.

Ronin and I walked along Charms Avenue. It was quieter than usual, no cars, no chatter, just the kind of eerie silence that felt too loud. The storefronts were mostly dark, the streetlights flickering. We passed Martha’s beauty salon, Hot Mess Witch. The pink, two-story Victorian house stood out against the snow. The lights were off there too.

We moved slowly, sticking to the trees lining the edge of the road until we came to the alley just behind the old herbalist shop.

That’s when I saw her. Lori was standing with two deputies near the taped-off area, talking in low tones as they catalogued evidence.

“Crap,” I hissed, grabbing Ronin’s sleeve and ducking behind a half-dead pine tree. “Lori’s here. If she sees us poking around, she’ll know we’re tracking Marcus.” The last thing I needed was for that tall werebear to follow us so she could arrest my husband.

Ronin tilted his head, peeking through a gap in the branches. “Little late for that. I think she already clocked us.”

I followed his gaze. Sure enough, Lori looked up, her sharp eyes catching ours in the dark.

But she didn’t move. Just turned back to the deputies and continued pointing toward a bloodied scrap of fabric half-buried in the snow. Weird.

Ronin shrugged. “Guess she’s letting us do our thing.”

“Or she’s just pretending not to see us so she can yell at us later.”

“Also possible,” he said.

But my gut told me that Lori cared about Marcus. She didn’t want to have to arrest him. She wanted us to get to him first. Hopefully to help him and get rid of that damned curse.

Even in the low light, I could see it—blood, spattered and smeared in streaks across the white snow. The whole scene was illuminated by tall, high-powered LED floodlights, casting harsh beams over the white ground and making every crimson smear stand out like a scream. The victim was gone, probably taken to the infirmary or morgue, but the scene was still marked like a horror show in progress.

I turned to Ronin. “Are we close enough for you to get a scent?” It felt strange to ask that question out loud, like my friend was a scent hound. But as part vampire, I guess he was.

He inhaled through his nose, his eyes narrowing slightly. “Yeah. It’s faint… but I’ve got it. Blood. Sweat. Fear. And… something else.”

“Marcus?”

He nodded once. “Yeah. I can follow it. Half-vamp bloodhound mode engaged.”

I raised a brow. “That’s a feature?”

“Oh yeah,” he said, sniffing dramatically. “Comes standard with the fangs. And a slightly unhealthy relationship with leather jackets.”

I laughed. “Impressive, my half-vampire friend.”

A smirk tugged at his mouth. “I live to serve. And occasionally brood in alleyways.”

I was glad Ronin was out here with me. Yes, to help with finding Marcus, but also because it got him out of the house, kept him from binge drinking, and got him to thinking of something other than Iris for the moment.

I glanced back toward Lori. She was still with the others, still pretending we weren’t here. Good.

“Then let’s go,” I whispered, already moving.

We slipped away from the alley and back into the shadows, quiet as ghosts. Because if Marcus had left a trail, we were going to follow it. And we had to find him before someone else did.

I followed Ronin. Not just because he was my personal vamp tracker tonight but because, unlike me, he came equipped with supernatural night vision—one of the perks of being a half-vampire.

Me? I had to rely on the high-tech magical artifact known as my cell phone’s flashlight app.

Once we were far enough from Lori and the deputies, I swiped it on and aimed the beam at the snow. The light cut through the darkness, casting a pale cone of illumination that barely lit the trail of faint, rusty stains in the snow.

Blood.

Ronin moved like he was on a leash, his gait slow and deliberate. He sniffed the air once, tilted his head, and then cut left down a narrower path between two twisted trees. I was both weirded out and impressed.

“He went this way,” he said.

I didn’t ask how he knew. At this point, I just trusted him to follow the smell of doom.

We passed the last row of buildings, and the town’s warmth fell behind us like a dropped coat. Ahead, the trees thickened, black skeletal branches scratching the sky as we stepped into the wooded edge of Hollow Cove.

After a few minutes of weaving through frozen brush and half-buried roots, Ronin said quietly, “What are you going to do if we find him?”

I frowned. “What do you mean?”

He stopped just long enough to glance at me over his shoulder. His expression was unreadable. “I mean… if it’s him. If he’s cursed and feral. If he’s gone too far. What then?”

I didn’t answer, not right away, because I didn’t have an answer.

I looked down at the ground, at the footprints pressed into the snow, dotted with specks of blood. “I don’t know,” I said honestly.

He nodded once. “Fair.”

“But don’t say things like that,” I added, my voice lower now. “Don’t talk like it’s over. I haven’t given up.”

“Didn’t say you had. I just… want you to be prepared.”

I knew what he meant. There was a real possibility that the curse was irreversible, which meant I’d lose Marcus forever. That Darian would grow up without a father.

My eyes stung. This was not the time to despair or let my emotions take control. I had to be smart, and right now that meant finding Marcus and bringing him home so we could make a new plan.

We kept walking.

The snow crunched beneath our boots. Ronin didn’t press the issue further. He just moved ahead of me again, his shoulders tense and his hands flexing like he was prepping for a fight.

And I kept following. Because no matter how bad this got… I wasn’t letting Marcus go without a fight. Not to the curse. Not to the order. Not to anyone.

A few minutes passed in silence before Ronin glanced over his shoulder and said, “So… about your kid.”

I raised a brow. “Which part? The part where he’s growing faster than a magical beanstalk or the part where I’m going to have to buy toddler shoes every other week?”

“No,” he said, smirking. “The part where he summoned a parade of woodland creatures like some kind of Disney overlord.”

I groaned. “Yeah. That.” So much was happening in my life right now that I barely had time to wrap my head around what I’d seen with my own eyes. All of those animals, all standing at attention as if waiting for Darian to tell them what to do. It was crazy. Insane. And apparently, part of my life now.

“Has he done that before?” asked Ronin.

“Not exactly like that,” I said. “But a few weeks ago, we were in Ruth’s potion room. All three of my aunts were there. I had Darian with me… and about twenty kerblix demons.”

Ronin blinked. “Inside Ruth’s potion room? How did they get there?”

“Long story, but they kind of multiplied.”

“Did they attack?”

“Nope. They just… sat. Right in front of Darian. Like soldiers in a war room, waiting for orders.”

Ronin stared at me, his eyes a little wider. “That’s… intense.”

“I mentioned it to Marcus,” I said, trying not to smile. “And of course, he was all proud. Gave me the full alpha-chest puff. ‘That’s my boy,’ kind of thing. I thought he was about to make Darian a pack badge.”

Ronin snorted. “Yeah. Sounds about right. Like father, like tiny, demon-commanding son.”

“Literally.”

We kept walking, ducking under a low-hanging branch. The deeper we got into the woods, the quieter it became.

I sighed. “But I’ve got to do something about it, Ronin. I mean, my kid has the power to command lesser demons and woodland squirrels. If I don’t start training him soon, he’s going to end up running Hollow Cove by the time he’s in pull-ups.”

“Would that be so bad?” he asked, grinning again. “He’d probably pass better zoning laws.”

I gave him a look.

He held up a hand. “Kidding. Mostly.”

We rounded a bend, the blood trail curving to the right and heading deeper into the forest. Ronin slowed, scanning the area, his nostrils flaring like a bloodhound on a mission.

Then he said, “What about that woman? The one from the Gray Council. What’s her deal?”

My shoulders tensed at the memory. “Morgana Draeven. She showed up at my doorstep in full mage mode, gray robes and all, like she owned the place.”

“Sounds delightful.”

“She said she was there to ‘evaluate’ Darian. To help. To guide him. Said it was for his benefit. That the Gray Council just wants to support parents raising gifted children.”

Ronin snorted. “Bullshit.”

I nodded. “Yeah, well… I didn’t believe her for a second. I don’t know how to explain it, but I felt it in my witchy bones. They don’t want to guide him. They want to assess the threat.”

“To them?” he asked.

“To everyone.”

I wrapped my arms around myself as the cold bit harder. “And I don’t think they’d hesitate to do something drastic if they decided he was too powerful.” Like take him away from me. The thought of never seeing my son again sent a white-hot rage through me.

Over my dead body, Morgana.

Ronin didn’t say anything right away. Just gave a low grunt and then pointed. “Trail turns up there.”

We moved together in silence for a few more steps, the snow crunching beneath us as the weight of everything pressed down.

“Hey,” he said after a beat. “You’ll figure it out. The Marcus thing. The Darian thing. The looming-mage-in-a-robe thing.”

“Hope so.” I opened my mouth to say the same about Iris… but stopped myself.

The truth was, I wasn’t sure anymore. And if I brought her up now, it might send Ronin spiraling—pull him back into that hollowed-out, heartbroken version of himself. The one that couldn’t track anything except his own grief.

And I needed him sharp. I needed to find Marcus. Soon.

We followed the trail until the trees started to press in tighter, like even the forest didn’t want us going any farther.

That’s when I heard it—branches snapping, heavy breathing, a low, bone-deep growl that vibrated through the soles of my boots.

Ronin shot me a look. “That’s not friendly.”

We crept forward, slowly and carefully, the flashlight beam jittering across the snow as my hand shook.

And then we saw him. He was crouched low in a small clearing, half in shadow, half in moonlight—and wrong.

Massive. Hulking. Still vaguely gorilla-shaped, but twisted, mutated. His arms were longer, stretched with sinew that didn’t belong. And where his fingernails should’ve been, he had claws. Curved and deadly and ready to tear. His back hunched with coiled muscle, his chest rising and falling in uneven bursts. Patches of his skin were scorched with glowing marks, symbols that pulsed like they were branded into him by some ancient, merciless hand.

His face was consumed by fangs, not just canines—full mouth. His silverback features were distorted, mouth pulled wider, eyes glowing, not gray, but white-hot and animalistic. Savage. Unrecognizable.

He wasn’t Marcus.

Ronin stepped back. “Fuck me. That’s not your husband.”

I took a breath, slow and shaking. “No. That’s the curse.”

Then the thing that was Marcus looked up. His gaze snapped toward us, locked, stilled.

And then he moved. Fast. So damn fast.

He let out a roar that split the air like thunder as he lunged forward, his claws digging into the snow and sending up a spray of ice and blood.

I barely had time to react.

“Move!” Ronin yelled, grabbing my arm and yanking me back as the beast that used to be Marcus charged.

And came straight for us.

13

TESSA

I’ve faced a lot of things in my life.

Aunt Beverly’s dating advice. Darian’s magically weaponized teething phase.

The occasional late-night ghoul uprising at the cemetery.

But having my half-gorilla, half-something-else-husband roar and come barreling at me like a nightmare from the Netherworld? Yeah. That one was new.

“Run!” shouted Ronin.

“I am running!” I snapped, nearly face-planting into a snowbank. “This is me running!” Yeah, I needed to work on my cardio.

Marcus—if you could still call him that—lunged through the clearing with horrifying speed. The curse had twisted him into something monstrous. Hulking. Misshapen. Gorilla-adjacent with bonus claws, glowing eyes, and a vibe that said he’d like to rip something in half, preferably me.

Branches cracked. Snow sprayed.

I could feel the heat of his breath behind us as we tore through the woods.

“What do we do?” I yelled over my own ragged breathing.

“Try not to die?” Ronin offered helpfully.

“Solid plan!”

Marcus roared again behind us, deeper this time. It vibrated in my spine. Not angry. Not even wild. Hungry.

“Okay, new plan,” I gasped, ducking under a low branch. “We can’t outrun him forever. You can with your vamp speed, but the only speed talent I’ve got is binge-watching a TV show on Netflix.”

“I was hoping you’d say something witchy,” Ronin gritted. “Like, I don’t know—a trap spell, a force field, a spontaneous forest portal?”

I shook my head. “That’s not my kind of magic.” I didn’t want to, but it looked like I would have to fight my husband physically.

We skidded to a stop near a small rock outcrop. A second later, Marcus exploded through the trees like a nightmare on overdrive. His twisted form loomed in the shadows. Massive, hunched, and warped. Steam curled off his skin in thick, ghostly ribbons, rising from glowing sigils scorched across his chest and shoulders. They pulsed like embers, etched deep into his flesh in jagged, ancient shapes that radiated magic and pain.

His arms were too long, knotted with unnatural muscle, and his clawed hands flexed with an eerie, bone-snapping rhythm. His breath came in sharp, savage bursts, fogging the cold air as he stared at us like he couldn’t decide if we were prey… or a threat.

He was panting. Twitching. Scary as hell and staring at me.

For a second, just a second, something flickered in his eyes. Gray beneath the glow. Recognition? Pain?

I stepped forward before I could talk myself out of it. “Marcus,” I said, my voice low. “It’s me. Tessa. You know me. I’m your wife. Remember?”

He snarled.

Ronin moved behind me, tense. “I swear, if he goes Godzilla on you, I’m tackling him.”

“No one’s tackling anyone,” I murmured. “Just give me a second. I can reach him.” Cauldron help me, I hoped I could.

I kept my hands up, palms out. “Come on, big guy. You’re in there. You’ve got this. Come back to me.”

The creature took one heavy step forward and then another. Then he stopped, his clawed fingers twitching and chest heaving.

And then he lunged at me.

There was no recognition in his eyes. No flicker of who he used to be. Just raw, feral rage wrapped in muscle and curse-burned flesh.

“Marcus, no!” I barely got the words out before he launched himself like a damn wrecking ball with teeth and claws.

I hit the ground hard, the breath punched from my lungs as claws missed my face by inches. He landed beside me and pivoted fast, too fast, already coming back around for another strike.

“Accendo!” I shouted, my power word crackling through the air as fire erupted from my hands.

Flames burst in a wall between us.

Marcus plowed straight through it like it was fog.

Flames danced along his arms and shoulders, licking at his fur and the cursed symbols glowing like molten brands across his chest. But he didn’t even flinch. Didn’t slow down.

“Okay, good to know,” I gasped, stumbling back. “Fire does nothing. Noted. Love that journey for us.”

He roared and lunged again, a blur of muscle and claws, and I barely rolled out of the way in time. His claws raked through the snow where I’d just been, digging deep trenches like they were slicing through butter. Shards of ice flew everywhere.

“Ventum!” I shouted, hurling my hand toward him.

The word hit the air with a snap, and a gale-force blast of wind erupted from my palm, catching Marcus full in the chest. His massive frame lifted and crashed sideways into a pine tree with the sound of splintering wood and primal rage.

The tree cracked, bent, and then snapped in half like a toothpick.

I stared. “That was a full-grown pine.”

Marcus didn’t stay down. He rolled to his feet, snarling with drool sliding from his fangs as he shook off the impact like it was nothing more than a strong breeze. His claws dug into the snow. His eyes, still glowing, still inhuman, locked on to me with terrifying focus. Even when he shifted into his gorilla form, Marcus was still there—in his eyes, in the way he moved. I always knew it was him. But not this time. This time, I was staring at a stranger. A monster.

He bared his teeth and charged again.

“Declinare!” I screamed.

A shimmer of White magic surged from my hands, deflection magic, wrapping around me just in time as Marcus swiped with those cursed claws. The energy caught the strike and redirected it, but the sheer force of it still sent me flying backward into a snowbank.

I hit hard, gasping as stars exploded behind my eyes. Through the ringing in my ears, I heard him bellow again.

He was in a frenzy now. Pure, unstoppable fury. His movements were erratic, like the curse inside him was burning too hot and needed to break something just to breathe.

And unfortunately, I was the thing he had chosen to break.

“Move!” Ronin shouted, diving in from the side.

He slammed into Marcus at full vampire speed—eyes black, fangs bared, claws out. They rolled through the snow in a violent blur of snarls, fists, and flailing limbs.

Marcus threw him off like he weighed nothing.

Ronin landed with a thud and groaned. “Okay. So he’s stronger now. That’s cool.”

Marcus spun, roaring, and came at me again.

I stood my ground, my hands shaking but ready. “Protego!”

A glowing shield burst to life just as he slammed into it.

It cracked. Cracked.

“Oh, you’ve got to be kidding me,” I hissed.

The shield held, barely, but Marcus reared back, slammed into it again, and this time it shattered like glass.

Ronin blurred behind him and leapt on his back, locking his arms around his neck. “Go, Tessa! I got him!”

“You absolutely do not got him!”

Marcus bucked like a wild beast, slamming Ronin into a tree so hard for a second I thought he’d broken my friend’s back.

“Okay, that fucking hurt,” wheezed Ronin. “Plan C? Do we have a Plan C?”

I scrambled up, my pulse racing, and shouted, “Inflitus!”

A blast of kinetic force slammed Marcus back, enough to give us a few feet of breathing room.

He snarled, his chest heaving, those cursed sigils burning brighter now, almost pulsing with each breath.

Ronin staggered up beside me, bleeding from a gash on his temple. “We need a Plan D. Or a tranquilizer the size of a Prius.”

“I’m open to suggestions!”

Marcus let out a roar so loud it shook the trees. And still… no recognition. No hesitation. No mercy. Just a monster. And we were its target.

He came at us again. Faster this time. More erratic. A blur of claws, glowing runes, and unstoppable rage.

Ronin grabbed my arm and pulled me behind him. “Okay, so, I’m just gonna say it. Maybe it’s time to bust out the demon juice?”

“What? No.” I ducked a flying chunk of snow Marcus kicked up with one clawed swipe. “I don’t want to hurt him.”

“Yeah, well your husband is trying to kill us. Kill trumps hurt.”

Marcus let out another guttural roar and slammed both fists into the ground, sending a shockwave of snow and debris into the air like a mini magical earthquake.

I dove behind a rock. “Okay, you have a point.”

Ronin wiped the blood from his face with the back of his hand. “I’m just saying, demon mojo or not, you’re the only one who has a shot at putting him down without needing a casket after.”

“Do you hear yourself?” I hissed.

“Only slightly over the sound of my own impending death!”

Marcus charged again, and Ronin met him head-on, claws extended, fangs flashing, eyes fully vamped out.

They collided—again—but this time Marcus barely moved. He just lifted Ronin like a feral toddler with a Barbie doll and threw him straight into a tree.

“Ronin!”

“I’m fine,” he groaned from the base of the pine. “Not emotionally, but physically… still pending.”

Marcus stalked toward me now, his chest rising in furious bursts, and the cursed symbols flared with each step.

I backed up, my hand trembling at my side. He didn’t see me. Didn’t know me. Only wanted to destroy. And that? Well, it hurt like a sonofabitch.

“Tessa,” Ronin called, dragging himself upright. “You’ve got one shot.”

My pulse thrashed so hard I could hear it in my ears. I felt the flicker of something… dark… in my chest. My demon half, rising like a storm just beneath the surface.

It wanted out. It wanted to protect me. Protect me from my husband. Yeah, definitely going to need therapy after this.

“Come on,” I whispered to myself. “Please… remember me.”

But Marcus didn’t slow. Didn’t hesitate.

My demon magic was strong and sometimes unpredictable, especially when combined with raw emotion, like desperation, anger, and fear. And I was feeling all three now.

But Marcus wasn’t stopping.

“Darian needs you,” I whispered, my voice cracking and my eyes watering. “I need you. So you have to forgive me for this.”

The monster roared, leaping at me.

My body moved before my brain could argue.

And I let it out.

Dark tendrils of raw, seething energy burst from my hands like black lightning. They cracked across the clearing, lashing out with vicious snaps and curling through the air like serpents looking for something to destroy.

They found him, hitting Marcus mid-lunge. The energy slammed into his chest with a sickening sizzle. His cursed body jerked and twisted, but he kept coming.

“Marcus, stop!” I screamed, my voice breaking.

I hit him again. More tendrils surged out—one, two, four—lashing again, striking him like whips. The symbols on his chest flared white-hot, reacting violently to the magic, to me.

He staggered, snarling, but didn’t fall.

So I hit him again. And again.

The power poured out of me in thick, angry pulses. The snow around me melted into steam. The air cracked like a thunderstorm had taken up residence in my lungs.

And I cried the whole time.

Because every strike—every blast—was hitting the man I loved. Not the monster. Not really.

“Please,” I whispered, barely audible. “Come back. Please, Marcus…”

One final surge tore from me. It lifted him off the ground and hurled him backward into a tree. The trunk shattered on impact, and Marcus crashed down in a heap of fur, blood, and glowing ash.

He didn’t move.

I stood there, my chest heaving and hands shaking. My face was stained with tears, sweat, and grief.

Ronin stumbled up beside me, wincing. “That… was terrifying. Also kinda hot. But mostly terrifying.”

I didn’t answer. I dropped to my knees, staring at Marcus’s still form.

“Please,” I whispered again, my voice wrecked. “Don’t be gone…”

I crawled toward him, my hands trembling and the breath catching in my throat like it didn’t want to come out unless he opened his eyes.

“Marcus,” I whispered, brushing my fingers over his shoulder. His skin was still warm and buzzing faintly with leftover energy from the curse… and from me.

And then I felt it. A twitch beneath my hand. His back arched slightly. The cursed sigils, once glowing white-hot across his chest, began to flicker, like dying embers losing their spark.

With a low, ragged groan, Marcus began to shift. Bones cracked, fur retracted, and his monstrous form began to shrink, twisting and contorting back into something human. Still too pale. Still bruised. But his features… his features were finally returning.

The claws faded. The glowing eyes dulled. The nightmare was… ebbing.

I covered my mouth with both hands and sobbed.

Not delicate, graceful crying. No. This was the ugly, heaving, thank-the-gods-he’s-not-dead kind of crying. I didn’t care how loud it was. Or that Ronin was watching.

I leaned over Marcus and pressed my forehead to his, feeling the heat of his skin, the faint but steady beat of his heart.

“You’re okay,” I whispered. “You’re okay. You’re okay.”

Ronin crouched beside me, still favoring his ribs. “Okay, yeah… not to ruin the moment, but what now? We can’t exactly leave the nearly murdered wereape chief naked and unconscious in the middle of the woods.”

I sniffled. “No. Definitely not.”

He raised a brow. “So…”

I wiped my face and sat back on my heels, the adrenaline finally fading enough for exhaustion to slam into me like a brick wall.

“We take him to my aunts,” I said, steadying my voice. “They’re the only ones who might know how to help him now.” Cauldron knew Marcus and I had both failed with the chaining in the basement thing. Not again.

Ronin looked down at Marcus’s unconscious form. “You think they’ll know what to do?”

I swallowed hard. “They have to.”

Because the curse wasn’t done. And if they didn’t, I’d lose Marcus forever.

14

TESSA

How does a witch haul her naked, cursed, and ridiculously heavy husband back to Davenport House? Easy. She uses a ley line, that’s how. And maybe cries a little on the way.

After telling Ronin to meet me back at the house and making him swear not to stop at a pub for drinks, I yanked on the closest ley line, grabbed Marcus under the armpits, and jumped.

No “ley line jumping for non-witches” juice from Ruth (not sure what else to call it). No magical seat belts. No safety protocols. Just me. My magic. And roughly two hundred pounds of unconscious wereape.

What could possibly go wrong?

Everything. My grip slipped twice, and his foot nearly kicked me in the face. I’m fairly certain I broke at least one ley line etiquette rule by dragging a naked man through it, but desperate times and all that.

Besides, trying to haul Marcus between me and Ronin through the woods wasn’t an option. Lori would have spotted us, and this time she wouldn’t have been able to pretend she didn’t see us carrying her naked boss.

And the real kicker? He was still unconscious.

But I didn’t know for how long, or whether the curse was just catching its breath before round two. And after the first round? I was hanging on by a frayed emotional thread, one shaky breath away from a magical breakdown.

The ley line ride lasted about twenty-five seconds, but it felt like thirty years. I slowed us just as Davenport House came into view, and ley lined us straight through the front door.

With a whoosh and a thud, we landed hard on the living room rug.

“Ah!” Dolores leapt from the couch, her book flying into the air like a startled bird. “What in the goddess?”

“Hi,” I wheezed. “I brought a surprise. It’s heavy, slightly cursed, and may snore.”

Her eyes landed on Marcus’s very bare, very unconscious form sprawled like a fallen Greek statue across the rug. “Why is your husband naked in my living room?”

“It’s a long story.”

Her gaze narrowed. “And bleeding.”

“Longer story.”

From the kitchen, I heard Ruth shout, “Is that a naked man I hear? Did Beverly order another date by ley line?”

“Nope,” I called back, dragging myself up to sitting. I had no idea that was a thing. “Just my monster-husband.” I grabbed the throw blanket from the couch and covered Marcus with it.

Tinker Bell zipped in, took one look at Marcus, and said, “Well. That escalated.”

“It did.” I wiped the sweat from my brow. My arms ached. My soul ached. My everything ached. But we were back, thank the cauldron.

Hildo bounded into the living room, walked over to Marcus and said, “He smells different.”

“That’s the curse,” said Dolores.

The curse.

My gaze darted to the couch. Darian was still asleep, bundled in a fleece blanket, his tiny arm curled under his cheek like a little cherub who had no idea his father had tried to eat us thirty minutes ago. A soft snore slipped from his nose. He looked so peaceful.

And I was about to fall apart.

“Tessa? What happened to you?” Ruth’s voice pulled me back. She stepped into the living room, wiping her hands on her apron, her brows pulled tight with concern.

I didn’t even try to be strong. Not anymore. “Marcus,” I breathed. “He broke free from the chains. Ronin and I followed him.”

I barely paused to collect myself before I just poured it all out. The blood at the witch attack. The trail. The cursed version of Marcus that tore through the woods like a magical horror movie reject. How we fought him, how Ronin vamped out, how I used every spell I could think of. And how nothing worked. Nothing except…

“My demon mojo,” I said, my voice shaking. “It’s the only thing that stopped him.”

Ruth’s lips pressed together. Dolores sat down slowly, a deep frown on her face.

“I hit him over and over,” I choked out. “And he still kept coming.” I wiped my tears. “He would’ve killed us both. I didn’t want to do it, but… there was no other way.”

My hands were trembling. My cheeks were wet again. Yep. Still crying. And now there were some snot tears. Excellent.

I looked at my aunts, my voice raw and pleading. “He’s unconscious now. But I don’t know for how long. You have to help me.”

The room was still for a beat. And then—

Bang.

The front door flew open and slammed against the wall hard enough to rattle the coat rack.

Ronin rushed in, bleeding from the temple and covered in pine needles. “Okay, first of all,” he huffed, “he’s heavier than he looks, and I think I bruised my spleen.” Then he looked down at Marcus, still unconscious on the rug. “Oh good. You didn’t lose him in the ley line. That’s something.”

“Are you sure he hurt that witch?” Ruth asked softly, her arms wrapped tightly around herself like she was holding her heart together.

Ronin looked at me for a second, almost like he was asking for permission. Then he nodded. “Yeah. His scent was all over the place. I think that Lori chick knows it too.”

Ruth sucked in a breath and covered her mouth. “Oh no. She’ll arrest him. She’ll—”

“She’ll bring in the whole damn paranormal order if she thinks Marcus is a threat,” I finished for her. “We can’t let that happen.”

“This isn’t his fault,” Ruth whispered.

“No,” I said, my voice firm. “This… thing… that attacked us? It wasn’t Marcus. Not really.”

“Maybe not,” said Dolores from her seat, her voice grim and even. “But it was still the curse. And it made him do those terrible things.”

I turned to her, panic bubbling back up in my chest. “He won’t be unconscious forever. Those chains didn’t work. He broke them. Whatever’s inside him, it’s getting worse.” Getting stronger. Soon, it would take over my husband, and I would lose him.

Dolores stood again, her eyes sharp, her tone that of a woman who had lived through wars—magical and otherwise. “Then we stop it before it has another chance to rise.”

“How?” I asked.

Dolores exchanged a look with Ruth—the kind that meant a heavy decision had just been made without anyone saying a word out loud.

“We’ll have to induce a magical coma,” said Dolores calmly.

I stared at her. “Oh, hell no. Are you serious?”

“It’s a deep magical sleep,” explained Ruth, gently. “It’ll slow down everything. Heart rate, brain function, magical surges. It won’t cure him, but it will contain the curse. For a while.”

“For a while?” I echoed, already feeling the weight of those three words.

“It’s not a permanent fix,” continued Dolores. “But it’s the only way to buy us time to figure out what to do next.”

“But a magical coma?” My voice broke. “Isn’t that dangerous?” Iris had been in a magical coma, and it had been hell. Ronin almost never forgave me. In the end Iris had been cured, but this was different.

“Yes,” Ruth admitted, her shoulders sagging a little. “There are risks. Magic like that doesn’t come free. It always takes something in return.”

“What kind of something?” I asked, even though I wasn’t sure I wanted the answer. I knew magic always required payment. That’s just how the system worked.

Dolores’s expression didn’t waver. “Could be his strength. His memory. His inner magic. Could be something deeper. It’s unpredictable.”

“And you want me to agree to that?” I asked, my throat tightening.

“We’re not saying this lightly,” said Ruth, stepping forward. “But it’s either this, or the next time he wakes up, someone else might not survive it.”

I looked down at Marcus, my husband, the father of my child, still lying on the rug, unconscious, vulnerable, glowing faintly from the fading sigils burned into his chest.

“I just got him back,” I whispered. “And now you want me to put him under and hope we can fix this before he loses everything?”

“We’re already losing him, Tess,” said Dolores. “This is how we stop it. For now.”

I swallowed hard. My legs felt weak.

Ronin stepped forward, placing a gentle hand on my shoulder. “I know it sucks. But this gives us a shot—a real one.”

My eyes filled again, but I nodded. Because as much as I hated it, they were right.

I reached down and took Marcus’s hand in mine.

“Okay,” I said softly. “Do it.” If this was our only chance to buy us time to figure out how to get rid of this damned curse, I was willing to give everything I had to make sure it worked.

“Ruth,” ordered Dolores as she and her sister both knelt beside Marcus, their expressions shifting into something solemn, something witchy.

Ruth didn’t hesitate. She wiped her hands one last time on her apron, muttered something under her breath that sounded suspiciously like, “I hate doing this part,” and joined her sister, kneeling opposite her.

They each placed a hand on Marcus’s bare chest. The cursed sigils still faintly glowed, etched like scars over muscle and magic. The moment their palms made contact, the air shifted.

A low hum began to vibrate through the floorboards. The temperature dropped, and a soft breeze stirred from nowhere, carrying the scent of pine, cedar, crushed leaves, and something deeper—earth magic. White witch magic.

It had a weight to it, old and natural and real. Like the kind of spell that could wake a forest or put it to sleep forever.

Dolores closed her eyes and began to chant. Ruth joined her, their voices layering like harmony in a haunting lullaby.

“Dormire… pacem… vinculo animae…”

I stood back, my arms crossed tightly over my chest, trying not to shake. Trying not to scream as I watched the man I loved disappear behind closed eyes and whispered incantations.

Tinker Bell hovered silently beside the fireplace, her wings drooping. She wasn’t glowing tonight, too much sadness dimming her sparkle. She floated down and landed beside Hildo, who leaned his head against her shoulder with a soft feline purr.

Ronin stood by the entryway, his hands in his pockets. He hadn’t said a word since I agreed to the coma. He didn’t need to. The pain in his eyes mirrored mine.

As the chanting deepened, the lights flickered.

Tiny orbs of glowing white light rose from Dolores and Ruth’s hands, swirling like fireflies caught in a slow-moving current. The symbols on Marcus’s chest pulsed once and then began to fade, swallowed by the spell.

His breathing slowed, and his fingers twitched.

And then… stillness.

A final whispered word from Dolores echoed in the room like the closing of a door.

And Marcus went under. Or so, that’s what it looked like to me.

I dropped to my knees beside him and brushed the hair from his forehead. He looked so peaceful, like he was finally resting after carrying the weight of a curse no one should ever bear.

My heart felt too big for my chest. “We’ll get you out,” I whispered. “I swear it.”

Because no matter how deep this curse ran, or how dark it got…

I wasn’t leaving him there. Not now. Not ever.

I glanced over to my son. He was still asleep on the couch, his arms sprawled out and lips parted like he didn’t have a care in the world. The thought of him losing his father—of Marcus never holding him again—ignited a wildfire in my chest.

I turned back to my aunts. “So, how do we get rid of the Mark of Fenrir?”

I knew what they’d said earlier. That it was “maybe” impossible. That it was fused into Marcus’s DNA like a magical parasite with a grudge. But I wasn’t giving up. Not while I still drew breath.

Dolores groaned a little as she stood and crossed the room, retrieving the old book she’d dropped earlier. The binding was cracked, the pages yellowed and brittle.

“I’ve been reading up on it,” she said, flipping to a marked page. “There’s a whole section in here on the Order of Fenrir—their origins, their elders, the curses they used to enforce purity laws across the shifter bloodlines.”

“They have more than one?” Ronin said, aghast. “I really hate these assholes.”

“Me too,” Ruth muttered, her cute features twisted into a frown.

Dolores nodded grimly. “They do. But this one, the Mark of Fenrir, is their most powerful. It was reserved for the highest-ranking traitors. Those who threatened the structure of their order. It’s not just a curse. It’s a magical reprogramming. Something that turns the body and mind against itself.”

A wave of nausea rolled through me. “And?” I asked, my voice sharp. “What did you learn?”

Dolores hesitated. “That we may not be able to remove it,” she said quietly. “It’s old magic, Tessa. The oldest. Older than the White Witches, older than the Gray Council. Maybe even pre-Fenrir era. It was layered, passed down, augmented by generations of fanatics.”

My pulse pounded. “But there has to be something.”

She shook her head. “Not that we can do here. Not with the magic we have. The best option may be to bring Marcus to a paranormal hospital. They can… monitor him. Stabilize him. Keep the curse from escalating further.”

I stared at her, ice running through my veins. “Will they cure him?”

Dolores’s silence was answer enough. “No,” she said finally. “They’ll treat the symptoms. But the Mark? It’s embedded too deep. To remove it would—”

“Kill him,” I finished for her, my voice hollow. I stepped back, barely holding myself together. “That’s not good enough.”

“Tessa—”

“No!” My voice cracked with fury. “That’s not good enough! You’re telling me to lock him away like some monster and just… wait until it’s too late?”

I looked at Marcus again, unmoving, trapped in a magical sleep, and my heart shattered all over again. “We have to be missing something. Some kind of counter-magic. Some kind of—”

“It’s not just counter-magic,” said Dolores softly. “It would have to be older. Something primal. Something outside the realm of traditional casting. Ancient magic. That’s the only thing that might be strong enough to unwind a curse like this.”

And that’s when it hit me.

Old magic. Ancient. The kind that didn’t bend to rules or books or circles of salt.

I turned. “You said ancient. Right?”

Dolores nodded. “Yes. But we don’t have access to anything that predates the council’s sanctioned spellcraft. And if it predates even the order—”

I grinned, but it wasn’t a happy grin. It was a dangerously inspired one.

“Well,” I said slowly, “I do happen to know someone with a metric shit-ton of ancient magic.”

Ruth blinked. “You do? Who?”

“Soren Tex.”

The room fell into stunned silence.

Tinker Bell gasped.

Hildo coughed out a hairball.

Ronin groaned. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”

“I wish I was.” I propped my hands on my hips and squared my shoulders, my smile deepening. “He’s a manipulative, arrogant, centuries-old elf with a god complex, but you know what else he is?” I glanced down at Marcus. “He’s my only shot.” Because I knew, I’d felt that ancient magic when we’d fought—all five of him. He had loads of it.

And I was going to pay my elf cousin a visit.

Soren Tex, I’m coming for you.

15

TESSA

After hauling Marcus’s body up the stairs with the help of House and my aunts—while trying not to fall apart every three seconds—we’d tucked him into my old bed like some cursed fairy-tale prince. Except there were no singing woodland creatures. Just the lingering scent of magical coma herbs, sweat, and despair.

I had tried not to cry the whole time. I really had.

Back downstairs, I forced myself to eat a bowl of something starchy and cheesy that Tinker Bell had magicked warm again with her fairy magic while Ruth handed me two healing tonics with her usual grim flair, like she was preparing me for battle, which, in a way, she was.

Tinker Bell and Hildo were perched on the kitchen counter now, finishing the last of the leftover lasagna. Tinky was using a tiny fork and dabbing her lips with a napkin like she was royalty. Hildo just face-planted into a half-empty pan and purred loudly enough to rattle the salt shakers.

I took a swig of Ruth’s tonic, liquid rosemary and other herbs I couldn’t place, and pulled on my boots while using the wall for balance.

“But you don’t know where he lives,” Dolores said, her arms crossed with that stern headmistress look locked and loaded. “He could be anywhere.”

“He could be in Madagascar,” said Ruth cheerfully as she wiped the kitchen table with a rag. “I’ve always wanted to go there. They have lemurs.” Her eyes grew wide.

“He’s not in Madagascar, you idiot,” snapped Dolores.

Ruth scowled. “You’re rude when you’re worried.”

“I’ll find him,” I cut in before this turned into another spell-slinging sibling squabble. “I’m going to see Cedric. He’ll tell me where Soren is.”

“Not willingly,” Ronin called from the living room, sprawled on the couch next to a still-snoring Darian like an extremely disgruntled vampire babysitter. “Hate that guy.”

“Yeah, well, the feeling’s mutual,” I muttered. “But if Cedric thinks I’m leaving without answers, he’s about to be very disappointed. I’m not above magical extortion.” I knew it was going to get ugly. But my husband’s life was on the line. If I had to give Cedric a few magical smackdowns, I was going to do it with a smile on my face.

“I wish I could come with you,” said Ronin darkly. “You know. To talk to him.” He cracked his knuckles, and I could see he was imagining his fists making contact with Cedric’s smug face over and over again.

“We all know what kind of talk you mean,” I said, eyeing him. “But right now, Marcus is the priority.” As soon as the words left my mouth, I regretted it.

“Iris is a priority too,” he said softly, and damn it—my heart stopped mid-beat.

I swallowed hard. Yes. Iris was a priority. She was family. She was my friend. But Marcus… Marcus was cursed. He’d already killed someone. And if I didn’t stop it, I’d lose him. Forever.

But how did I explain that to Ronin? That triage sometimes looks a lot like betrayal.

Before I could try, the front door swung open.

“Hello, dateless people.” Beverly breezed in looking way too fabulous. Her cheeks were flushed, her eyes sparkled, and she wore a smile that said, “I just had sex with a werebear and I’m glowing about it.”

“Well, someone’s walking bowlegged,” commented Ruth.

“What happened?” asked Beverly, stopping mid-glide as she took in the room—the tension, the grim expressions, the total lack of wine and appetizers. “Who died?”

“No one, yet,” said Dolores quickly. “But it’s not great.”

Beverly looked me up and down, her smile dimming. “You look like hell, sweetie.”

“Thanks,” I croaked.

“I get that we all let ourselves go a little after marriage,” continued Beverly. “But sweetie, if you want Marcus to keep parking his banana in your jungle, you might want to do something about…” She waved her hand at me like she was dismissing a bad aura. “This tragic, post-apocalyptic situation you’ve got going on.”

Yikes. I slapped my hands over my eyes as Ronin burst out laughing, “Good one.”

“Marcus broke free,” Ruth added quickly. “The curse overtook him again. He shifted into something… monstrous.” She glanced at me for either confirmation or acknowledgment. I couldn’t tell. But she was right. Marcus had taken the form of a monster.

“He nearly killed Tessa and Ronin,” said Dolores, her tone sharp, but her eyes gave away the worry hiding beneath the steel. “We didn’t have a choice. We had to sedate the curse magically before it fully consumed him.”

“And there was another attack,” Ruth went on. “A witch. We think it was Marcus. Well, cursed Marcus.”

“It was,” confirmed Ronin from the living room. “The whole place reeked of him.”

I let out a shaky breath. “And Lori knows it, too. She didn’t say it out loud, but I saw it in her face. She smelled it. She’s just… holding back. Maybe because she doesn’t want to believe it. Or maybe because she doesn’t want to be the one to say it first.”

Dolores stiffened. “She came here while you were gone. Lori.”

My head snapped toward her. “What?” I felt the blood leave my face.

“She showed up maybe ten minutes after you and Ronin left. Probably came straight over after seeing you both at the crime scene. Smart girl,” she added with a scowl. “Too smart.”

“What did she say?” I knew Lori was just doing her job, but at this moment, she wasn’t my favorite person.

“She asked where Marcus was. Said she needed to speak with him. That it was urgent.” Dolores lifted her chin. “I told her I didn’t know.”

My stomach turned. “Did she believe you?”

“Doesn’t matter,” said Dolores. “She asked me—point blank—as the new mayor, what I planned to do about the murder and the latest attack. And whether or not I had reported it to the Gray Council.”

The room fell into a heavy silence.

“She’s pushing,” said Ruth quietly, “trying to force a response.”

“She’s doing her job,” replied Dolores. “But it puts us in a bind. If I stall too long, I look like I’m covering for Marcus. If I report him, I’m feeding him to the wolves.”

“You’re the mayor,” I said. “What if they come after you, too?”

The words left my mouth before I could stop them, and the moment they did, dread unfurled in my chest like a creeping vine. I couldn’t imagine Hollow Cove without Dolores in charge—stern, unshakable, terrifying-in-a-good-way Dolores. She’d only just taken the role, and she was good at it. Really good. People listened to her. Respected her. Sometimes feared her, which, in this town, was practically a requirement for the job.

But if Lori reported anything to the Gray Council… If word got out that Dolores had known Marcus was cursed and hadn’t reported it, had helped hide him? That wouldn’t just be the end of her career. It could be the end of her freedom. And worse? It could make the town turn on her. On us.

The Davenports had worked too hard rebuilding their reputation. After everything that happened with the vault, the murders, the demons, the council trials—we were just now crawling back toward normal. And now this.

“I can’t let that happen,” I whispered, more to myself than anyone else. Because if I couldn’t protect Marcus… if I couldn’t save him…

Then the very least I could do was stop him from destroying the rest of us.

Dolores exhaled, her composure steel-edged but cracked. “I’ll handle it. But we’re running out of time, Tessa. If the Gray Council finds out before we get this curse reversed…” She didn’t finish. She didn’t have to.

I looked at the ceiling again, imagining Marcus lying unconscious in that bed, completely unaware of how close the noose was getting.

“Which is why I have to find Soren Tex,” I cut in, tugging on my coat again. “He’s the only one I can think of who might know how to unravel the curse. If we don’t fix this soon. I’ll lose him for good.”

Beverly walked over to the kitchen counter, grabbed an already opened bottle of wine and poured herself a glass. “Well, I guess we all had a very eventful evening.” She giggled as she strode back. “I was only gone for three hours. Had a drink, some wild grilled trout, and toe-curling sex in the back of his SUV in the parking lot. Honestly, I thought I was having the wildest night. Turns out, I was barely in the running.”

Dolores blinked. “Charming.” Then she turned her gaze on me like she was preparing to file a strongly worded complaint. “And you. If you do find Soren Tex, how exactly do you expect to get him to help you?”

“Uhh…” Yeah, that’s all I had at the moment.

Dolores continued, her arms crossed. “He hates you. He hates us. He tried to murder your family, remember? I believe the words erase the Davenport name from history were involved.”

“She’s got a point,” said Ronin said, picking at a tear in the sleeve of his shirt. “Not exactly the cooperative type, that guy. More of a monologue-and-burn-it-all-down kind of elf.”

I opened my mouth. Closed it. Opened it again. “Okay, so… I haven’t thought that far ahead yet.”

All three aunts glared at me in unison.

“What?” I said, throwing up my hands. “I’m more of a… wing it and pray I don’t die kind of witch. You all know this.”

“Winging it with an ancient, homicidal elf who wants your entire bloodline wiped out?” Beverly asked, horrified.

“I said pray I don’t die,” I countered.

“And what exactly happens when he slams the door in your face?” asked Dolores, her voice sharp enough to slice toast.

“I don’t know. I figured once I see his stupid, smug elf face, something will come to me.” Or so I hoped.

Dolores didn’t laugh. Didn’t smirk. She just stared at me—hard. “Tessa. He’s not some rogue goblin with a grudge. He’s Soren Tex. A very powerful elf. He could kill you.”

I blinked at her. “Thanks for the pep talk.”

“I’m serious,” she said, her voice low and fierce. “He’s ancient. Strong. Twisted. He nearly destroyed us the last time, and you think marching right up to him is a smart move?”

“If you have another plan to rid my husband of a curse that’s eating his mind and body from the inside out, I’m all ears.”

She didn’t answer.

“Exactly,” I snapped.

Dolores exhaled slowly. “What about Darian?”

The words hit me like a slap. “What?”

“What happens if you go off to face Soren, and he kills you?” she asked, softer now. “What happens to your son if he loses you, too?”

I opened my mouth to yell. To throw something. To scream that she was being unfair. But instead—

My voice cracked. “How can you play that card?” I whispered. “My husband is up there, slipping away, and you want me to stay here? Do nothing? Just watch him vanish?”

Dolores didn’t move, but her silence said enough.

And that was the worst part. She wasn’t wrong.

The fury that had flared inside me fizzled into something heavier, something closer to guilt. I turned away, suddenly unable to meet any of their eyes. My gaze landed on Darian, still sleeping soundly on the couch, his little fingers curled around the edge of his blanket like he had no idea the world was falling apart around him.

God, I loved him so much it hurt, but I wanted him to grow up knowing his father. Not a photo. Not a story. His actual father.

I swallowed the lump in my throat and looked back at Dolores. “I know it’s a risk,” I said. “But doing nothing? That’s a bigger one. I have to try.”

“Do you even have a plan B?” asked Ruth.

“Sure,” I said. “Plan B is… I punch him in his pointy ears and force him to help me.” I laughed.

Ronin snorted. “I want to punch him in the ears too.”

Dolores rubbed her temples. “Of course you do.”

Ruth handed me another tonic like she was already planning my resurrection.

Beverly, still glowing, took a dainty sip of wine and said, “Tell him if he helps you, I’ll let him take me out for trout and SUV sex.”

I choked on air. “You are not offering yourself up to the elf from hell.”

“I’m just saying,” she said with a wink. “Sometimes diplomacy requires flexibility.”

Ew.

I looked at all of them. “I’m going. I have to. I’ll handle Soren. Or at least confuse him long enough to get what I need. Please look after Darian. I don’t know how long I’ll be gone.”

Ronin stood, straightening his jacket. “Just don’t die. Because if you do, I have to help raise your half-witch-half-demon-half-ape child, and I’m not built for parenthood.”

I laughed. “Duly noted.”

And despite the laughter, the teasing, the sass, I could feel the weight of it on all of us. This wasn’t just a long shot. It was the only shot I had.

And just as I was heading toward the front entrance, to grab the ley line that was so conveniently placed right at Davenport House’s front door, the faintest ring of a bell sounded in my ears.

I glanced over my shoulder at my aunts. “Were we expecting anyone?”

Dolores and Ruth both shook their heads.

Beverly, however, checked her watch. “Charlie’s not supposed to pick me up until tomorrow evening. Unless I mixed up the dates again. Can’t help it, every warm-blooded man wants a piece of this.”

But I knew who it was. Lori. She was here. Coming for Marcus.

Shit.

I spun toward the door and yanked it open.

And there, standing on the porch in a perfectly tailored black coat, her hair swept into an elegant updo, and wearing high-heeled designer boots that probably cost more than my entire wardrobe—was Katherine Durand. Marcus’s mother.

“Where is my son?” she asked, her voice sharp and regal.

Well, shit. Guess it was family night after all.

16

TESSA

Katherine Durand swept into Davenport House like she owned the deed and half the town. Her heels clicked with purpose across the floor, her cashmere coat flaring behind her like a cape. “I want to see my son,” she said again, her tone leaving no room for argument.

Tinker Bell zipped out of Katherine’s path, her wings fluttering in alarm. Hildo, perched on the armrest, narrowed his eyes and sighed—a sound between a hiss and a scoff.

“Come, Tinker Bell,” he said dryly, “let’s leave the mortals to their melodrama and finish the lasagna.”

They vanished into the kitchen, muttering between themselves, clearly done with the drama.

“Katherine,” I said, closing the front door behind her. “This is a surprise.” And not a good one. Especially not now. “What are you doing here?”

Katherine shot me a look. Sharp. Calculated. Definitely inherited by her son. “Where is he? He’s not at your camp. I was just there.”

“Cottage,” I corrected.

“Upstairs. Resting,” said Dolores carefully. Which was code for “currently unconscious and cursed into a magical coma.”

Beverly, who’d apparently been waiting for her cue, leaned against the doorframe in her tight jeans and a top that may or may not have once been classified as lingerie. She swirled her wine and gave Katherine a smile sweet enough to rot teeth.

“Katherine, darling,” Beverly drawled, “are those new wrinkles, or is that just what disappointment looks like in high definition?”

Ronin let out a low whistle and took two slow steps back like he was avoiding splash damage. Smart vampire.

Katherine barely paused. “Still more expressive than whatever’s been injected into your face.”

“Aw,” cooed Beverly. “You always get feisty when you’ve had to fly commercial.”

Ronin made a face. “Is it wrong that I want to see them wrestle in oil?”

Katherine’s eyes flicked down Beverly’s outfit with the kind of precision that could slice steel. “You look like a backup dancer in a were-strip club. No wonder men don’t take you seriously.”

“Oh, they take me seriously, darling,” purred Beverly, her smile turning predatory. “Especially Martin. He used to say I had a wardrobe that inspired poetry.” Yup, Martin being Katherine’s husband. Beverly had to go there.

That did it. Katherine’s perfectly sculpted jaw tensed just enough to make me lean back an inch. “Young men say a great many foolish things,” Katherine said coolly, adjusting her gloves like she was resisting the urge to throw them down and challenge Beverly to a duel.

Dolores groaned. “You two need a magical referee and a therapist.”

Ronin coughed. “Or a kiddie pool and some Jell-O.”

Dolores sighed loudly. “If you two are done verbally slapping each other, we have a situation here.”

But Katherine wasn’t listening anymore.

Her sharp gaze had shifted—past Dolores, past me—and landed on the small, blanket-wrapped bundle snoring softly on the couch.

Darian.

Her expression shifted. Just a little. Like someone had cracked the edges of a marble statue.

She walked toward him, slowly and deliberately, her heels somehow not making a sound now. Ronin, who had been standing next to the couch stepped back without a word but not before shooting me “the eyes.” The “do we trust her with your baby or do I need to vampire-launch her into the front yard” eyes.

I gave him a tiny nod. Just enough.

Katherine sank down on the edge of the couch, her elegant coat swishing around her. She reached out and brushed a dark curl from Darian’s forehead.

And then she smiled. Not a smirk. Not a cold, victorious tilt of the lips. But a real smile.

“You’re even more beautiful than the photo Marcus sent me,” she whispered, her voice soft. “Look at you. So strong already.”

Darian shifted in his sleep, his little hand batting the air once before settling again.

Katherine and Martin had come by a few days after Darian was born—sweeping in like royal dignitaries from House Wereape, bearing gifts wrapped in gold foil and judging looks wrapped in silk scarves. They’d fawned over Darian, of course, admiring his strength, his posture, his absurdly perfect baby muscles like he was destined for greatness before he could even walk. They stayed the week, long enough for Katherine to reorganize my pantry without asking, but they hadn’t been back since.

So technically, seeing Darian now—two months old and the size of a robust toddler with the attitude of a baby emperor—should’ve shocked her. The last time she saw him, he was pink and squishy and barely able to lift his own head.

But she wasn’t shocked. Instead, she’d caressed his cheek like she’d expected it. Like the supernatural aging of a half-demon, half-witch, half-wereape hybrid was just another Tuesday.

Weird. Definitely weird. Even for her.

I narrowed my eyes slightly, the gears turning.

Katherine Durand didn’t miss details. And she definitely didn’t ignore them. So either she’d done her homework since the visit... or she knew something she wasn’t saying.

And that little twist in my gut? That was my witchy radar pinging hard. Because when a woman like Katherine Durand wasn’t surprised, it usually meant she was ten steps ahead. And that never boded well for me.

Katherine traced her fingers lightly across his chubby cheek. “There’s so much power in him,” she said, still gazing down. “He’ll make an incredible alpha one day.”

“He got big,” I said, testing her to see if she would say something about his size. About the whole growing-faster-than-a-freaking-vine-on-a-growth-spell situation.

Katherine didn’t even flinch. She ran a manicured hand gently over Darian’s dark curls and said, “He’s perfect. Strong as he should be. He’s a Durand.” Her voice carried that familiar edge of pride, the same tone one might use when announcing their family crest at a bloodline banquet. It made my skin itch.

Dolores, standing behind us with her arms crossed, didn’t miss a beat. “He’s a Davenport.”

Katherine’s lips curved in the barest ghost of a smile, though it didn’t reach her eyes. “Names are labels. Strength is legacy.”

Oh, here we go.

Before either of them could launch into a full-blown genetic turf war over my child, I raised my hand like I was breaking up a classroom fight.

“He’s both,” I said, my tone hard. “Can we skip the DNA showdown and get to why you’re really here?”

“I told you,” answered Katherine. “I want to see my son.”

“You already said that. I thought you were back in France?” I asked. Katherine always called ahead of time to let Marcus know she was coming. Not this time.

Katherine’s gaze narrowed. “He called me, you know.”

“Wait… what?”

Katherine stared at me for a moment, her forehead slightly creased. “Last night.” Her voice cracked slightly. “He said he was cursed. That I might never see him again. And that I should stay away.”

“Which you clearly didn’t do,” I muttered.

“I’m his mother,” she snapped. “He’s my son. I’m not about to sit back and do nothing while he’s unraveling. I came to help. Help with the curse.”

“Forgive me,” said Dolores, “but I didn’t know you knew.”

Katherine turned to me again, her gaze sharp. “It’s the Mark of Fenrir. Isn’t it? He told me.”

My lips parted. “So you do know.”

She gave a tight nod. “Blood-bound. Shifter-forged. Old magic, designed to punish those who stray outside the ‘pure bloodlines.’ He didn’t say much. Just enough to terrify me.”

I exhaled slowly. “Then you already know it’s a twisted curse cooked up by some ancient pack of shifter supremacists with a superiority complex and way too much time on their hands.”

Her expression darkened. “It was triggered because of you.”

“Gee, thanks,” I said flatly. “Let’s go ahead and skip the passive-aggressive blame game and fast-forward to the part where you tell me if you know anything that might actually help.”

Katherine tilted her head slightly. “I never thought they’d use it.”

Dolores stiffened. “They did. How much do you know about the Order of Fenrir?”

Katherine didn’t hesitate. “I was part of the order. Briefly.”

Holy shit. The room went dead quiet.

Ruth actually dropped the wooden spoon she was drying.

“You what?” I barked.

“It was before I met Martin,” she said calmly, like this was a perfectly reasonable confession and not the magical equivalent of saying, “I used to hang out with magical terrorists for fun.” “I was raised in the old ways. In my family, the order was respected. Revered. My parents believed in it, and so I did.”

Dolores propped her hands on her hips, her brows rising. “So you were a true believer.”

“I was young,” said Katherine, her voice hardening. “And back then, the order wasn’t just about blood purity. It was about discipline. Loyalty. Honor. Or so they claimed. It took years for me to see what they really were. Fanatics. Power-drunk fanatics obsessed with keeping bloodlines clean and everyone else beneath them.”

“Well, that explains it,” said Beverly, sipping from her wine glass. “Only ugly people join cults. Attractive people have better things to do. Like dancing. Or dating people who aren’t wildly xenophobic.”

Dolores didn’t even look up from the book she was thumbing through. “Yes, Beverly. I’m sure the deciding factor in joining a radical supremacist sect was lack of a proper makeup routine.”

“I’m just saying,” continued Beverly, “I’ve seen those order types. Not a single decent orgasm among them.”

Dolores sighed without looking up. “And once again, your filter is off duty.”

Beverly smirked. “Just calling it like I see it. Repressed cult energy is a red flag and a dry spell.”

Katherine blinked, visibly debating whether to respond or simply pretend Beverly was a hallucination.

I just rubbed my temples. This family. Cauldron help us.

“So you just walked away?” I turned my attention back to Katherine. “You left?”

“I did,” answered Katherine. “I left it all behind when I married Martin. I swore never to raise my children with that ideology.”

I gave her a slow once-over. “Yet here we are. Your son’s cursed with their magic.”

“Once you and Marcus bonded,” said Katherine. “Once Darian was born, I knew it was only a matter of time before they came for him. Or you. Or both.”

“And did you do anything about it?” I demanded.

She paused. Just a beat. But it was enough. Her silence was louder than anything she could have said.

“Of course not,” I growled. “Why didn’t you warn Marcus? He’s your son?”

Ruth looked like she wanted to shrink into her apron. Dolores just shook her head slowly, her lips tight.

“I didn’t think they’d go through with it,” said Katherine.

“They did.”

“I came here to fix this,” snapped Katherine, her composure fracturing just a little. “And if Marcus is still alive, if the curse hasn’t consumed him completely, we might still have a chance.”

My heart jumped at that. But I didn’t let it rise too far.

“Oh,” said Ruth. “You think you can break it?”

“I—no.” Katherine exhaled, the strength in her shoulders wilting just slightly. “I’m not a witch. I don’t have magic. I was hoping you had something. Some spell. A counter-curse. Anything.”

Dolores stepped forward, her face carved from stone. “We had to put him in a magical coma,” she said. “It was the only way to stop the curse from progressing. But it won’t hold him forever.”

Katherine’s mouth tightened. “Then you’re on the clock.”

I stepped closer. “Do you know how to stop it? Is there a reversal? A counter-curse?”

She shook her head slowly, like the weight of the truth was too much to carry. “No. The Mark of Fenrir isn’t designed to be removed. It’s a death sentence… or a transformation into something monstrous.”

The words hit me like a slap. “So what then?” I snapped, my voice rising despite the ache in my chest. “You knew the order. Can you talk to them? Ask for a reversal?”

Katherine’s face hardened. “I left the order,” she said stiffly. “When I did, I was cut off. I’m not allowed to contact them.”

“Oh, I’m sorry, I didn’t realize we were following rules now,” I said. “My husband is cursed, losing himself piece by piece, and you’re worried about what? Breaking their clubhouse code of silence?”

Her gaze shot to the ceiling—toward Marcus. Her son. But instead of grief, I saw something else behind her eyes. Guilt, maybe. Or fear.

I stepped closer, my voice low and trembling with fury. “You told me you came here to help. So help. Do something. You were part of them—use it. Call in a favor. Threaten someone. Bribe someone. Do something.”

Katherine met my gaze. “You think I haven’t tried?” she said, her voice icy. “You think I don’t want to rip that curse off him myself? But the order doesn’t undo what they do. They punish. That’s all they know. And they don’t negotiate with traitors.”

I didn’t blink. “Then try harder.”

Her lips parted, like she wanted to argue, but she didn’t. Instead, she looked away, her voice brittle. “I’ll see what I can do, but don’t hope for much. The order doesn’t forgive betrayal, and they don’t give second chances.”

I stared at her, my hands clenched at my sides. I wanted to scream, to shake her, but I couldn’t. Because deep down, I knew she was telling the truth.

Which meant what I already feared was true. The order wasn’t going to help us.

They had cursed Marcus, and they had no intention of undoing it.

But I knew someone who might.

Not because he was kind. Or noble. Or even remotely trustworthy. But because he hated the Davenports. Hated me. And that hatred might be the only thing strong enough to twist into leverage.

Dread thrummed through my chest as the name echoed in my mind like a spell gone wrong.

Soren Tex—ancient, arrogant, and powerful enough to bring kingdoms to ruin.

If I wanted to save Marcus… I was going to have to knock on the devil’s door.

And pray he answered. Because if he didn’t?

I’d lose Marcus for good.

17

TESSA

I waited until Katherine had left before I even thought about jumping a ley line to New York.

It pained me to leave my son again. Really pained me. Like someone took a melon baller to my heart and scooped out the softest part. I wanted to stay. I wanted pancakes and cuddles and cartoons, maybe a nap that didn’t involve magical threats or claw marks. But the man I loved was trapped in a cursed coma upstairs, and unless I found the only unhinged elf with enough ancient magic to save him… I was going to lose him forever.

So yeah. Mom guilt. Through the roof. But I wouldn’t have left Darian if I didn’t know—deep in my spell-scarred soul—that he was in the safest hands possible.

He had his aunts. He had House. He had a magical familiar black cat, an awesome little fairy, and a half-vampire babysitter. That kid was basically royalty.

“Just one more before you go,” insisted Ruth, thrusting another tonic into my hand like a bartender on an herbal bender. We stood in the front hall, me zipped up like a woman on a mission, and my aunt looking like a sweet but slightly deranged apothecary witch.

I forced a smile and took the drink. “If I have to pee in a subway stairwell, I’m blaming you.”

Ruth beamed. “You too? I pee every four minutes. Sometimes mid-sentence.”

“Ummm.” Yeah. Didn’t know what to say to that. I tipped the glass, downing it in one go. Whatever it was, piney, peppery, and tasting faintly like dandelion, it burned going down.

“Stay alert,” said Dolores, taking the glass and inspecting it like it might bite her. “I don’t trust that Cedric.”

“Me neither,” I said, pulling on my gloves. “Something about him makes me want to slap him. Like, instinctively.”

“He’s a very ill-mannered young witch,” added Beverly, walking in with her wine glass in one hand and a cracker in the other. “Also, did anyone notice how much weight Katherine’s put on?”

“She looked great.” Katherine always looked like she just stepped out of a beauty salon.

“She looked like she’s trying too hard,” said Beverly. “But it’s coming. That was the first sign. The ass always goes first. Next it’ll be the thighs. Then poof—she’ll start buying shapeless maxi dresses with ethnic prints. The descent is real.”

“Wow,” said Ronin from the armchair, where he was sipping on his beer. “Every time I walk through that door, I know it’s going to be dramatic, possibly inappropriate, and wildly entertaining.”

I gave him a look. “Ronin. Do me a favor? Stay here while I’m gone.”

Dolores bristled immediately. “Excuse me? We don’t need supervision.”

“Anyway,” I said, turning back to Ronin. “Will you? For me?” It was more for him than my aunts. I didn’t want him to go home to an empty house and start binge-drinking again.

He got quiet but then stood up and walked over to me. “Yeah. I’ll stay. Make sure the wine doesn’t run out.”

“Thanks.” I gave him a quick squeeze on the shoulder. “And if Beverly tries to flash the UPS guy again, pretend you didn’t see anything.”

“He liked it,” chirped Beverly, grinning. “He gave me two packages.”

Ruth sighed dreamily. “I once flashed the milkman. He came back with three bottles and a poem.”

Okay. I wasn’t expecting that.

Dolores groaned and looked toward the heavens like she was praying for strength. “Can we not overshare every inappropriate family moment right now?”

I laughed despite myself. But then… the smile faded.

Because I was stalling. The nerves were here. Crawling in like cold fingers under my skin. I knew what was waiting for me.

Cedric. Arrogant, slick, annoying Cedric.

And if I could get past him… Soren Tex.

The only person who might help me fix this. And assuming he didn’t kill me first.

I glanced toward the living room where my son was still sprawled out like a tiny king, wrapped in his fluffy green blanket, one sock missing with a rogue banana muffin crumb clinging to his cheek. Peaceful. Angelic. Probably dreaming about ruling the forest animals or bending reality with a twitch of his chubby fingers.

“He’ll be up soon,” I warned, nodding toward him. “And if he asks for pancakes and you’re not ready… well, you’ve seen what he can do.”

Dolores waved a hand. “We’ve handled far worse. We can manage Darian.”

“You are all so dramatic,” said Beverly, brushing invisible lint off her sweater. “He’s a sweet boy. Just… occasionally apocalyptic. Nothing to worry about.”

“Keep an eye on Marcus,” I said. “You didn’t say how long the magical coma will hold. That curse… it’s strong. And he’s stronger.”

Dolores gave me a firm nod. “Don’t worry. I’m heading up as soon as you’re gone.”

Ruth chimed in cheerfully. “We’re going to take turns. Half-hour shifts. It’ll be like a sleepover but with more magical dread and less popcorn.” She looked far too enthusiastic about it, like she expected pillow fights and enchanted foot soaks.

It should have made me feel better, but it didn’t.

Not really.

Because the image of Marcus snarling in that twisted, cursed form, his claws bared and eyes wild, was still burned into my skull. And I had no idea how to erase it. Therapy, probably. So much therapy.

I looked up the stairs. My beautiful, brave, stubborn husband was in that bed—unconscious, cursed, and slipping further away. I had to bring him back.

So I swallowed my fear and reached for the ley line. Time to find an elf with a grudge.

I smiled, my chest tight. “Okay then. See you soon.”

With a deep breath, I stepped back and pushed down the ache rising in my throat. Time to fix this. Then, I reached for the ley line, my fingers tingling as I grasped the current of shimmering, pulsing magic that sliced invisibly through the fabric of our world.

And then I jumped.

With a pop and a hum, the world shifted. Suddenly, I was flying.

Not with wings. Not even with grace. But fast. Blazingly fast, like being shot through a tube of swirling starlight and electricity. The colors around me blurred—blues, greens, silvers—streaming like ribbons past my face. My hair whipped behind me. My boots barely kissed the edge of reality as I soared forward.

And it wasn’t cold. Despite the December frost waiting just outside, the ley line wrapped around me like a magical buffer, keeping the bite of winter air at bay. Like the ley line understood this was not the night for numb toes and wind-chapped cheeks. No, I had a cursed husband to save and an emotionally constipated elf to strong-arm.

The ley line whipped around me like a current of stars, glittering and pulsing as I coasted through the magical stream toward New York. Normally, I loved this part—floating in that in-between space, gliding just above the rest of the world like a witch-shaped comet on a mission.

But this time? I was exhausted.

And not just from hauling my cursed, unconscious husband out of a forest and ley-line launching him into my living room. Or the emotionally draining aftermath. Or the not-so-little issue of my son commanding a personal animal kingdom in his spare time.

No, this felt deeper, like something was unraveling inside me, cell by weary cell.

I shrugged, trying to shake it off. Ruth’s tonics were still humming in my bloodstream. My limbs didn’t ache, and my body wasn’t sore. I shouldn’t have felt this heavy.

That’s when it hit me.

It wasn’t physical. It was mental—the kind of tired that root-crawled into your brain and whispered in your ear that maybe you couldn’t fix this. That maybe you were just one sleep-deprived witch trying to hold her world together with sarcasm, caffeine, and a very frayed sense of hope.

I blew out a breath and clenched my fists tighter. No. Not today, anxiety. I still had to find Soren Tex. I still had to fix Marcus.

I was so lost in my thoughts I didn’t even realize how long I’d been in the ley line until the lights appeared ahead: bright, blinking, buzzing. The unmistakable electric glow of New York City rose up from the horizon like a concrete constellation, skyscrapers cutting into the night sky and windows shining like magical runes.

This was it. Time to find Soren Tex. That is if Cedric was willing to tell me where to find him.

The ley line slowed as I glided over the familiar skyline. I hovered for a moment and then descended toward a quiet block in the Upper West Side.

Cedric’s brownstone stood at the end of the street like a conceited, too-cool-for-the-other-houses fashion model with three stories of dark brick and wrought-iron railings. The windows were perfectly aligned. The curtains inside, expensive and neutral, screamed “I only drink single-origin espresso and judge people who microwave tea.”

I landed lightly on the sidewalk, adjusting my coat as I stared up at the building.

Okay. You’ve fought ghouls. You’ve survived sewer monsters. You once ate Ruth’s kale casserole and lived to tell the tale. You’ve got this.

I didn’t have this.

I was still scrambling for a killer opener. Something like, “Hi, Cedric, remember me? The witch whose husband is cursed and slowly turning into a murder-monster? I just need the address of your psycho elf bestie. No biggie.”

But even that felt too casual for what was clearly shaping up to be a full-blown mental breakdown masquerading as a mission. I mean, how do you even begin?

I’d just recently gotten into a no-holds-barred forest brawl with the love of my life—who, by the way, didn’t recognize me and tried to tear me in half. But it’s fine. Totally fine. I only cried for, like, two hours after, a new personal record.

Oh, and did I mention my mother-in-law casually dropped the bombshell that she used to be in a supernatural supremacist cult? Because that’s just what this month needed. A sprinkle of family betrayal to round things out.

Did Marcus even know?

The thought slammed into me like an emotional sucker punch.

No. No way. If he knew, he would’ve told me before we got married, before we moved in together, before we started building a life… before we got pregnant, for cauldron’s sake.

But he hadn’t said a word. Not a single peep. Which meant either he didn’t know… or he knew and thought it wasn’t important.

And if it was the latter?

Well. That was going to be a whole other conversation when he woke up.

Assuming we could wake him up. Assuming I could save him from the curse that was slowly dragging him down.

Great. Now I was spiraling.

And then there was the Gray Council. Who clearly had Darian’s scent now and were circling like magical sharks, claiming they only wanted to “evaluate” him for his “own good.” Yeah, I’d seen that movie. It ended with government-approved containment wards and zero snack breaks.

So yeah. I wasn’t exactly bringing my A-game tonight.

I adjusted my coat, brushed the windblown hair out of my face, and tried not to think about how much therapy I was going to need once this was over. Like, real therapy. With licensed professionals. Possibly exorcists.

I glanced up at the brownstone again, tension coiling in my chest. Everything hinged on this. On getting Soren’s location. On convincing Cedric to help me, even though I’d rather be locked in a room with Ruth after she’s had three coffees and a prophecy dream.

I had to do it—for Marcus, for Darian, for my own damn sanity.

I took a deep breath, steadied myself, and rang the doorbell.

One beat. Two. I straightened my coat and tried not to look like I’d just traveled across magical realms powered solely by caffeine and desperation.

The door opened.

It wasn’t Cedric.

It was Iris.

She stood framed in the soft yellow glow of the brownstone’s entry light, like some perfect gothic portrait brought to life. Her delicate, pixie-like features were still as beautiful as I remembered—sharp cheekbones, pouty lips, and those wide dark eyes rimmed with the softest kohl. Her black hair, straight and silky, fell just below her jaw.

She wore a fitted black velvet top with silver clasps down the front paired with dark leggings and boots that looked like they could kick through a portal if necessary. Dark. Sleek. Elegant. Exactly her vibe.

Except this wasn’t her. Not really.

Because she looked straight at me—and didn’t flinch. Didn’t blink. Didn’t smile or give me a hug like I would’ve expected.

No flicker of recognition. Nothing. No sarcastic remark about my coat or my hair or how I looked like I’d been drop-kicked through the emotional wringer, which I had been, thank you very much.

Just… blankness, like I was a stranger selling knockoff magazines or trying to convert her to a new coven. Like she didn’t know me at all.

My chest squeezed. “Uh,” I said, my voice coming out weirdly high-pitched and strangled. “Hi. Iris. It’s me. Tessa.”

She blinked slowly, confusion flickering across her porcelain-doll face. Her eyes were soft but blank.

“I’m sorry,” she said, her tone careful and polite. “I don’t know you. I’ve never seen you before.”

I barked a laugh, a little too loudly, too desperately. “Good one. Nice. That was a solid deadpan. If Ronin was here, he’d totally approve. He loves when you mess with me.”

She tilted her head. “Ronin?”

“Yeah. Ronin. Your boyfriend. The hot half-vampire with broody eyes, an excellent jawline, and a tendency to rip people’s throats out when you’re in danger?”

She stared at me like I’d just spoken to her in another language.

“I think you might have the wrong person,” she said slowly, her brow furrowing with cautious concern.

My smile slipped right off my face. “No. No, I don’t. Iris. You live in Hollow Cove. You practically moved into Davenport House. You’ve had pancakes in your pajamas at my kitchen table. You work at the Hollow Cove Security Agency.”

Nothing.

I tried again. “You like to hex evil gorilla Barbies with herpes hexes?” I laughed. She didn’t.

Still nothing.

“Doris? You remember Doris. Right?”

Iris shook her head. “Never heard of her.”

Oh, hell, no.

She just looked at me—calm, unbothered, and completely vacant of everything that made her Iris.

Cedric hadn’t just taken her. He’d erased me, erased all of us.

My mouth went dry. My brain scrambled for answers that didn’t come.

Because this wasn’t Iris faking it. This wasn’t her playing it cool or pretending.

This was real.

She really didn’t know me.

And suddenly, I couldn’t breathe.

Holy crap.

They erased her memory.

18

TESSA

I had a brainfart moment, and then I had to get my game plan on. I had to play a part now, so I did. In her mind, Iris didn’t know me. I was a stranger. And by that look on her face, the way her lips were tightening by the second, I knew she was about to shut the door on my face. So I decided to wing it.

“Is Cedric in? We had a date tonight.” Yup. I was going there.

Iris blinked a few times and then stepped aside to let me in. “Sure. I’ll get him. It’s Tessa. Right?”

“That’s right.” I followed her in and shut the door.

The inside of the Clairmont brownstone hadn’t changed since the last time I barged in. The decor was dark, elegant, and just a touch sinister—like it belonged to someone who hosted summoning rituals but also had excellent taste in Italian furniture. The hardwood floors were polished to a mirror sheen, and heavy velvet drapes framed the tall windows like something out of a vampire romance novel. There were too many antiques, not enough plants, and definitely more skull-themed décor than necessary. One of the end tables had a literal dragon claw for a base.

Iris, who had just invited me into the lair of her memory-wiping sociopath brother, led me down the hall without so much as a flicker of suspicion. She was calm, too calm, like she didn’t even realize we used to fight baddies together.

“Wait here,” she said, pausing at the entrance of a dark-paneled room off to the side. “This is the den. I’ll go get Cedric.”

I nodded, even though my pulse was doing a full-on samba.

The second she disappeared down the hallway, I took a breath. Then another. Then I paced a slow lap around the den, my fingers trailing the edge of a black leather chair that looked like it had seen more evil plots than Cedric had facial expressions. A chessboard lay on the table, mid-game.

I dropped onto the couch. Iris didn’t remember me at all, not even a flicker of recognition. She looked me right in the face like I was some random woman here for a date with her psychopath brother.

And Ronin—cauldron help me. This was going to break him.

Should I tell him? Maybe not right away. He was still fragile. That heartbreak was barely stitched together with a mix of bloodlust and caffeine. If I told him Iris’s memories had been wiped like a hard drive full of deleted files, I wasn’t sure he’d recover.

But also… he needed to know.

My jaw clenched. This wasn’t just a memory wipe. It was surgical. Clean. Like she’d been scrubbed of us. Me. Ronin. Hollow Cove.

Cedric. Cedric did this.

Which meant when he walked into this room, I was going to have to play nice.

And I was really, really bad at playing nice. Especially with memory-erasing motherfrackers who probably monologued to their mirrors.

I took another breath. Focus, Tessa. You’re here for Marcus, for your family. This wasn’t the time to go feral.

But if Cedric didn’t give me what I wanted? Let’s just say he was about to meet the slightly unhinged version of me.

The one with no patience, no filter… and a growing collection of power words.

“Tessa Davenport, this is a surprise,” came a voice behind me.

I turned, doing my best not to immediately throw something at his face.

Cedric Clairmont strolled into the den. He wore a tailored black coat open over a midnight blue shirt, not a wrinkle in sight. His dark hair was slicked back, his eyes glittering with both annoyance and amusement, mostly amusement. Behind him, Iris followed like a quiet shadow, her delicate pixie-like face calm.

Cedric’s gaze darted between me and Iris before landing on me fully. His smirk widened. “I thought you canceled our date,” he said, playing along, obviously for Iris’s sake.

I gave him a tight-lipped smile. “Nope. It’s still on. Honey.” Yeah, I bet he loved that.

Iris looked between us, clearly trying to figure out if she’d walked in on a lovers’ quarrel.

Cedric crossed the room with deliberate ease, his hands in his pockets, oozing charm like poison in silk. “Forgive me for not being dressed for the occasion,” he said, his voice smooth as dark wine. “I assumed the witch I manipulated and helped sabotage wouldn’t be the type to show up for cocktails.”

“Lucky for you, I’m full of surprises,” I said sweetly.

His brow lifted, but before he could respond, Iris cleared her throat softly. “Do you two… need some privacy?”

Cedric turned to her with a practiced smile. “Not at all. Stay, if you’d like. Tessa and I just need to… catch up.” He gestured to the settee like we were about to sit down and talk about mutual stocks and favorite curse recipes.

I shook my head and kept my stance. “Actually, I just came by because I wanted to ask you something. About our mutual friend.”

His eyes narrowed slightly. “Mutual friend?”

“Soren.” I kept my tone light. “You see, he left his phone at my place. Very rude. So now I have to give it back.” I smiled like we were in on the same joke. “You wouldn’t happen to know where I can find him. Would you?”

Cedric let out a low, amused chuckle. “You do. Do you?”

Iris blinked at me. “Wait… You look familiar. Have you been here before? At one of our family dinners?”

I stared at my Dark witch friend. She was remembering. But before I could open my mouth, Cedric cut in.

“Tessa and I have been on a few dates,” he said quickly. “I’m sure that’s why you remember.”

“Yes. You’re right,” said Iris, seemingly having accepted her brother’s answer.

“I am,” he said slowly, like tasting the word. “I’m always right.”

Iris smiled faintly, still clueless. “He’s… very intense tonight.”

“Understatement,” I muttered.

Cedric laughed again, and this time it sounded darker. “Tessa’s always had a taste for chaos.”

“You say that like it’s a bad thing.”

He tilted his head. “Depends on who’s standing too close when it explodes.”

Tension crackled in the air like distant thunder. I knew I had to play this smart. I couldn’t push too hard—not in front of Iris. Not without revealing that I knew what he’d done to her. That he’d wiped her mind, ripped her away from everyone she loved.

But I couldn’t pretend forever.

I just had to get through this little performance without getting hexed or pushed off a magically reinforced balcony.

“Will you help me or not?” I asked lightly. “I’d really love to get that phone back to him before he blocks me.”

Cedric grinned, like he knew exactly what I was doing and liked watching me squirm. “Maybe. Let’s talk somewhere more private.”

Iris glanced between us again, clearly sensing the weird undercurrent but too polite to pry. Or maybe just too brainwashed to care.

Cedric turned to her smoothly. “Iris, would you give us a moment?”

“Sure,” she said, already backing away. But then she paused and looked at me. “Would you like something to drink? Wine?”

Tempting. Goddess, was it tempting. But if I was about to get into a magical smackdown with this asshat, I didn’t want to do it with cabernet clouding my reflexes.

“Coffee, if you have it,” I said with a tight smile.

She nodded. “Coming right up.”

And just like that, she glided out of the room—sweet, accommodating, and completely oblivious to the landmine of awkward about to go off behind her.

I waited until her footsteps faded before turning back to Cedric.

His smile was still there—arrogant, I’d like to say punchable—but I didn’t have time for broken knuckles tonight.

The second she was out of earshot, Cedric’s smile vanished.

He stepped closer, his voice low. “That was cute. Really. But if you ever pull something like that again—”

“You’ll what?” I whispered back, matching his tone. “Erase my memories too? Try it. I dare you. See what happens.”

His eyes flared with something unreadable.

“I need to find Soren,” I said, steel creeping into my voice. “And I know you know where he is.”

We stood there, locked in a silent battle of wills. I was going to kick him in the throat. I know it. You know it.

“Tessa Davenport,” said a cool, familiar voice. “A bit late for a visit. Don’t you think?”

I whirled around to find Esme Clairmont gliding into the room like she was the queen of morally questionable makeovers. Her white hair with streaks of black running through it gleamed under the crystal chandelier, and her black pantsuit was sharp enough to slice bread. Behind her, Nicholas followed, silent and imposing as ever, his long black coat flowing behind him like he thought he was in a vampire opera. Weird.

I immediately stepped between them and Cedric. “What the hell did you do to Iris?”

Esme’s lips curved, but it wasn’t a smile. It was the kind of grin you see on a snake before it strikes. “We rescued her,” she said, like it was the most reasonable thing in the world. “From the toxic influence of the Davenports.”

I barked a humorless laugh. “You brainwashed her!”

“She’s better off this way,” said Nicholas calmly, his light eyes like glacier shards. “Safe. Protected. Free from that half-blood parasite.”

It took me a full three seconds to realize he meant Ronin. My hands curled into fists.

Cedric stepped forward. “It wasn’t just about the Davenports. Ronin is dangerous. He can’t be trusted—”

“She loves him,” I shouted.

“She was confused,” Esme said, waving a hand like she was erasing a chalkboard. “And impulsive. The relationship was unhealthy. He corrupted her.”

I was shaking now. “You had no right—no right—to strip away her memories. Her choices.” This had to be illegal. You couldn’t do that to a person without their consent. I had to speak to my aunts.

Cedric’s voice lowered, sharp and cold. “If you push her, if you try to ‘remind’ her of anything… you could damage her mind permanently. That’s not a threat. That’s a fact.”

The rage rose so fast it tasted like blood. But I swallowed it down. Barely. Because they were right about one thing. The mind was a fragile thing. From what I knew and remembered, reading about mind manipulation, if I said the wrong thing, if I did the wrong thing, I could hurt Iris more than they already had.

Motherfrackers. I couldn’t believe they’d done this to her.

“Here you go,” said Iris as she came back into the den with a coffee mug. “I forgot to ask you if you wanted milk or sugar, so I added both. Hope that’s okay. But I had the feeling that you took milk and sugar in your coffee.”

I took the mug like it was a precious artifact. “I do. Thanks.” I tried not to sound emotional. Tried.

Iris lingered, her fingers twitching by her sides. Her brows pinched slightly as she studied me again. “You… live with your aunts. Right? I think I remember you telling me.”

My heart nearly fell into my boots.

I smiled, too wide. “I did. Ruth, Dolores, Beverly. They love wine and cheesecake.”

Iris’s hand lifted to her temple. “Why… do I know that?” Her face twisted, like someone had pressed the fast-forward button on a migraine. She blinked hard and stumbled back a step.

“Iris?” I asked gently, setting the mug down on the side table. “Are you okay?”

She didn’t answer right away. Her fingers rubbed at her temple again, more frantically this time, like she could knead the memory into clarity.

“I—my head—” she whispered.

From the doorway, Esme suddenly appeared next to us. “Iris, sweetheart, are you all right?”

“My head hurts,” said Iris, her voice strained.

Esme didn’t even blink. “You need your tea. Your special blend. I’ll make it right now.”

Oh. Hell. No.

I’d bet my life that “special blend” was how they were erasing her memories. I knew it. I felt it. My witchy senses screamed it.

Esme placed a hand on Iris’s back. “Come with me, sweetie. Let’s get you that tea. You’ll feel better in no time.”

Iris hesitated. Her eyes darted back to me, wide and confused. “Tessa…”

My name. She remembered my name.

“You’re remembering.” I was trying not to lunge at her and shout, “Don’t drink the damn tea.”

But Nicholas was suddenly behind Esme, as if they’d rehearsed this little intervention number. “Let’s not upset her, Miss Davenport. You’re clearly agitating her recovery.”

Recovery. What a load of hexed garbage.

Cedric stood silently off to the side, his arms crossed, watching it all like this was a particularly juicy episode of Magical Courtroom Drama: Family Edition.

I took a half step forward, but Iris was already being ushered toward the kitchen.

“Wait,” I said, trying to keep my voice calm. “Let her stay. Let her talk. She just needs a little time.”

“She needs her tea,” Esme said, already guiding her out.

Iris didn’t fight. She let herself be led. But over her shoulder, she glanced at me again, just for a second. Her eyes were wide, face pale, and fingers trembling.

She was remembering.

And they were trying to erase it again.

As soon as they disappeared into the kitchen, I clenched my fists and turned slowly toward Cedric, who was watching me.

“This ends now,” I said, my voice low.

Cedric smiled, cool and self-satisfied. “Careful, Tessa. You wouldn’t want to permanently damage her. Would you?”

Because that was the threat, and he’d just made it clear. I had to get Iris out of here. Fast.

“Just tell me where I can find Soren, and I’ll leave,” I told him instead.

Cedric watched me a moment, and for a second I thought he’d tell me to go screw myself. Instead, he said, “He’s not exactly the ‘drop by for tea’ type, you know.”

“I’m aware,” I said dryly. “Where is he?”

Cedric leaned back against the doorframe, his arms crossed. “I don’t know where he lives. No one really does, unless you’re suicidal or on the guest list. But this time of night?” He shrugged. “He usually turns up at a place called The Nocturne, an underground paranormal club.”

I narrowed my eyes. “Underground like literally or metaphorically?”

“It’s below a bakery on Twenty-Second and Rivington. Good luck getting in, though. They don’t let strangers walk in.”

“I’ll get in,” I said, already turning toward the door.

Behind me, I could still hear Esme clucking in the kitchen, Iris’s voice soft and confused, and Nicholas murmuring something that made my blood boil. But I couldn’t fix all of it now. Not yet.

Right now, I needed Soren Tex.

And with Cedric’s smug expression still burning behind my eyes, I pulled open the door and stepped into the cold New York night.

Time to crash a party.

And maybe burn it down.

19

MARCUS

I felt pain.

Not the loud kind. Not the kind that made you scream and flail. This was worse. This was quiet pain—heavy, constant, like a hand pressing down on your chest, just enough to remind you it was there. Just enough to tell you that something wasn’t right.

That you weren’t right.

I opened my eyes to dim light and faint shadows dancing across the ceiling. Davenport House, I realized slowly. The smell of old wood, incense, and lemon oil gave it away. My head throbbed like someone had shoved a hundred memories into a space built for ten. My body didn’t move. Not that it couldn’t, just didn’t. Like it wasn’t sure yet if I was safe. Or if it was allowed.

I took a slow breath and let it out.

I was lying in a bed. I glanced around. Tessa’s old bedroom, from the looks of it. A pale blue comforter was draped over me, and familiar photos lined the walls. I’d been in here a dozen times before but never like this.

Not after waking up and not remembering how I got here.

A creak sounded near the door. I turned my head. Empty. But I could smell them.

They’d been here. Tessa. Ruth. Dolores. Beverly. Even Ronin. I could still smell Ruth’s tonics in the air. The faint scent of ozone clung to the sheets, Tessa’s magic. She’d been close. Maybe even sat next to me. Maybe even held my hand.

And still, the thing inside me stirred.

That cursed heat in my veins, like fire trapped under my skin, was still there. Still whispering. Still waiting.

You’re not safe. Not for them. Not for anyone.

My jaw clenched as I looked down at my hands, half-expecting them to be claws again, covered in blood again. But they weren’t. Just hands—big, callused, and shaking.

But I remembered.

I remembered the woods. The witch. Her scream. The smell of blood.

Tessa’s voice.

I remembered fighting her. The love of my life. The mother of my son. My mate. The woman I would rip the world apart for… and I’d tried to kill her.

Tessa.

Her magic lit up the forest, and she stood her ground, even when I came at her like some feral beast. She’d looked at me with fear.

Tessa looked at me with fear.

That did something to me. Broke something inside that may never piece back together again.

I should’ve stopped. Should’ve recognized her. But all I saw was red. The curse had me by the throat and dragged me straight through hell, and I took her with me.

And she fought back. She’s Tessa—fire and fury wrapped in sarcasm and stubbornness. But I saw the pain in her eyes when she hit me with that last blast.

She thought she was going to lose me. That I was too far gone to care.

The curse was still there, coiled in my blood, waiting to take another swing at my soul. It didn’t want a cure. It wanted dominance. Control. Me.

I was walking a razor-thin line, and I didn’t know how long I could stay upright.

All I knew was that I hurt the one person who mattered most to me. And if I lost her? I lost everything.

I gripped the edge of the bed, anchoring myself in place. I didn’t deserve to be here. In this house. In this bed. With her scent on the sheets. I should have stayed gone. I should’ve let the thing take me and finish the job.

No. No, you idiot. You have to fight this. For Tessa. For Darian. Especially for Darian.

Because if this curse had its way, I wasn’t going to just lose my soul. I was going to become the very monster I’d spent my life protecting Hollow Cove from.

I was the chief. I was supposed to protect people, not rip them apart.

Footsteps creaked down the hallway. I could smell them. Dolores was coming up the stairs. She’d know I was awake soon.

But I wasn’t ready. How the hell was I supposed to face her? Face them?

I was the chief, the one who kept this town safe. The one people trust to put down threats—not become one. I was supposed to be the shield between the monsters and everyone I cared about. But right now?

I was the monster.

I’d lost control. Again. Only this time, I remembered it.

The scent of blood. The snow. The weight of fury pounding through my bones like it belonged there.

The door creaked open.

Dolores stepped in, her shoes clicking softly against the hardwood floor and her long robe trailing behind her like a warning flag. She stopped cold when her eyes met mine.

“You’re awake,” she said, her voice tight.

“Yeah,” I rasped. My throat felt like I’d swallowed gravel. “How long was I out?”

She didn’t answer right away, just moved closer, eyeing me like she was waiting for me to explode into fangs and claws.

“That’s not possible,” she muttered under her breath.

“What?” I pushed myself to sit up, my muscles aching. “What’s not possible?”

She sighed and folded her arms. “We put you under. A magical coma. It was the only way to suppress the curse.”

My gut clenched. “You what?”

“You were getting worse,” she said, her tone sharpening. “Tessa said you weren’t staying down. That the chains didn’t work. You nearly tore her and Ronin apart in the woods.”

I flinched. The memory hit like a sledgehammer. Tessa’s face. Her eyes. Her magic slamming into me as I tried to rip her apart.

“I didn’t know…”

“We didn’t do it lightly,” she added, softer this time. “It took everything Ruth and I had to force you under. And even then, we didn’t think you’d wake for days. Maybe weeks.”

I swung my legs off the bed, planting my bare feet on the floor. “Well, here I am.”

“Which means the curse is stronger than we thought.”

“Great,” I muttered, rubbing my face, and then stilled. My skin was bare. No shirt. No pants. Just cold air and the sharp reminder of what I’d become. Fuck. I must’ve torn everything off when I shifted.

She studied me for a long moment. “Do you feel it?”

Yeah, it was still there, simmering beneath the surface. That dark pulse riding my spine. Like a creature pacing just behind my skin, waiting for the moment I slipped up. Waiting to take over again.

“I remember it all,” I said finally. “The woods. The blood. Tessa. I tried to kill her.”

Dolores’s expression tightened. “But you didn’t. She’s fine. A little bruised, a little traumatized, but fine.”

“That doesn’t make it better. I’m supposed to protect her. Protect this town. Not be the monster in the woods.” Which is exactly what I was now. A monster.

“You’re not a monster, Marcus.”

I looked at her. “You sure about that?”

She didn’t answer, but her face tightened. Her shoulders squared like she was bracing herself. And I could smell it—fear. Faint, but real. She was afraid of me.

“Where is she?” I asked.

“She’s gone,” said Dolores. “Jumped a ley line to New York.”

My chest seized. “What? Why?”

“She’s trying to find someone who can help. Soren Tex.”

I cursed under my breath. “That elf bastard? He’s dangerous.”

“So is this curse,” Dolores shot back. “And right now, he may be the only one who knows how to fight it. His magic is old… older than ours and old enough to have an impact on this curse.”

I ran a hand through my hair. “Alone?”

“Yes.”

“Damn it, Tessa…”

“She can take care of herself,” said Dolores. “But if you want her to have something worth fighting for—if you want to stay her husband—you need to hold it together.”

I looked out the window, the moonlight glowing pale across the snow.

Hold it together.

Right. Because when the beast in your blood wanted out, and your own hands remembered the weight of killing, staying human wasn’t just hard.

It was a war. And I wasn’t sure I was winning.

I looked at her. “Where’s Darian?”

“Asleep. Downstairs,” said Dolores. Her tone softened just a little. “Safe. Ruth and Beverly are watching him. Ronin’s here too. Your son is in good hands.”

Some of the tension in my chest eased but only a fraction. “Good.” I gave a slow nod, but something inside me clenched. Not my gut. Deeper. Lower. Like something had just stirred. Awakened.

Dolores hesitated and then added, “Your mother came by earlier.”

My eyes snapped to hers. “She did?”

“She showed up not long after we got you upstairs,” she said, keeping her voice even. “Said you called her. Told her you were cursed. That she might never see you again.”

I didn’t remember doing that. But… it sounded like something I’d do. Especially if I thought I wasn’t coming back.

“She told us she used to be part of the Order of Fenrir.”

I glared at her. “The hell are you talking about?”

“She left the order before she met your father,” added Dolores. “She claimed she didn’t know what they really were back then. She walked away once she realized what they stood for.”

My jaw tightened. “She never told me.”

“No,” said Dolores. “She didn’t. But she says she’ll try to reach out to them. See if there’s anything they can do.”

I dragged a hand down my face. The order. The same bastards who did this to me. And my own mother had once been one of them? What else hadn’t she told me?

My fists curled at my sides, my muscles tensing so tightly it felt like the curse might rip through my skin all over again. I wasn’t sure if the rage boiling in my gut came from the curse, or if it was all mine this time.

“She knew what they were capable of,” I said, my voice low and gritty. “And she said nothing. Not to me. Not even when I told her I was dating a witch.”

Dolores shifted her weight. “She didn’t think they would ever go through with the curse.”

“Well, they did.”

“She’s still trying,” said Dolores gently. “She’s going to see if she can get in touch with them. If anyone can break through their wall of fanaticism, it might be her.”

“It’s too late,” I snapped.

Dolores didn’t flinch, but I could smell the worry on her again. The tightness of her jaw, the shift in her breath—I was making her nervous. Hell, I was making myself nervous.

I turned away and stared out the window. The moonlight spilled through the glass, cold and pale against my bare skin.

“I don’t know what’s worse,” I told her. “That I don’t remember much of what I did… or that part of me wanted to. That maybe the monster liked it.”

“You’re not the monster, Marcus.”

I didn’t answer. I wasn’t sure I believed her.

“You’re still fighting,” added Dolores. “That counts for something.”

I kept staring out the window, my thoughts spiraling. My mother. The order. My son sleeping downstairs without a clue that his father was cursed by ancient blood magic. That his father had already killed.

I exhaled, the sound rough and low. “I need to fix this.”

Dolores stepped closer, cautiously. “Tessa will be back soon. We’ll have a better idea of where we go from here.”

I closed my eyes for a beat. Soren. I couldn’t believe she went looking for that elf bastard. But she would because that’s who she was. And she was out there now, risking everything for me.

And I was stuck in here, cursed, dangerous, and of no use to anyone.

Before I could process it further, the heat under my skin surged. My chest tightened. My hands flexed without command.

The curse. It was crawling back.

“Dolores.” My voice dropped lower. Rougher.

She turned to me, her eyebrows lifting. “What is it?”

My chest rose and fell in heavier breaths. “It’s coming back.”

Her face paled. “Are you sure?”

My fingertips tingled. My bones… twitched. Like they were preparing to shift.

“Put me under again,” I said. “Now.”

“Marcus—”

“Do it now!” I locked eyes with her. The old magic in my blood was boiling. I could feel it wrapping around my nerves like wires pulled too tight. This wasn’t something I could push down.

Her lips parted. She took a half step forward but then stopped. “You just woke up. If I put you back under right away, it might kill you.”

“And I’ll kill someone if we wait,” I cut in, my voice sharp. “I’m not going to risk that.”

Dolores’s throat worked as she swallowed. “You’re sure?”

I nodded once. “Before I lose the choice.”

Something flickered behind her eyes. Worry. Grief. Resignation. Then she moved.

“Lie back down,” she said, her voice clipped and focused now. “I’ll get Ruth.”

I obeyed, my breath getting harder to control.

As she turned to the door, I could already feel it—my vision starting to blur, a burn building beneath my ribs, like something wild was just beneath the surface, pacing.

And it wanted out.

I listened to her footsteps recede down the hall. Each one felt like a ticking clock. I closed my eyes, tried to slow my breathing. Tried to think of Tessa. Of Darian. Of the life I had—the one I wanted to hold on to. The one this curse was ripping out from under me.

But the ache was already returning. Not the kind of pain that lived in bones or muscle. No, this started deeper, somewhere beneath the skin, a slithering pull that didn’t belong to me but was now part of me.

“Not now,” I whispered, curling my hands into fists. “Just a few more minutes.”

I stood, pacing in slow, deliberate steps across the room. The floor creaked beneath me. My shoulders hunched forward, sweat beading across my back as the thing inside me stirred again.

The faintest vibration rippled through my skin, like static caught in my blood.

And then I knew. It was already too late.

“No,” I growled, clutching the doorframe. “Not yet—damn it—”

My knees buckled, and I hit the floor hard.

The world narrowed into fragments, the sound of my own pulse thundering in my ears. My breath came in short, ragged bursts. My spine arched, bones shifting beneath muscle that no longer felt like mine.

“No,” I managed to choke out, the single word clawing past my throat like a warning dragged from the edge of a cliff.

Then it took me.

The curse poured through, no hesitation, no mercy. My vision went dark around the edges as the transformation overtook me. My limbs stretched, twisted. My jaw unhinged. My hands—no, claws—dug into the floorboards, tearing them up like paper. The cursed magic carved through every inch of my being, branding me from the inside out.

No one was here to stop me this time. No chains. No magical coma. No second chance.

Only the monster.

And it was loose again.

20

TESSA

Going to an underground paranormal club in the middle of the night wasn’t exactly high on my list of life-affirming activities. But desperate times called for terrible decisions. And finding Soren Tex, the world’s most powerful, most broody, and definitely most vengeful half-elf, was at the very top of my “please let this not get me killed” to-do list.

Would he listen to me? Maybe. Would he laugh in my face and offer me a poisoned cocktail? Probably. Would he try to kill me before I even finished saying, “Hi, remember me?” Oh, you bet your cauldron.

But none of that mattered. Not when Marcus was losing himself more every minute. Not when my sweet wereape husband was in a magical coma lying in bed like a monster from a Grimm’s fairy tale gone very, very wrong.

So yeah. The creepy club it was.

I’d jumped a ley line to Rivington and landed like a witch on a mission. The street was dark, silent. I looked up to see all the streetlamps were out. Typical. One flicker of moonlight tried to break through the clouds like it was rooting for me.

Along the cracked sidewalk was a row of squat buildings—stone, metal, rusted iron. Nothing screamed “exclusive supernatural hotspot.” Except one.

Below the sleepy Rivington Bakery sat a building with a single red door. The name THE NOCTURNE glowed above it in red neon letters.

“This is fine,” I muttered to myself. “Totally normal. Just a witch walking into a paranormal club for help from a homicidal elf. No biggie.”

I pushed the door open.

Heat hit me like I’d just stepped into a sauna owned by Lucifer himself. The club pulsed with music, smoke, cigarettes, incense, and a hint of piss. The distinct sour-milk-and-wet-fur scent told me weres were here along with something dead… or undead. Honestly, who could tell anymore?

A narrow hallway led into the main space. Red lights flickered overhead, painting the whole place in bloody hues. The bass throbbed like a heartbeat on speed.

To my left, a sleek bar stretched out, black granite gleaming beneath a jungle of empty bottles and half-full glasses. Paranormals lounged on curved red couches—vampires mostly, their eyes black and gleaming, lips stained from something that wasn’t Merlot. Some were making out like horny teenagers while others watched me with sharp, predatory curiosity.

Yeah. Strangers weren’t welcome. Message received.

I moved toward the back, where a plush lounge area unfurled in gothic splendor. Red velvet carpets, black leather seats, and drapes so dramatic they could moonlight as villain capes. It was all very… Dracula’s vacation home meets Manhattan chic.

And then I saw him.

Throne-like chair. Legs crossed like he owned the room—and probably did. Lean frame, pale skin that glowed faintly under the red lights. That same bone-deep elegance I remembered, all wrapped in danger and something colder.

Soren Tex.

Beautiful, deadly, and the only person who might be able to save my husband.

I squared my shoulders and took a breath.

Time to talk to the elf. Time to convince the one person who might hate me enough to say no, to say yes. And if not? Well… I did have a few magical smackdowns left in me.

I made my way closer, weaving through smoke and menace. The closer I got, the more the weight of the eyes on me intensified. This wasn’t just a lounge. It was a court. And the pale, elegant tyrant in the center?

Yeah. That was Soren Tex.

His gaze met mine across the room. And for a fraction of a second, something shifted. His pale blue eyes rounded just enough to register surprise—not alarm, not recognition, exactly, but interest. Like he hadn’t expected me to walk through that door.

Then it was gone, replaced with cool detachment, his expression unreadable once more.

I cleared my throat, trying not to flinch as the woman with long black hair lounging on the couch hissed at me like I’d just stepped on her favorite stiletto.

“Can we talk in private?” I asked, lifting my chin and directing the question at the elf relaxing on his throne.

Soren smirked, tilting his head with lazy amusement. “Tessa Davenport. Never thought I’d see you again so soon.”

“Trust me. The feeling’s mutual,” I said, crossing my arms. “I was hoping for at least a full calendar year before dealing with your delightful brand of emotional terrorism.”

A few of his entourage chuckled at that, but he didn’t.

He leaned forward slightly, resting his elbows on his knees, his gaze sharp. “How did you find me? This is a private club.”

I hesitated. Cedric’s name hovered on the tip of my tongue, but I shoved it back down. No way was I throwing him under the elven bus. Not yet. Not until I figured out what the hell they did to Iris.

“I’ve got connections,” I said instead, giving a casual shrug.

Soren narrowed his eyes slightly, like he didn’t quite believe me but also didn’t care enough to press. Not yet, anyway.

“Well,” he said, his voice smooth as smoke, “you found me. Let’s see if you regret it.”

“Right. We need to talk.”

“We?” asked Soren, his voice dangerously low.

I cleared my throat and asked again, “I mean, can we have a chat? Privately?”

Soren smiled. One of those slow, dangerous ones. “Anything you have to say, you can say here.”

A few of his vampire groupies giggled like I’d just asked him to prom. Another one narrowed her eyes, a snarl curling her lip.

Cool. So I was officially the unwanted guest at the bloodsucker prom.

I pressed on. “I’m here to ask for your help.” Yes, that sounded lame, but I was desperate. I’d ridicule myself in front of this elf and his groupies for the sake of Marcus. Hell, I’d even do it naked if I had to. Cellulite, arms that flap during applause, and a belly trained by years of bread worship. They’d be in for a treat.

Soren didn’t move. He just stared at me, one long leg draped over the other, his fingers casually resting on the arm of his chair like this was his idea of foreplay.

I swallowed. “It’s Marcus. He’s cursed. The Mark of the Fenrir.”

At that, something flickered across his face. Interest? Recognition? Gas?

“Ever heard of it?” I asked.

“Yes,” he said simply.

I waited. Nothing.

“Okay,” I continued. “The curse was activated. He’s changing. Losing himself. It’s not just memory blackouts anymore. He’s turning into something else. Something that wants to kill everything he loves. Including me.”

Still, he didn’t speak.

I inhaled slowly. “I came to you because your magic—your bloodline—might be strong enough to counter it. The order used ancient magic to create the curse. I thought maybe you could help me find a way to break it.”

Soren let out a breath that could’ve been a laugh or the sound of his soul leaving his body from boredom.

Then he chuckled, low and cold.

And suddenly the entire lounge was laughing with him.

The woman on the couch. The two men perched on stools. Even the bartender wiping down a bottle of blood-infused gin. The sound bounced off the walls, rising like some demonic laugh track.

Soren smiled again, like he was thoroughly entertained. “You came to me… for help?”

I propped my arms on my hips. “I did.”

“Oh,” he said smoothly, tilting his head. “This should be fun.” His grin faded. Just a fraction. But I saw it.

He rose slowly from his throne-like seat, every movement deliberate, graceful, lethal. “You want my help,” he said, his voice smooth as silk and twice as dangerous. “After what your family did to mine?”

Here we go.

“My name was erased,” he said. “My father’s memory scrubbed from your sacred archives. My mother—an elven noble—treated like filth. I was cast out, Tessa. Not just from the Davenport family but from both worlds. I was made to be nothing.”

His voice didn’t rise. It didn’t have to. The fury lived just beneath the surface, coiled and ancient and venomous.

“I didn’t do that,” I said, forcing my tone to stay even. “I wasn’t even born yet. This isn’t on me.”

He chuckled, low and bitter. “Every Davenport carries the sin of their name. That’s the legacy you so proudly inherited. And now you want my help?”

“I don’t want it,” I snapped, stepping forward. “I need it.”

A few of the vampires and shifters around the room growled, one of the women flashing a fang. I was one breath away from launching into full-blown panic. But I couldn’t back down now. If they attacked, I’d fight back. I didn’t care about anything other than getting help for Marcus.

Soren’s gaze locked with mine, unblinking.

“Marcus is dying,” I said, softer this time. “The curse is killing him. It’s erasing him.” Yeah, I was going there, using his words. He knew what that felt like.

“Is he?” he asked flatly.

“I’m out of options. And Dolores says this thing is old—older than anything we can touch. Maybe even elven foundations, I don’t know. But it’s old. Which means... maybe you can help. Which is the reason I’m here.”

Soren cocked a brow. “You want me to save the man married to a Davenport witch. You think I’m the solution to that?”

“I think you’re the only one who can stand against that kind of magic,” I said. “Because you don’t follow rules. You hate them.” I had no idea, but I was going with it.

He tilted his head, considering me. “You’re not wrong.”

“Well, good. We’re making progress.” I gave a tight smile.

Then he sat back down on his throne, one arm draped lazily over the side and the other bringing a glass of something red to his lips. He sipped slowly, like a man who had all the time in the world. And none of it was mine.

“I could just kill you now,” he said calmly, almost conversationally. “Start my revenge. Use your death as the opening act in the downfall of every Davenport left breathing.”

A jolt went through me, but I kept my face from showing any emotion. I lifted a brow, keeping my voice light. “You could try,” I said. “But where’s the fun in that? Besides, if you wanted me dead, I’d already be a puddle on your trendy rug.”

He chuckled darkly. “You do have a mouth on you.”

“Yeah, it’s one of my best features,” I said, glancing at his entourage, some of whom were watching me like I was an appetizer.

Soren leaned forward again, predatory interest sharpening his features. “You’re asking your enemy for help.”

“Yes,” I said simply. Because it was true.

“You’re either incredibly brave,” he said, rising slowly to his feet again, every inch of him gliding like something made of shadows and elegance, “or fantastically stupid.”

“That’s the eternal debate,” I muttered.

He stopped a few feet from me, close enough that I could feel the chill rolling off him. His pale blue eyes locked on mine, and I could see the flicker of something behind them. Rage, pain, maybe curiosity. Maybe all three.

“Do you even know what you’re asking?” he said. “What I’d have to do to undo something crafted by the Order of Fenrir?”

“I know enough,” I said. “Enough to know that no one else can do it.” There was still a chance that Katherine might get some help or even an antidote, if that even existed, but that was a very big if.

“You don’t know anything, little witch,” he said, his voice like frost. “The order didn’t use elven magic, but they used something just as old. Something primal. Ancient, like the world before it had names.”

“Good to know.”

“They twisted it,” he continued, taking a slow step forward. “Bent it to serve their obsession with bloodlines and control. It’s not elven, but it’s close. And just as dangerous.”

“Then untwist it,” I snapped, letting some of the fear slide into fury. “You’re powerful, you’re angry, you’re clever, and you hate everyone. So help me destroy it. It will surely piss them off.”

Soren’s lips curled into something that wasn’t quite a smile. “You came here with teeth.”

I swallowed. “Yeah, well, it’s been a hell of a month.”

He didn’t laugh this time. Didn’t speak. He just stared, quiet and cold, like the silence right before a blizzard hits.

Then finally, his voice dropped, silky, low, and deceptively gentle. “If I help you… what will you give me in return?”

For half a second, my breath caught. Was this it? Was he actually considering it?

“I’ll give you whatever you want,” I said, the words rushing out before I could stop them. “There’s nothing I won’t do to save my husband.” I paused. Then held up a finger. “But I won’t sleep with you.”

A vampire nearby cackled. The woman with the black hair hissed something in another language. Soren? He just laughed—slow, amused, and entirely too pleased with himself.

“You wound me,” he said smoothly, “to think I’d bargain for something so… predictable.”

“Well,” I said, trying to ignore the heat crawling up my neck. “You asked.”

He moved forward, close enough now that I could see the faint glow behind his pale blue eyes. “And?”

I squared my shoulders. “What will it be? Are we going to have to play twenty questions, or are you going to help me?”

He didn’t answer. But he wasn’t laughing anymore either. And I counted that as a win. For now.

For a beat, I thought he might say yes.

But then he smiled. Slow. Cruel. Beautiful.

“No.”

A cold knot formed in my stomach, and a hollow chill seeped into my chest. “No?” I repeated, my voice cracking on the edge of disbelief.

“No,” he said again, turning away from me like I was already forgotten. “But good luck.”

Laughter erupted behind me—cold, sharp, and full of teeth. Mocking. Cruel. Like they already saw me bleeding.

I didn’t move. Not yet. Some foolish part of me still hoped he’d change his mind. That he was bluffing. That deep down, behind all that elven ice, a sliver of humanity was left to reach.

But then Soren turned his head slightly, just enough for me to see his profile. “And Tessa?” he said, his voice soft and poisonous. “If you ever come back here… or try to find me again, I’ll kill you.”

The laughter grew louder. I didn’t doubt him. Not for a second.

Every nerve in my body screamed at me to run, and this time, I listened. My body moved on autopilot, muscles tense, heart shoving against my ribs as I backed away from the lounge. Every instinct screamed to pull a ley line and bolt if anyone so much as breathed in my direction.

But no one followed. That almost made it worse.

I walked out into the dark corridor of the club, numb. Hollow. My vision blurred with unshed tears.

This was it. My only shot at saving Marcus.

And I’d failed.

21

MARCUS

The floor was cold beneath me, hardwood digging into my skin as I clawed at the cursed heat radiating through my chest. Pain—not sharp, not sudden, but deep—coiled in my bones like something alive and ancient, wrapping around my spine, my lungs, my thoughts. I gritted my teeth, my fingers gouging into the boards.

No. Fight, you bastard. Fight.

Every inch of me wanted to shift. To give in. To let the curse take me the rest of the way and finish what it started. But I wasn’t done. I wasn’t gone yet. I couldn’t be.

My vision blurred again. This time, it was less dark. I could see through my own eyes, faint shapes and colors moving through the haze. The bedroom door. The hallway. The faint glow of magic flickering beneath the floorboards from whatever wards the aunts had cast.

The curse pounded through me like a fever, dragging me down with it. Heavy. Molten. A wildfire in my bloodstream.

It wanted control. All of it.

“No,” I growled again, dragging myself forward across the floor. My muscles trembled under the weight of it, every tendon straining as bones stretched to the edge of snapping.

I could feel it happening. My bones began to warp, my jaw had already started to elongate, and my fingers were curling into clawed fists. My skin rippled and cracked.

But I fought. I clenched my fists, forced air into my lungs, and pushed back against the beast rising up inside me.

The pressure in my spine loosened, just enough. A wave of nausea rolled through me followed by a brutal snap as one of my shoulders jerked back into place. My ribs tightened and then slowly eased. Like they were trying to collapse… but hadn’t yet.

My body—broken and healing at the same time. In flux. Suspended between man and monster.

I gritted my teeth, fangs scraping the inside of my mouth. Blood dripped onto the floorboards.

But the claws started to retract. My vision sharpened. I had seconds, maybe minutes. I didn’t know, but I’d shoved the monster back for now.

The curse wasn’t done. It was waiting, watching from inside me, ready to lunge the second I hesitated.

And I was already running out of time.

I reached the doorway. My palm slammed against the frame, leaving sweat and blood behind.

Voices downstairs, frantic. Familiar. One of them was Tinker Bell, cursing in some high-pitched squeak. Another was Ruth, shouting something I couldn’t understand.

Then Darian cried out.

My heart seized. I rolled to my side, choking on my own breath. My skin was burning now, my muscles contorting and tendons snapping under the strain of the shift, but not into anything I recognized. This wasn’t the natural change of a wereape. That had flow, rhythm, instinct.

A vicious, jagged pull at the very marrow of me felt like my bones were being melted and repoured into something else—something warped, cursed.

I dragged myself forward, one trembling hand at a time, toward the door. My nails—half-clawed, half-normal—scraped uselessly across the wood.

Just get down the stairs. Just get outside.

I made it to the top step.

And then the curse surged.

It hit me like a lightning strike to the spine. My vision went white. My limbs jerked. My back arched violently. And I slipped.

My body collapsed forward and slammed into the stairs, thudding and cracking all the way down, step after step after step, until I landed at the bottom in a heap of muscle, bone, and breathless agony.

For a moment, I couldn’t move. Then I heard it—a sound that cut deeper than any blow. A cry, Darian’s voice, small and scared.

I forced my head up. Through my haze, I saw him—standing at the edge of the living room rug, clutching a blanket. His big, gray eyes—my eyes—were wide with terror.

Terror of me.

Something inside me cracked, split clean down the middle.

“Darian,” I rasped.

But it came out wrong. The word was warped—a half-growl, half-guttural sound that didn’t belong in any human mouth.

Ruth appeared instantly, scooping Darian into her arms. “Shhh, shhh, it’s okay,” she whispered, holding him tightly and shielding him from the sight of me.

Behind her, Ronin blurred into view, his eyes black and fangs slightly bared. “Let me. I’ll take care of him,” he started. “Sorry, buddy, but I can’t let you hurt them.”

“No,” snapped Dolores, stepping in front of Ronin, her palm glowing with magic. “We don’t need a brawl in the living room. We need magic.” She turned her head sharply. “Beverly, now!”

“Coming!” Beverly’s voice rang from the kitchen.

She appeared beside her sister, her usual sass nowhere to be found. Her expression was deadly serious.

Dolores dropped to her knees beside me, and Beverly mirrored her on the other side. Their hands hovered over my chest, trembling slightly but steady with purpose. Power glowed at their fingertips, soft and white at first but then sharpening into something more focused.

The moment their palms pressed against my bare skin something shifted.

The air thickened. The temperature dropped. A hum began to vibrate through the floorboards beneath me, low and steady, like the heartbeat of the earth itself. Pine, cedar, crushed leaves… the smell of White witch magic rolled over me in waves, ancient, familiar, comforting.

Their voices rose in unison, slipping into that strange, ancient tongue they only used for powerful spells.

“Dormire… pacem… vinculo animae…”

The words crawled over my skin like silk. The magic entered me, threading through my chest and curling around the rage, the heat, the curse. I felt it working. Slowing my thoughts. Making my limbs heavy, like someone was gently tugging me back from the edge of the cliff.

Yes! Yes, this was it.

I could feel the exhaustion settle into my bones, the pull toward unconsciousness, like the beast was retreating, like I was winning.

But then the curse flared.

A violent surge of heat exploded in my chest, shattering the calm.

My back arched off the floor as the White magic inside me sparked and then shattered like glass against steel. The spell cracked mid-syllable. My muscles tensed again. Fire rushed through my blood, and the thing inside me roared.

“No,” I gritted out, my jaw locking as the light from Dolores’s hands flickered. “Don’t—stop—”

“It’s pushing back,” gasped Beverly, her voice thin and unsteady. “It’s like it’s feeding off our magic.”

“Damnit.” Dolores’s hands trembled, her eyes snapping open as the glow sputtered and died completely. “Our magic isn’t sufficient. We’re not strong enough. The spell. It’s not holding.”

“What?” Beverly whispered as if she hadn’t heard right.

“We’re not powerful enough,” Dolores repeated, bitterly. “The curse is layered, ancient… it’s evolving inside him. We can’t contain it with just the two of us.”

In my chest I felt the shift, the swell, the curse pressing against the last of my control like a dam about to burst.

“We need more,” Dolores said urgently. “More witches, more power—something beyond what we can give.”

“But we don’t have more,” hissed Beverly, her eyes wild. “We only have us.”

The thing inside me roared back with renewed fury—stronger than before, more rooted. Its claws weren’t just wrapped around my bones anymore. They were inside them, curled around the shadows of my soul, digging deeper, taking more.

The magic from Dolores’s hands sparked violently against my skin and fizzled out. The light fractured like brittle glass, falling across my chest in a shower of useless embers.

“It didn’t work,” whispered Ruth, her voice shaking as she rocked Darian against her chest. My son was wailing now, full-throated and terrified. The sound tore through me worse than the curse. “Hey? Don’t cry. Mommy will be back soon,” cooed Ruth, trying to calm him, but her own voice cracked on the words.

His mother. Tessa… my Tessa. My mate. My soul.

A flash of her face filled my mind, her eyes wild with determination, voice sharp with fury and love. The way she’d thrown herself in front of me during the last fight. The way her hands shook as she called on her power to stop me. The way she cried as she hit me with everything she had.

What have I become?

This curse—it wasn’t just turning me into a monster. It was erasing me. Erasing the man who would die before ever letting harm touch his wife and his son.

And now, I was the threat.

I felt the curse burning inside me, seething and pulsing with hate. It didn’t just want my body. It wanted my memories. My will. Everything I’d fought for. Everything Tessa and I had built. Darian’s first smile. His laugh. The way Tessa snorted when she laughed too hard. The soft hum she made when she was thinking through a spell. Her scent in the morning, clinging to me like home.

All of it—being stripped away. One agonizing second at a time.

I couldn’t lose them. I wouldn’t.

“Again,” I rasped, my throat raw, my voice barely mine. I could barely lift my head. My body trembled, every muscle seizing like it was being twisted from the inside out. My vision swam, black spots forming around the edges. “Try again…” I begged, not just them, Tessa’s aunts, my allies—but the goddess. The magic. My own damn soul.

Hold on. Just hold on a little longer.

Dolores met Beverly’s gaze, something silent passing between them, equal parts determination and fear.

“Hold him,” Dolores ordered, planting her hands against me once more.

“On it,” Beverly muttered, grabbing my shoulder with one hand and pressing her palm over my heart with the other.

From somewhere to the left, Ronin rubbed his hands together, his voice low but urgent. “Come on, ladies. You’ve got this. Show this curse who’s boss.” He took a step closer, his eyes locked on me like he was ready to leap if they failed. “Shake the floor, light up the house. Whatever it takes.”

Across the room, Ruth was hopping from foot to foot like she either had to pee or wanted to cast a spell herself. “Please work, please work, please don’t explode,” she chanted under her breath.

Dolores didn’t look away from me. “Give it all you’ve got, Beverly.”

Beverly sucked in a breath and closed her eyes. “Oh, I hate when you say that. It means something’s about to explode.”

Their hands began to glow again, the shimmer of White magic weaving between their fingers and crackling like static. The scent of pine and herbs thickened in the room.

“Dormire… pacem… vinculo animae…” Their voices rose again, louder this time, strained with desperation.

The air crackled. The floor trembled beneath me.

Magic surged through their palms—hot, bright, and furious—white light pouring into me like a river. For a second, I thought it might work. I could feel my limbs slacken. The curse recoiled, just a little, snarling as the energy pressed down on it.

But then it thundered back.

Pain sliced through me like a blade. My back arched again. My hands tore at the rug, claws erupting from my fingers as the curse surged forward with unnatural strength. My body was no longer mine.

“No!” Beverly screamed. “It’s not—”

“He’s fighting it,” Ruth cried, holding Darian tighter as the baby’s wails grew more frantic. “He’s still in there.”

“He won’t be for long,” Dolores said grimly, sweat beading down her temple. “It’s too strong.”

Ronin stepped forward, tense. His black eyes gleamed with his vampire side, claws already extending. “You want me to do something?”

“Be ready,” Dolores snapped, not looking up. “If he turns again, we won’t be able to stop him.”

I heard it in her voice. They weren’t sure they could contain me.

And deep down, neither was I.

The curse wasn’t just rooted in me. It owned me. And this time, it wasn’t going down without a war.

“We have to do something,” said Ruth desperately. “Anything to stop the curse.”

“The coma was the only way,” said Dolores, her voice low and grim. “We did all we could. It’s up to Tessa now.”

I wanted to scream at that—Tessa, my wife, my mate, out there risking everything for me, and here I was, on the verge of turning into something she might have to kill.

Beverly hovered near the edge of the room, her arms crossed tightly over her chest and face pale. “So what do we do in the meantime?”

Dolores’s gaze flicked toward me and then back to her sister. “We’ll have to keep him down with our magic as long as we can.”

The burn in my chest snapped. The curse howled, tearing through my body like a jagged blade. My skin lit up with fire, every muscle convulsing in violent spasms. The runes, those cursed sigils I couldn’t see but felt etched into my bones, lit up like molten iron, pulsing beneath my skin.

I knew it then. This was it, the last time I’d be me. There was no coming back this time.

A final shudder rocked through me, sharp enough to steal the breath from my lungs.

I lifted my head—barely. My vision swam, but I saw him.

Darian.

Clutched in Ruth’s arms, his tiny hands were fisted in her apron, tears streaming down his round cheeks. He stared at me like he knew. Like he could already feel that his father was slipping away.

I held on to that image. His eyes. My son.

And then I let go.

With a guttural roar, I shoved myself up from the floor, my bones cracking as the curse exploded outward—warping, twisting, claiming every last shred of me.

Dolores shouted something. Beverly chanted. White light flashed from their palms, but it didn’t matter.

It was too late.

I was already moving. I launched toward the front door—through it—splintering the frame with the force of a creature no longer bound by human strength or reason. Wood exploded around me. Screams followed. I didn’t look back. I couldn’t.

Bare feet slammed against the frozen ground, the cold a distant memory as the curse roared to life inside me. Wind tore at my skin, but I didn’t feel it. The night swallowed me whole, trees blurring past as I ran.

Ran from the house. From my son. From myself.

I didn’t know what I’d left anymore. The sound of Darian’s wailing echoed like a knife behind my ribs.

But it couldn’t reach me. Not now. All I knew was the blood pounding in my ears.

The surge of muscle and magic stretching beyond what my body should hold.

And the all-consuming need to destroy. To rip. To tear. To feed the rage.

I wasn’t Marcus anymore. I was the monster the order had made.

And I was free.

22

TESSA

I slowed the ley line just as the familiar lights of Davenport House glittered into view and jumped out, landing just inside the front door. My boots hit the entrance with a thud.

I stepped onto the floorboards, bracing myself to deliver the bad news that my so-called brilliant plan to charm the psycho elf into helping us had crashed and burned harder than a drunken broomstick joyride.

But I froze mid-step.

My kid, red-faced and crying in Ruth’s arms. Dolores and Beverly, pale and tight-lipped like they’d seen the ghost of Christmas Massacre. Tinker Bell hovering silently near the mantel, her wings drooping like wilted petals. Hildo sat on the armrest of the couch, his paws crossed and ears flat on his head with restrained emotion. And Ronin? He looked like someone had just force-fed him a raw onion.

I didn’t walk. I ran.

I scooped Darian out of Ruth’s arms like my soul depended on it. His sobbing slowed the second he curled into me, sniffling into my neck, and I kissed his temple like I could kiss away whatever nightmare he’d just lived through.

Then I turned around slowly, ready for someone to explain why my son looked like he’d just seen the boogeyman.

“Okay,” I said, my voice not quite my own. “What the hell happened here?”

Because I already knew—in my gut, in the part of my soul that was still raw from watching Soren Tex laugh in my face—that something awful had happened in the hours I was gone.

And I had a feeling I knew exactly what, or who, it was.

Ruth’s hands wrung the hem of her apron. “Marcus is gone,” she blurted.

I stopped rocking. “What?” My voice cracked. “Gone? But he was in a coma.”

“He fought it off,” Dolores said quietly. “Or rather… the curse did. It pushed our magic out. Like it rejected it.”

My arms tightened around Darian, who was finally calm but hiccupping against my shoulder, his tiny fists still clinging to my sweater. I couldn’t fall apart, not in front of him.

But Marcus… Marcus was gone.

No, no, no.

That was the one thing I’d prayed wouldn’t happen. I’d left thinking he’d still be here, still lying safe in bed—still reachable. I was supposed to come home with a solution, maybe a magical recipe, a clever curse-breaking one-liner, or a deal with a smug elf with a superiority complex.

But now? Plan B didn’t exist. I’d been banking on improvising. Winging it. A solid eighty percent of my success rate relied on chaotic instinct and caffeine.

But there was no winging it when your cursed husband broke out of a magical coma and vanished into the night.

My throat burned. I forced the sob back down. Darian was watching me, his big, watery eyes fixed on mine. I couldn’t let him see me fall apart, not when he’d already watched his father transform into something terrifying.

I stroked his hair and kissed the top of his head. “It’s okay,” I whispered. “It’s going to be okay.” A lie, but I sold it like it came with a guarantee and free shipping.

Beverly stepped closer, her voice gentle. “Tessa, we tried. Cauldron knows we tried everything.”

I nodded, but I couldn’t speak yet. Because if I opened my mouth, I wasn’t sure what would come out.

Fear. Rage. Maybe just a scream.

Instead, I clutched Darian tighter and stared out the front window into the darkness, willing Marcus to somehow be there.

But he wasn’t, and I had no idea what to do next.

“I hate that curse,” said Ruth, her face screwed up. “Big meany curse.”

I agreed as I looked between them. “You tried again, right? The coma spell?”

“We did,” Dolores said, her mouth tight. “Beverly and I both. We threw everything we had at it.”

“And?” I asked, barely breathing.

“It didn’t hold,” she said quietly. “Our magic… wasn’t strong enough.”

“What?” I rocked Darian against my shoulder. “It worked before. Why didn’t it hold this time?”

“Because the curse is stronger now,” Beverly chimed in, brushing her hands over her pants like she was trying to scrub off guilt. “Too strong. We gave it everything. It didn’t work.”

“Darian was screaming,” said Ruth. “He knew. He knew his father wasn’t his father anymore.”

“He saw?” Crap.

Ruth nodded, her face sad. “It happened so fast. I’m sorry.”

I tightened my arms around my son, who had finally quieted but was still clinging to me like a koala during a thunderstorm. No wonder he was crying. No child should have seen their parents in that state, morphing, changing into a monster.

“Then what happened?” I asked, my voice sharp.

Ronin spoke up then, his jaw clenched and arms crossed. “Gone. He ran out.”

Dolores nodded grimly. “The curse took over completely. He broke free, bolted out the front door like a nightmare on two legs. We couldn’t stop him.”

For a second, I just stood there, feeling the cold, the dread, the complete failure of the night settle over me like a weighted blanket I didn’t order.

I swallowed hard, forcing myself to stay calm for Darian. “And you’re all okay?”

“We’re fine,” Dolores said. “But he’s not. And, Tessa…” She hesitated, which immediately put me on edge. “He looked right at Darian before the curse took full control. And then he ran. Like he knew… knew that this time… he wasn’t coming back.”

I closed my eyes. Willing myself to keep it together. “Well,” I said, dragging in a breath that felt like it had glass shards in it. “I have some bad news of my own.”

Ronin groaned. “Don’t tell me Soren tried to seduce you.”

“Worse,” I said. “He laughed in my face. Told me no. And if I come back, he’ll kill me.”

Beverly made a rude noise. “Typical ancient elf nonsense. All that power and not a lick of manners.”

“I’m sorry,” Ruth said softly. “We know how much you were counting on that.”

I looked down at Darian, who had finally fallen into a hiccupping sleep against my shoulder, his red cheeks blotchy and little fists slack with exhaustion. “I know.”

What I didn’t say was that my last shred of hope had gone belly-up in a paranormal club, laughed at by an elf with excellent bone structure and a flair for emotional torture.

“What we need is more power,” said Dolores, already pacing like she was solving magical crime. “Forget the elf. Let’s get more magic.”

My eyes snapped up. “What kind of more?”

“I’ve been reading up some more on the curse while you were out,” she said, pausing just long enough to grab a thick, leather-bound tome off the table. “And I realized something. It’s a blood-anchored curse, deep and layered with an old magic signature. Older than anything I’ve worked with. But it’s not unmovable.”

I cocked a brow. “Meaning?”

“Meaning,” she said, tapping her chin in thought, “if we combine our magic—White, Dark, and Demon—we might have a shot at sucking it out.”

“You want to… vacuum out the curse?”

“Basically,” she said, not missing a beat. “It’s called a curse-transfer, or just transference. We pull the curse out of Marcus and put it into something else. Lock it down.”

I stared. “You can do that?” I was seriously impressed.

Dolores gave me a look like I’d just asked her if she could summon fire. “It’s difficult. Dangerous. Requires multiple casters and an anchoring vessel… but yes. I’ve been working on the spell in case this happened. I even found an object strong enough to hold it.”

Ruth clapped her hands. “Like a genie in a bottle!”

Dolores rolled her eyes. “More like a rabid wolf god in a magical urn, but sure. Let’s go with genie.”

Beverly crossed her arms. “What kind of object are we talking about here?”

Dolores ignored her. “But… we need more magic.”

That’s when it hit me. I turned slowly, locking eyes with all of them. “What about Iris?”

Ronin stiffened. “Iris?”

“She’s a powerful Dark witch,” I said quickly. “If we get her, that’s the third magic source we need.”

“Iris? My Iris?” Ronin’s voice cracked, and the way he said her name made my stomach ache.

I nodded slowly. “She’s in New York. Her parents did something to her that erased her memories. I saw her. She’s at Cedric’s. She didn’t know me. She didn’t know you, Ronin.”

The silence was instant. And terrifying.

“What?” Ronin snarled, rising from the armchair, his fists already clenched and his fangs halfway out. “They what?”

“I’m sorry. I didn’t have a chance to tell you yet. They took her away and wiped everything she knew about Hollow Cove. About us. About you. They’re making her drink some tea that’s erasing us.”

He let out a guttural sound and paced toward the fireplace, looking like he was seconds from punching through the mantel.

“Oh! Oh! I have something for that!” shouted Ruth suddenly, dashing out of the room like a woman on a quest for snacks and salvation.

A second later, she came back, clutching a tiny vial of glowing pink liquid. “It’s a counter-memory suppressant. Very rare. Very illegal in six dimensions. One sip and she’ll be back to normal.”

I stared at the vial. Hope. Real, actual hope glowed like it had its own theme music.

“Ruth, you’re a badass,” I said, clutching it like it was made of gold and second chances. “Working with illegal potions? I’m so proud. Slightly concerned. But proud.”

Ruth beamed, her cheeks turning the color of tomato bisque. “Awww, you. Don’t tell the potion board. Or the council. Or, you know, the authorities in general.”

“Your secret’s safe with me,” I said. “But if I get arrested, I’m naming a spell after you.”

She gasped. “Oh! Make it something flattering. Like Ruthius Glamoura or Ruthendazzle.”

“I was thinking more like Ruthsplosion.”

Ruth beamed. “Ruthsplosion. Yes.”

I took a deep breath, rubbed my son’s back, and said, “Okay then. It’s settled. I’ll make her drink it. I’ll slap her if I have to, but she’s drinking it. Don’t worry.”

“But how?” asked Beverly, arching a brow. “You just said her parents and her brother are watching her like she’s the last cupcake at a coven meeting. And Esme? That woman looks like a taxidermied bat in Chanel. I swear, if she glares at me one more time, I’m going to hex her eyebrows clean off.” She took a sip of her wine. “Her husband, though? Nicholas? That man was undressing me with his eyes that time we had them over. I wore velvet—tight velvet. Bad move. Should’ve gone with the silk. At least then I could’ve pretended it was an accident when I spilled wine in my cleavage.”

Ronin choked on his drink.

“Slut,” muttered Ruth.

Dolores didn’t even flinch. “One of these days, Beverly, your mouth is going to start a war your boobs can’t win.”

Beverly grinned. “Please. These boobs broker peace treaties.”

Okay then.

“I’ll just have to sneak in with a ley line,” I said, already mentally pulling up the route in my head. “Find her. Hopefully she’s in bed by now. I’ll creep in, do my thing, slip her the potion, and get out before anyone spots me. With Iris, of course.”

Dolores folded her arms. “Their house might be warded. You might not be able to jump a ley line into it.”

“True,” I admitted, tapping the vial against my palm. “But when I was there earlier, I didn’t feel any wards. Either they’re cocky, or they think no one would dare show up uninvited. So I’m hoping that’s still the case.”

“Winging it. Classic Tess strategy,” said Ronin, half-smirking as he stood up from the couch.

I grinned. “Hey, when in doubt? Improvise, lie boldly, and hope for the best.”

Ruth gave me a thumbs up. “That’s how I got through two beehive infestations and a surprise gnome inspection.”

Dolores let out a heavy sigh. “So it’s settled. I’ll have the spell ready by the time you get back.”

Ronin turned to me. “What do you want me to do?”

“Track Marcus,” I said, knowing my half-vampire friend could do it. “Keep him out of trouble. Just… don’t fight him unless you have to. I don’t want him hurt.”

Ronin nodded once. “You got it.” But then he paused, his eyes softening. “And, Tess?”

I turned to him.

“Thanks. For doing this. For Iris.” His voice was rough, quieter than usual. “I thought she didn’t want me anymore. That she’d just… moved on. I’ve been trying to convince myself it didn’t matter, but—damn—it did. It still does.”

I stared, stunned by the emotion in his voice. For someone who usually covered everything with sarcasm and whiskey, this was practically a full-blown emotional breakthrough.

“She didn’t choose this,” I said gently. “Her creepy parents did. But once I fix it? She’ll remember everything. You. Us. The ridiculous group texts.”

He cracked a smile, and for the first time in days, he looked lighter. Like someone had lifted a boulder off his chest.

“Still can’t believe they erased her memory,” he muttered, half to himself. “I thought she just ghosted me.”

“Ronin,” I said with a smirk, “if anyone was going to ghost you, they’d need holy water, a priest, and a solid sprinting start.”

He laughed, a real one.

And I filed that moment away, deep in the vault of Things Worth Fighting For.

Because if we could get Iris back, maybe, just maybe, we could still save Marcus, too.

“I think we should go with Ronin,” said Dolores suddenly, her arms crossed like she was gearing up for war. “He shouldn’t be out there alone.”

Ronin raised a brow. “Are you saying I need chaperones? Because I promise I only bite the bad guys.”

Dolores gave him a flat look. “Don’t be cute.”

“I’m always cute,” said Ronin and then shrugged. “But sure. The more the merrier. Nothing like a team of badass witches to keep things interesting.”

Ruth’s eyes went wide. “Wait—what about Darian? Who’s going to watch him while we’re all off chasing Marcus?”

“I’ll leave him with my mother,” I said, already seeing her angry face when she opened to the front door. “She’s been dying for some alone time with him. He’ll be fine.” More than fine. He’d be safe with my mother because I knew my father was with her.

With that, I squeezed my son a little tighter and pressed a kiss to his forehead. He was warm, sleepy, and blissfully unaware of what was happening.

“Okay,” I said, hoisting Darian up higher in my arms. “I’ll drop him off. Ronin, keep your phone on you and call me the moment you’ve found Marcus.”

“Yes, boss,” answered the half-vampire.

“Let’s do this,” I said. “Let’s go get Iris and then save my husband.”

This was it. Plan B was officially in motion.

And this time, I wasn’t coming back empty-handed.

I was coming back with fire.

23

TESSA

How does a witch kidnap her best friend from the evil clutches of her family and spooky brownstone with too many snake statues? She goes in through the back door, that’s what.

As soon as I pulled on the ley line, turned, and faced the back of the building, I made my way up to the top floor where I suspected the bedrooms were and dove right in.

Two things hit me at once. One, I was still alive and not fried by some powerful Dark ward. And two—Dolores was wrong. The Clairmonts hadn’t warded up their house. Or they had and Cedric forgot to activate them, which felt very on-brand for a guy who spent more time picking out designer robes than spell protections.

Whatever the reason, thank the cauldron for family dysfunction.

Speaking of family dysfunction, right before I’d jumped a ley line to Manhattan, I made a very quick—and very desperate—stop at my mother’s house. Unannounced. Which explained the thundercloud of irritation on her face when she opened the door in a silk robe, holding a martini glass and probably hoping I was a delivery man bearing compliments.

“Tessa,” she said, blinking at me like I’d just rolled up with a flaming squirrel on my head. “What in the goddess’s name—”

“No time to explain,” I rushed, shifting Darian into her arms like he was a sack of magical potatoes. “But please take him. I’ll be back soon. Probably. Maybe.”

“Wait—what? You can’t just—Tessa!” Her voice rose two octaves as Darian immediately beamed at her, delighted. “It’s the middle of the night. What am I supposed to do with him?”

“Love him! Feed him! Keep him alive!” I called, backing up. “He likes grapes, hates naps, and if he levitates anything, just duck.”

“I’m not a babysitter, you know,” she called after me, hoisting Darian on her hip as he babbled something and patted her cheek.

“You’re a grandmother. Same difference,” I yelled over my shoulder.

Before she could fire back, I pulled on the nearest ley line and vanished in a flash of light and maternal panic.

Now, back in New York City, I leapt out of the ley line and landed. Okay, not gracefully, more like a magical belly flop onto the hardwood floor. Yes, I still needed to perfect my landings. The only thing that saved my loud intrusion from echoing through the entire brownstone was a thick Persian rug. My boots sank in like I’d just been caught in luxury quicksand. Yeah, it was nice to have money, not going to lie.

I froze, half expecting alarms or a witch butler to come shrieking around the corner.

Nothing. Just silence.

Okay then. I tiptoed forward, every creak of the floorboards sounding like a marching band in my ears. The hallway was dim, lined with ornate sconces and more creepy family portraits than a haunted castle tour. One painting—of a man with large eyes and very bad taste in neckwear—seemed to track me as I moved.

“Yeah, I see you, too. Creepy,” I whispered.

My fingers curled around the tiny potion vial in my pocket, Ruth’s magical memory fixer. Getting in had been easy. Getting Iris to drink it? That was going to be the real mission impossible. Especially if her family found me here. Again. I was pretty sure if Cedric found me, there would be some ass whooping involved. Preferably his.

I moved toward the first door and cracked it open. Empty. The next door revealed an office. The third—I froze. There she was.

Iris was lying on a massive, canopied bed that looked like it had been airlifted from Versailles. Her pixie-like face was relaxed in sleep, lashes dark against her pale skin and one arm flung lazily across the pillow. She wore a long black tank top and dark plaid pajama pants, her silky black hair cascading across the bedding like a shampoo commercial for the undead.

Here we go…

I inched forward. You can do this. She needs to drink the potion. Just—gently wake her. Coax her. No sudden movements. No freaking her out.

I reached for her shoulder.

Her eyes flew open.

And there was no recognition. No gasp. No happy shriek. No “Tessa!” Just one wide-eyed, “What the hell are you doing in my room?”

I smiled awkwardly. “Hi. So… funny story—”

She screamed. Loudly. Like, wake-the-dead kind of scream. So yeah. This was going really well.

A sickly sweet smell hit me, like burned sage and sulfur, like someone had set a garden on fire in hell.

Hex bags.

Oh, crap.

Before I could so much as whisper a greeting, something dark and fast slammed into the wall beside my head. Smoke sizzled. The wallpaper bubbled.

“Iris, wait, I can explain,” I yelped, ducking behind a nightstand. “Just give me two minutes.”

A second blast shot past my shoulder, singeing the air with oily black streaks. I twisted around and spotted her standing in the middle of the room in her dark robe, one palm out, the other clutched around another loaded hex bag like she was winding up for a fastball.

“Iris,” I hissed. “It’s me, Tessa. Look, I know this is unexpected, but if you just lower the hex bags I can explain.”

She didn’t answer. Her lips moved, fast and clipped, demon-sourced. The kind of spell that could rot bone or at the very least give me third-degree curses.

“I’m not here to hurt you,” I said, crawling behind the bed now. “Unless you make me. Which I really don’t want to.”

Another blast. A dresser exploded in a puff of smoke and dark confetti. Where did she find the time to make all these hex bags? One thing was for sure. If her family hadn’t heard her scream, they sure as hell heard her exploding furniture.

“Okay, plan B,” I said and yanked the vial from my coat pocket.

The pink liquid shimmered like it had a personality. Ruth’s counter-memory suppressant potion. One sip and Iris’s real memories would start trickling back. Or so I hoped. Getting her to drink it was the hard part. And right now, it seemed highly unlikely.

“You don’t want to do this,” I called, my voice shaking from adrenaline and dust. I had to hurry, any moment now and her family would be barging in. “We’re friends. Best friends.” I thought of something. “And, yes, I used to live with my aunts. And so did you at one point. Remember?”

More silence. More magic. A puff of black smoke whooshed past me like a warning shot.

Then—I saw an opening.

Iris hesitated. Her stance wavered just a little with a flicker of something. Doubt, recognition? She remembered something.

I bolted from cover.

“Drink this,” I shouted, charging her like a deranged juice bar employee. What? I was desperate.

She screamed a word, dark and sharp. I dove, tackled her to the floor, and shoved the vial toward her mouth.

“Open up, sister,” I grunted, struggling as she kicked and cursed. “This is friendship in a bottle.”

She bit my arm.

“Ow!” I yelped, jerking back. “You bit me! You actually bit me! I am not a sandwich!”

I stumbled, cradling my arm, as Iris scrambled to her feet, one hand already yanking a hex bag from her nightstand.

“Who the hell are you?” she shouted, her voice fierce and shaky. “How did you get in here? Did my parents send you? Because I swear, I will melt your face off and feed it to my houseplants!”

“Whoa, whoa!” I held up my hands but kept my body low, circling like I was facing down a feral cat. “Iris, it’s me. It’s Tessa. Remember I was here earlier?”

Black energy already pulsed through her fingertips. “Don’t say my name like you know me. I don’t know you. You’re in my room. And you’re about to regret it.”

“Oh, for the love of—okay, new plan.” I lunged again before she could unleash a demon swarm or turn me into a toad.

I grabbed her again, this time one hand pinching her nose shut like we were six and I was forcing her to eat vegetables. “Fine. You wanna play dirty? Let’s go.”

Her eyes widened. “Mmmph!”

“Yeah, that’s right. No nose-breathing for you. Welcome to the big leagues.”

While she flailed and squirmed, I popped the vial open with my teeth, yanked her chin down, and dumped the entire contents into her mouth with the kind of finesse usually reserved for frat party dares.

She sputtered. Gagged. Swallowed.

I rolled off, panting, my arm still burning where she’d bitten me. “Next time,” I muttered, “I’m drugging your coffee like a normal witch.”

Now, all I had to do was wait. Ruth, this better work.

Panting, I watched her eyes flutter wide. Her mouth dropped open. She gasped, tried to sit up, and then slumped against the floor, groaning like a banshee after a hangover.

Then Iris blinked at me. “I… What the hell… Tessa?”

I smiled. Progress. “Hi.”

Iris blinked again, slower this time. Her hand came up to press against her temple like she was trying to physically hold her brain together. “I… Why are you in my room?” she mumbled. “How did you get here? I was just… I was going to hex you… I was so sure… and then…” Her face scrunched. “Why does my head feel like it’s being sat on by a troll in stilettos?”

I sat cross-legged on the floor beside her, rubbing my bruised arm. “That’s the counter-memory suppressant potion kicking in. Courtesy of Ruth. Think of it like a truth bomb... for your soul.”

Iris blinked hard. She looked at me again, really looked. Her brows pinched. “Tessa?”

I nodded. “Yup. In the flesh. Slightly mauled but still fabulous.”

She sat up straighter, the confusion melting into disbelief and then dawning horror. Her hands clutched the edge of the mattress. “Oh my god… Tessa.”

“You’re remembering.”

She gasped. “Ronin. Oh no, Ronin!” Her hands flew to her mouth. “Where is he? What did I—did I hurt him?”

“No, no. He’s fine,” I said quickly. “Well, not emotionally, but that’s his baseline lately. He thinks you didn’t want to come back to him. That you were just... gone.”

Her breath hitched, tears forming fast. “No. I never… Tessa, Cedric took me. That night at the paranormal black market. He did something to me. And then when I woke up… I was here and my parents were here. And then I remember drinking tea. My parents. They said it was for my own good. They said I needed to forget.” Her face dropped. “They did this to me. They screwed with my head.”

I reached out, grabbing her hand. “I know. I figured it out. Cedric too. They erased me. Ronin. Hollow Cove. Everything.”

“I was here this whole time,” she whispered, devastated. “And I didn’t know. I didn’t know anything.” Her voice cracked. Mine almost did too.

“Hey, it’s okay. You’re back now,” I said softly. “I’ve got you.”

She stared at me, her eyes shining. “What now?”

I gave her a grim smile. “Now? We get you dressed, and we haul ass out of here. Because my husband is cursed, Ronin’s halfway to a full-blown breakdown, and I might’ve maybe threatened your brother. Oh, and we need your magic to help us do a ritual that involves ripping a curse out of Marcus and shoving it into something that doesn’t scream.”

Iris blinked. “So... business as usual?”

I grinned like a fool. “Welcome back, my Dark witch friend.”

And of course, at that moment, her bedroom door burst open, and Cedric, Esme, and Nicholas stormed in—robes flaring, eyes blazing, and hands already glowing with Dark magic.

“Step away from her!” Esme shrieked, already casting some Dark spell. Nicholas raised his hand, his fingers dripping with black energy. And Cedric? Well, he just glared at me like I’d peed on his expensive Persian rug. Maybe I should have.

I had about two seconds to think. I do not want to die like this, fried by in-laws who aren’t even mine.

But then, Iris did the unthinkable.

She leapt in front of me, her arms wide and her body blocking mine completely. “No!” she screamed. “If you try to hurt her, you’ll have to go through me!”

The magic fizzled midair. Nicholas faltered. Esme gasped. Cedric swore under his breath.

Iris’s chin-length black hair swung sharply around her jaw as she spun to face them, fury radiating off her like a furnace. “How could you do this to me?” Her voice cracked, but the anger held firm. “You erased my memories. My friends. My life! You made me think I was safe, but I was a prisoner.”

Esme’s voice trembled, but her chin remained high. “We did it for your protection.”

“For the family,” Nicholas added quietly, folding his hands in front of him like this was some casual fireside chat and not the emotional demolition of their daughter’s life. “To keep you with us. To keep you... pure. You were slipping away.”

“Infected by others,” Esme finished, venom laced through every word. Her gaze darted to me like I was something scraped off the bottom of her designer boot. “By them.”

“Infected?” Iris’s voice cracked like a whip. “You mean Ronin? You mean love? You took that from me!”

Nicholas shifted uncomfortably but said nothing. Esme, however, kept going, her voice tightening. “He’s a half-vampire. You were under his influence. He was distracting you from your path—your legacy as a Clairmont.”

“My path?” Iris snapped. “You mean the one where you decide who I love, who I trust, who I am? Because it looks a lot more like a leash than a legacy.”

“She’s dangerous,” Cedric growled, pointing at me. “She manipulated you. We were trying to save you.”

“Oh, don’t flatter yourself,” I said, peeking over Iris’s shoulder, one finger waving lazily at Cedric. “Hi again. Miss me?”

His eyes narrowed. I was pretty sure he was trying to hex me with his brain.

Iris spun on him. “Don’t you dare. I remember now. I remember everything. Ronin never manipulated me. He never forced anything. Unlike you.”

Cedric’s jaw twitched. “We were trying to save you.”

“No,” Iris said, her voice low and shaking, but deadly calm. “You were trying to control me. Just like you always have.”

Esme’s lips parted, a protest forming, but Iris cut her off. “You erased my memory. You made me think I was alone. You let me feel crazy for something you did, and for what? Because I was finally making my own choices?”

Nicholas stepped forward, but Iris raised a hand, stopping him cold. “Don’t. Don’t say it was love. Love doesn’t erase someone’s identity to suit their own ideals.”

“We did what we had to,” Esme said sharply. “We couldn’t just stand by while you were lost to us.”

“I wasn’t lost!” Iris shouted. “I was living!”

The room pulsed with tension. Even the shadows on the walls seemed to draw back.

And for once, the Clairmonts were silent—Esme with her pride, Nicholas with his hands still folded, and Cedric with his glare.

But none of them had the upper hand anymore. Iris did.

“I trusted you,” Iris said, her voice shaking now, the fury starting to crack. “I trusted all of you. And you took everything from me.”

“Iris,” Esme said, stepping forward, her hands out in that we’re-just-concerned way that made me want to barf. “You don’t know what you’re saying. She’s made you say this. She’s filled your head—”

“No.” Iris stood taller. “She freed me.”

Esme looked like she’d been slapped.

Iris turned back to me and grabbed my hand. “Let’s go.”

I grinned. “I was hoping you’d say that.”

Nicholas started to step forward again, but Iris raised her other hand, magic already crackling at her fingertips. “Try me, Dad. I dare you.”

The Clairmonts didn’t move.

“Thought so,” I muttered and then gave them all my signature finger wave. “Thanks for the hospitality. Great snacks. Love what you’ve done with the psychological trauma.”

And with that, I pulled Iris’s wrist.

But she yanked back just long enough to snatch up Doris—her DNA album of all things paranormal that had been chilling on the chair. I hadn’t even noticed it until she scooped it up with one arm like a football and shouted, “Not leaving without her.”

“Priorities.” I laughed, but hey, who was I to argue with emotional support DNA albums?

I tightened my grip on her wrist, spun on my heel, and reached with my free hand for the nearest ley line. I felt it snap into place like an electric pulse under my skin. The magic hit fast and hard, roaring around us in a swirl of pressure and heat, the kind that rattled your eardrums and stole your breath for a half-second.

The room blurred. The Clairmonts’ horrified faces stretched like melting wax.

And then? Gone.

Just me, Iris, Doris... and one very satisfying poof.

24

TESSA

Since Iris was still only in her robe and sleepwear, I opted to take her to the large manor she shared with Ronin for a change of clothes.

Just as we landed inside, my phone beeped with a text message.

Ronin: Are you back? Is Iris with you?

Me: Yes. She’s fine. Marcus?

Ronin: Found him. He’s on the Hollow Cove bridge. I’m with your aunts. Hurry.

I stared at the last text from Ronin like it was written in blood.

Bridge. He’s on the bridge.

“Was that Ronin?” asked Iris, already halfway up the stairs.

“Yeah.” My voice cracked a little. “They found Marcus.”

She froze. “And?”

“He’s on the Hollow Cove bridge.” I looked up at her. “I need you dressed and ready in five.”

“I’ll do it in three.” Iris nodded and disappeared up the stairs.

I let out a shaky breath, pressing a hand to my chest. My heart was going about eighty miles an hour, and I couldn’t tell if it was from the stress, the sheer terror, or the residual caffeine from the three tonics I’d slammed back earlier.

I looked down at my phone again, like it might suddenly spit out a backup plan or offer me a spell to fix everything. It didn’t.

This was it. We had one chance, one spell, one shot at pulling the curse out of Marcus and stuffing it into some magical Tupperware before it finished the job of erasing the man I loved.

I pressed my palm to the nearest wall to steady myself. The smooth wallpaper was cool under my skin, and I suddenly realized how much I was sweating. My body trembled—not from fear, though there was plenty of that, but from sheer exhaustion.

Too many ley line jumps in too little time. My magic was fraying at the edges. I could feel it—thin, stretched, and flickering like a candle about to gutter out. My muscles ached, my limbs felt like they were weighed down with bricks, and every breath felt like I had to drag it out of my ribs with a crowbar.

But I couldn’t afford to be tired. Not now.

Marcus was out there, cursed, broken, barely holding on, and Dolores was counting on me. On both of us—me and Iris. Our magic had to sync with hers, Ruth’s and Beverly’s. It was the only shot we had at pulling that curse out of my husband before it swallowed him whole.

I shut my eyes briefly, grounding myself with one long inhale.

Cauldron help me. Let this work. Please.

Because if it didn’t, I didn’t know what I’d come back to.

And then I heard Iris’s voice from upstairs. “I’ll be down in one second! Do we need anything else? Potions? Weapons?”

“No,” I called back. “Just you and your Dark witch magic.”

Five seconds later, Iris was coming down the stairs fully dressed and wearing a warm black wool coat. And slung around her shoulder was a leather messenger bag, which I knew had Doris inside.

“I just need my boots and I’m ready,” said the Dark witch, hurrying past me and pulling on a pair of black suede boots. “Are we jumping another line?”

I looked at Iris as she beamed at me from the entryway. “No. If you don’t mind, walking is better for me right now. I’m just a bit magically drained at the moment.” And I needed all the magic I had left in me for Dolores’s spell.

“Got it,” said Iris. “The bridge isn’t far. A five-minute walk from here.”

“Let’s go.”

We rushed through the cold, the wind biting at our cheeks as tiny flurries of snow began to drift from the sky like nature’s glittery warning. The kind of snow that didn’t scream winter wonderland but whispered impending doom.

I hugged my coat tighter, every step a reminder of how drained I was. My legs felt heavy, and the magic in my veins had thinned to a thread. Too many ley lines in too short a time. Too much emotion. Too much everything. But I kept walking because I had to.

Marcus was out there, and Dolores needed us.

Iris matched my pace, her black wool coat billowing behind her and the buckles of her boots clicking against the pavement. “How are we doing this?” she asked, her voice low, focused. “What’s the plan?”

“Get to the bridge. Combine our magic with my aunts’. And pray Dolores’s spell works.” I glanced sideways at her. “And if it doesn’t… improvise.”

“Right. Always comforting.” Iris blew into her gloved hands as we walked briskly, our boots crunching through the light dusting of snow on the sidewalk. “So this spell we’re doing… What exactly is it?” she asked, her voice lowered with that weird mix of curiosity and slight glee only Iris could pull off in a life-or-death situation.

I glanced at her. “A transference spell. Dolores came up with it.”

Iris arched a dark brow. “Transference? Like, what? Transferring the curse into another person?”

“No, not another person,” I said quickly. “A vessel. Like a vase. Or a stone. Or I don’t know—whatever magical object Dolores managed to dig out of our cellar-slash-magic-armory.”

Iris made a low, impressed noise. “Huh. I’ve heard of stuff like that. Really old-school. Dark witches used to use those kinds of spells to trap demons. But I’ve never actually seen it done in real time.”

“Well, tonight might be your lucky night,” I said grimly, my eyes fixed on the glow of the bridge ahead. “Assuming it works.”

“Of course it’s going to work,” said Iris with a little huff. “You’re here. I’m here. Your crazy aunts are here. That’s, like, peak magical chaos. If that doesn’t juice the spell, nothing will.”

I let out a laugh, but it came out thin and weak.

Then Iris went quiet for a second before adding, “I can’t wait to have my life back. To be me again. With Ronin. He has no idea how much I missed him… or how weird it is to have a memory gap the size of a small country.”

I nodded, trying to smile, but something twisted in my chest.

Because as happy as I was for her, as relieved as I felt that she was back—safe, whole, and still sassy, I couldn’t ignore the gnawing ache that my life might not get that same neat resolution.

I might not get Marcus back.

And even if I did... there was no guarantee what was left of him would be him.

I looked away quickly, blinking hard as the wind picked up. The bridge loomed ahead, lit by flickering streetlamps and the pale glow of snow-covered earth. We were almost there. And as we got closer, my heart dropped.

There he was.

Marcus.

Trapped between two groups—Ronin and Ruth on one end with Dolores and Beverly on the other. They had him caged in like a wild beast.

He looked worse than I remembered. Taller. Bulkier. Covered in patches of thick, twisted muscle and shadowed fur. His eyes were glowing white in the dark, and his claws scraped the pavement like metal blades. The bridge’s lights shimmered off his cursed form, throwing grotesque shadows that twisted across the ground like writhing monsters.

Iris skidded to a stop beside me, her eyes wide. “What the actual hell…”

“That’s him,” I whispered. “That’s Marcus.”

“No offense,” she said, “but your husband looks like he just stepped out of a demon’s fever dream.”

“None taken,” I muttered.

Snow gathered in my hair, my lashes. I could feel the curse rolling off Marcus like heat from a furnace. And even from here, I knew…

We were running out of time.

“Took you long enough,” said Dolores looking over her shoulder at us as we neared. I caught Ronin’s expression at the sight of Iris on the other side. Relief and fear maybe? Maybe at what the monster Marcus could do.

“So, now what?” I asked.

Dolores didn’t turn away from Marcus as she answered, “Now we do magic and hope to the cauldron it works.”

“Nice and uplifting as always.” I fell into place beside her.

Beverly stood a few feet away, her hair wind-blown and her face unusually serious. Clutched in her arms was a large ceramic vase, gaudy as sin, decorated with hand-painted roosters and what looked like aggressive sunflowers.

“Wait,” I said, blinking. “Is that the vase from the upstairs guest bathroom?”

Beverly sniffed. “Yes. It’s hideous and I hate it, so it might as well be useful.”

“That thing has haunted me since I was ten,” I muttered.

“It’s magically reinforced,” Dolores added. “And charmed to hold dark energy. It’ll do.”

Iris stepped forward, her eyes narrowing as she took in Marcus’s monstrous form. “I can’t believe that’s Marcus.”

“It’s him. Sort of,” said Ronin from the opposite side of the bridge, hovering like a coiled spring. “Now he’s the monster version of himself. Think demon-ape with a vendetta.”

Marcus was crouched low, his claws digging into the icy bridge and shoulders heaving like a beast ready to pounce. The glowing sigils carved into his skin pulsed like living veins, casting a cold, otherworldly light across the snow. He was a nightmare made of flesh—bigger, darker, twisted.

“We have to move quickly,” said Dolores. “We won’t be able to hold him here for much longer.”

But I couldn’t move. Not yet.

I stepped forward. “Marcus?” My voice came out softer than I intended, choked with too many things—fear, hope, heartbreak.

His massive head jerked in my direction.

I took another step. “It’s me. Tessa. Your wife. If there’s even a shred of you left in there, please… don’t fight us. We’re trying to help you.”

For a breathless second, I swore the sigils dimmed. His eyes flickered, the monstrous growl caught in his throat. But then he bared his teeth and snarled. Loud. Vicious. Animal.

The kind of sound meant to warn. To kill.

No recognition flashed in those glowing white eyes. No flicker of my husband behind the monster. Just hunger. Rage. And a barely restrained violence trembling through every inch of him.

I stumbled back into position, my throat tight and vision blurring with tears I refused to let fall.

“He’s gone,” I whispered. “There’s nothing left.”

Dolores didn’t say a word. Neither did Beverly because we all knew it.

I looked at her. “What do you need us to do?”

Dolores pointed at the vase in Beverly’s hands. “We’re going to transfer the curse into that. But to do that, we need to create a circle around him—close enough for our magic to channel together. A closed flow. No breaks.”

Ronin stepped toward us. “I’ll stay on the outside. If he bolts, I’ll try and stop him.”

“Good,” Dolores said, her voice clipped. “Just don’t get yourself cursed.”

Beverly placed the rooster vase on the ground and gave it a hard stare. “Better hold, you ugly thing.”

Iris stepped beside me, rolling her shoulders. “We’re seriously about to force an ancient blood curse into a chicken-themed ceramic container?”

“Yup,” I said. “And I thought my night couldn’t get weirder.”

“That vase better work,” said Ruth, eyeing the cursed monstrosity sitting in the center of the circle. Beverly’s vase—lumpy, crooked, and covered in what looked like painted asparagus—was already positioned on the ground, waiting like an open mouth.

“It will,” said Dolores, her voice tight.

Ronin stayed on the outside perimeter, his claws at the ready, watching Marcus for any signs of sudden movement.

Marcus crouched low in the snow, breathing hard, the cursed sigils along his arms and chest pulsing brighter with every second. He wasn’t looking at me anymore. He wasn’t looking at anyone. The monster had the wheel now.

“Positions,” barked Dolores.

We spread out around Marcus, forming a loose circle, careful not to get too close but close enough to contain him with our magic. The wind howled louder, whipping around us like it knew something was about to break.

Marcus’s head jerked toward us—one eye and then the other. His breath came in heavy gusts, misting in the air. Those white-glow eyes narrowed on each of us in turn, searching, tracking, calculating. Like a predator taking inventory of its prey.

His body tensed, every muscle coiled and vibrating like a drawn bow. The cursed sigils along his arms and neck pulsed now, fast like a heartbeat approaching cardiac arrest.

He didn’t like this. Didn’t like being surrounded. Didn’t like feeling trapped. And I could feel it, deep in my gut. He was about to bolt. Or worse, charge.

“Easy,” I whispered, more to myself than anyone else. “Come on, Marcus. Please. Just hold on…”

But his massive shoulders shifted, low and hunched. His claws flexed, digging gouges into the snowy pavement. He let out a rasping snarl, and suddenly, his gaze snapped to me.

Not with recognition. Not with love. But with raw, primal fury. Like he was about to tear through the circle and come straight for me.

Panic spiked through my chest. This spell had to work. Because if it didn’t… if we couldn’t pull that curse out of him, I was going to lose him. For good.

Dolores crouched near the vase and pressed her hands to it. “Once we begin, don’t stop the flow. No matter what happens. Keep the current strong between us. Do not break the link. We pull together, or we don’t pull at all.”

“Understood,” said Iris, her eyes gleaming with anticipation.

I placed my hands in front of me, focusing my energy, and reaching for the magic inside. My veins hummed. I could feel Iris’s power flare to life beside me—darker, wilder—and my aunts’ lighter, warmer current across the circle.

Dolores raised both arms high, her eyes glowing faintly with magic. “In this darkest hour,” she called out, her voice cutting through the wind, “we call upon the goddess and her sacred power. Pull from the shadow what does not belong, transfer the curse, right the wrong.”

The wind answered her, swirling fast and sharp across the bridge. Magic crackled through the air like lightning gathering in our palms. Power spun through the air like a cyclone. Ruth’s wisps of White magic smelled like pine and crushed herbs, twining together with the scent of sulfur of Iris’s borrowed Dark magic. Beverly grunted beside me, sweat already trickling down her temple as she kept her hands raised.

The vase trembled on the icy ground, a thin wisp of black smoke curling from its mouth.

Dolores turned to us, face fierce. “Now, draw on your power. Channel it. Push it through him. We need to force the curse out.”

My hands burned with energy as I focused, locking my eyes on Marcus. His claws dug into the snow, his breath coming faster, more ragged.

The sigils flared once and then pulsed violently. The curse was pushing back but so were we.

The wind roared louder as the vase started to vibrate on the icy ground between us. Magic curled toward it in white and black tendrils. I felt it—pulling.

A veil of something pale and ghostly began to rise from Marcus’s shoulders. Thin, spectral, like smoke slipping from a dying fire. It peeled away from him in shreds, streaming toward the vase.

“It’s working,” I breathed, my pulse pounding. “Keep going.”

Marcus staggered, his body twitching like it was being unraveled. His claws scraped the ground, digging furrows into the snow-covered bridge.

More of the veil peeled off, curling white threads of power being siphoned into the vase. It rattled violently now, glowing faintly at the base. I could feel it. The curse trying to hold on, trying not to go.

I dug deep, dragging every scrap of magic I had left from my bones. Just a little more.

And then a horrible screech tore through the air, not from Marcus—but from the curse.

The glowing sigils on his body flared red, cracking through the white like fire through ice.

“Oh no, no, no!” shouted Ruth, backing up.

The vase exploded with a bang, shards of cursed pottery flying in every direction. I threw up a shield just in time to keep the ceramic from slicing my face.

The magic collapsed.

Dolores screamed, “It didn’t work. The curse is too strong.”

The curse slammed back into Marcus’s body like a tidal wave. He arched backward, roaring. The sigils lit up like lightning across his flesh.

Then he looked at me. And this time, nothing was left. No flicker of Marcus behind those glowing eyes. No hesitation. No doubt.

Just rage.

And then he charged.

25

MARCUS

I wasn’t sure where the pain ended and I began.

I formed no thoughts, not real ones, just pulses of instinct, anger, and hunger that throbbed through every broken, reshaped muscle. My claws flexed into the frozen ground, the icy bite of it meaningless. My chest heaved, steam rising like smoke from a dying fire.

Trapped.

The word flashed through me, not fully understood, only felt—a pressure pushing in from all sides. Shapes. Lights. Smells. Witches.

They surrounded me. One moved closer. A scent hit me—familiar. Too familiar.

Her.

The word had meaning, sharp and wrong. I didn’t know why. But something deep inside twisted violently at the sight of her. Something old. Human. It clawed at the walls inside me, trying to surface through the layers of fury and instinct. I couldn’t hold on to it.

I didn’t want to. She was a threat. She had to be destroyed.

I lowered my weight into my haunches, snarling low and slow. The sigils burned into my skin seared hotter, pulsing with the rhythm of a war drum.

The witches lifted their hands, their magic sparking the air like lightning waiting to strike.

I roared.

Wind gusted outward from me, snow scattering in a cyclone of force. They didn’t flinch.

Stupid. Brave. Dead witches.

Their magic hit me a second later. Blinding, burning, sharp as blades across my skin. I staggered back, roaring again, as pain spiked like jagged glass behind my eyes.

No.

The curse screamed through me, furious at the intrusion, writhing like a nest of snakes inside my chest. It didn’t want to be contained. It wanted blood. It wanted her blood.

I lunged.

Faster than thought, faster than memory, I launched toward her, toward the witch with fierce eyes who stood firm even as fear broke across her face.

She didn’t run. She should’ve.

My claws were up. My weight behind them. I was going to rip her in half.

And then, her voice.

“Marcus.”

A whisper, but it carved through the rage like a blade through silk.

I faltered. Just for a second. It wasn’t enough.

The curse roared louder than her voice, louder than anything else in me. The hesitation snapped like a twig underfoot. My body surged forward again, this time harder.

She wasn’t my mate. She was prey.

And I was going to destroy her.

I slammed into the ground, snow exploding around me in a white flash. My claws carved through the air where she’d just been—too slow.

She was gone. Already moving. Already out of reach.

I roared, frustrated, savage. She’d dodged me.

The scent of her hit me again—magic, blood, hers. Something inside me stuttered, snagged on that smell. Not just prey. Not just a witch. But something else. Mine.

The curse pushed harder, shoving that thought away and replacing it with a bloodlust fury.

“Inflitus!” she screamed.

A blast of kinetic force slammed into my side. I flew sideways, my ribs bending against the air as I skidded across the bridge. My claws gouged into the snow-covered concrete, anchoring me before I slid too far.

I rolled and sprang back up, snarling, my mouth full of heat and spit and murder. And I lunged at her again.

She was already moving, her coat whipping in the wind. Her eyes locked on mine—not pleading, not begging.

Daring.

“Protego!” she shouted again, her hands flashing outward.

A glowing sphere of energy flared around her, and I slammed into it. Hard. The impact rattled through my bones, but I didn’t stop. I shoved against the barrier with all the weight of my body, muscle, claw, rage. The shield cracked under me, spider-webbed with white light. Magic sparked across my fur like static fire.

I bared my teeth, every breath hot with fury, snarling so loudly the bridge trembled.

And still, she didn’t move.

Voices screamed behind her. Harsh. Frantic.

“Tessa! Get back!”

“He’s going to kill you!”

“Move!”

More noise. More sound. I didn’t know their names. Didn’t need to. Their fear was enough. It hit my senses like a drug. Sweet and sharp.

Another voice cut through—lower, rougher, full of warning. Protective. Useless.

They were all shadows. Threats. Meat. And the one in front of me?

She burned.

Not with fear, but something else. A pull I didn’t understand. Didn’t want to. My claws flexed as my muscles tightened.

She didn’t run. She should have. Because I wasn’t going to stop.

But the part of me that cared—the part that might’ve stepped back, that might’ve stopped before my claws reached her skin—was too far gone. Drowned beneath the curse.

She stood her ground, magic blazing, face streaked with tears and defiance.

“Marcus,” she said again, louder this time. “I know you’re in there. Fight it. Come back to me.”

The sound of her voice grated against the curse like a whetstone on bone.

I roared, my claws raking at the barrier.

She lowered her hands, the shield dropping.

“Fulgur!”

A blast of lightning hit me in the chest.

White and violet, so bright it blinded me. My body convulsed with the force of it, heat searing through muscle and skin. I staggered and dropped to a knee.

I looked up through the steam rising off my body, my vision cracked and burning. She was still there, her chest heaving and tears streaking her face, but she wasn’t afraid.

“I love you,” she said. “But I will burn you down if I have to. I can’t let you hurt anyone else.”

And I knew she meant it. The monster inside me didn’t care.

It was already surging again, bones cracking, claws reforming. I rose. Smoke curled off my skin where her lightning had struck. My muscles trembled. Not from pain, not anymore. The curse ate pain like it was fuel. And I was burning hot now—with fury, with hunger, and with a single, blinding urge to destroy.

She stood her ground. Still. Even after all of this.

Tessa.

The name rang like a bell in the back of my head, but it meant nothing to the thing I’d become. The monster inside me had torn through too much to remember love, or loyalty. Or mercy.

Only power. Only rage.

I surged forward. Faster than before. The snow exploded under my feet. My claws raked at her shield. It flared again, trying to hold me back—but this time, it didn’t crack.

It shattered.

She flew backward, slamming into the bridge railing. I didn’t hesitate. I roared and charged.

I felt her magic pulse, another spell on her lips, but the curse inside me moved faster.

I was on her.

She raised a hand. “Inflitus!”

The air exploded between us, a raw, concussive force, but I powered through it, staggering but not stopping. The beast didn’t stop. The curse had taken everything.

I reached her and grabbed her wrist, feeling her bones flex under my grip.

I heard someone screaming. Maybe her. Maybe me. Maybe them.

“Marcus, stop!”

It wasn’t my name anymore.

There was no Marcus. Just this body. This hunger.

I lifted her into the air like she weighed nothing. Her magic sparked against my skin again, a desperate shield, a spell I didn’t recognize, but it flickered and failed.

Her eyes, her brown eyes, still searched for him. The man she loved.

But he was gone.

And as I opened my jaws and let out a snarl loud enough to shake the damn stars, I knew what came next.

The monster lunged.

And I let it.

I was going to kill her.

26

TESSA

Pain exploded through my shoulder as Marcus slammed me into the icy bridge. No, not Marcus. The thing wearing his body. His scent. His face.

But none of his soul.

I hit the ground hard, the impact knocking every ounce of air from my lungs. My shield, already weak, had shattered and I had nothing left but my stubborn instinct.

Above me, claws gleamed under the snowy bridge lights. Sigils blazed across his chest and arms like molten scars, pulsing white-hot with a rhythm that matched his growls. His eyes, once gray, were pits of white fire. No recognition. No hesitation. Just a monster.

“Declinare!” I cried, thrusting my hand forward.

A pulse of white energy erupted from my palm. It hit him square in the chest and then promptly sizzled out like a firework that forgot how to fire.

He didn’t even flinch.

“Oh, come on,” I gasped, staggering backward. “You’re supposed to at least wobble.”

Instead, he took a slow, deliberate step forward, like he’d just been tapped by a particularly aggressive mosquito.

Wonderful. My magic had officially entered its “flickering candle in a windstorm” phase.

“Tessa!” someone shouted—Ruth, maybe Iris. Their voices blurred into panic.

I rolled, barely dodging another blow as claws ripped into the snow where my head had just been. My magic was nearly gone. I’d burned through most of it ley lining across the country, and now just to stay alive.

“Inflitus!” I shouted, slamming my palm against the ground with everything I had left.

The kinetic force burst outward in a shockwave, rippling through the icy bridge like a sonic boom. Snow exploded in every direction, and for a second, just a second, it worked.

He skidded back, his feet dragging twin grooves into the frost-covered pavement. The cursed light around his body flickered under the pressure, dimming for a fraction of a heartbeat.

And then the smell hit me. Burnt flesh, his flesh, curled into my nose like scorched hair and copper, acrid and wrong, and bile rose in my throat. Steam rose from the blackened lines seared into his chest where my spell had struck true. For a fleeting, terrible moment, I saw him—saw Marcus—wounded, vulnerable.

But then the wounds pulsed with light.

The glowing sigils across his skin surged brighter, as if devouring the injury. The cracked, scorched flesh knit back together before my eyes, healing not with the sluggish resilience of a normal wereape, but something far worse. Faster. More violent. Like the curse was rewriting him in real time, erasing my every strike.

“No…” I breathed, staggering as he straightened again.

His body twitched, his neck cracking as bone snapped into place with sickening ease. He was already lunging again before I could move, before I could even blink. His claws scraped deep into the ground like anchors, launching him at me like a freight train of fury and magic gone wrong.

The monster wasn’t slowing. And my spell hadn’t even bought me five seconds.

Crap.

“Protego!” I screamed. The shield shimmered up—thin, cracked, flickering like a dying candle in a hurricane. My breath came in sharp, shallow gasps, my lungs barely cooperating as my body trembled from effort, exhaustion, and sheer panic. Tears blurred my vision, but I held my ground. Held it for him. Because… how the hell did we get here?

“I love you,” I whispered, my voice catching on the edges of my breath. “I know you’re still in there. Please…” Please see me. Please stop. Please don’t make me do this.

He was my husband. My mate. My beautiful, stubborn, loyal wereape who used to carry groceries with one hand and kiss my forehead like I was made of porcelain.

But now he was snarling inches from my face, glowing like a demon disco ball, and trying to rip my heart out through my chest.

This was beyond twisted, beyond cruel. I was fighting the man I loved, the father of my child. I could feel the monster tearing him away from me inch by cursed inch. Every second I looked at him, I saw less of Marcus and more of the thing trying to devour him from the inside.

For the briefest heartbeat, his body jerked. A shift. A twitch. His shoulders pulled back, and his head tilted. Something in his eyes. Those burning, cursed, blinding white eyes flashed. Recognition? Memory? Humanity? Something behind the monstrous snarl that almost—almost—looked like my Marcus trying to claw his way back up through the madness.

Because if he was still in there, if even a single piece of him remained… I had to reach it.

But just as quickly as it came, the flicker vanished. The sigils across his skin pulsed again, angry, alive, and merciless.

Then the sigils surged. And the monster roared.

He slammed against the shield, his claws tearing through its last thread. I hit the ground again, my bones rattling. He reared up, ready to end it—

I didn’t think. I reached for it, the only thing that had worked before.

Demon magic.

That wild, cold current that lived somewhere beneath my ribs, ancient and unpredictable and mine. My vision darkened at the edges as I pulled, hard, down to the marrow.

Black tendrils burst from my hands—jagged, writhing, furious things—slamming into Marcus’s chest.

They hissed. Sizzled.

And vanished.

No effect. Not even a flinch.

Shit. My demon mojo didn’t work. Not this time. It was like the curse had reached its final form—full-blown, fully unleashed. Whatever was left of Marcus inside was buried under something even my darkest magic couldn’t touch.

Panic clawed at my throat. Because if my magic—all of my magic—wasn’t enough…

Then what the hell was?

“A little help here!” I shouted.

Iris appeared in my line of sight. From her bag, she hurled a hex pouch to the ground, and a dark smoke erupted from it in a burst of sulfur and shadow. “Adtenebrae!” she snarled, her voice sharp and low. Tendrils of black energy shot from her palms, wrapping around Marcus’s legs like chains of smoke. The shadows hissed and sizzled against the glowing sigils carved into his skin.

Dolores lifted both hands, her eyes glowing with focus. “Aqua et ignis!” she called, and from either side of her, waves of flame and water roared into existence. Fire burst from one palm, licking across the snow as it surged toward Marcus. From the other, a whip of water cracked like a lash, twisting in the air before striking his side.

Beverly stepped in beside her sister, the wind curling around her like a storm building inside her veins. She flung her wrist and sent a gust slicing through the air, a spiraling vortex of icy gale-force wind slamming into Marcus’s back.

From the other side, Ruth popped the cork on a small glass vial and lobbed it at him like she was throwing a baseball. It shattered against his arm, coating him in a glowing, red liquid that steamed on contact.

“Boom juice!” Ruth cried. “Don’t ask what’s in it!”

Marcus staggered, roaring in fury. His claws dug into the icy pavement, his eyes burning brighter as white fire glared through the assault. The combined force of White magic, Dark hexes, and bubbling potion energy surrounded him like a magical hurricane.

But he didn’t fall. He just looked, well, more pissed. Awesome. And I could feel the curse inside him snarling back. Yeah, that wasn’t good.

“Again!” shouted Dolores, throwing out another blast of flame.

Beverly followed it with a spinning gust of wind that nearly knocked me over. “Oh, he’s not even flinching. What is this guy, a tank?”

“Looks like it,” I said through clenched teeth, backing up slowly.

Hex smoke curled through the air, thick and foul, as Ruth rummaged frantically in her bag. “All right, big guy,” she said, pulling out a shimmering red vial. “Let’s see how you like a potion that once melted a troll’s toenail fungus.”

She hurled it. The glass shattered on Marcus’s cursed shoulder with a wet pop. The mixture hissed, bubbled, and sizzled against his skin and then slid off like warm soup on a hot pan.

“Oh well,” Ruth huffed. “It worked better on toenails.”

Beside her, Iris snarled a string of Dark spells under her breath. The shadows around her stirred like smoke coming to life. With a flick of her wrist, black thorns erupted from the bridge beneath Marcus’s feet, twisting up to catch his legs.

Dolores raised her hands. “Ventus Orbis!” she snapped, and a spiraling gust wrapped around Marcus, trying to disorient him.

Marcus roared again, shredding through the thorns as they burst apart in a spray of Dark magic.

He was still standing. Still coming toward me. And nothing, not Dark, not White, not Demon, or witchy explosives, was stopping him.

And for some reason, his focus was on me.

Marcus just stomped forward. Smoke rose from his cursed skin, every sigil pulsing with a blinding white heat. The magic bounced off him like rain on a monster truck.

“Nothing’s working!” Iris snapped, stepping in front of me, her voice shaking with both fury and fear. Her fingers curled tightly around another hex bag, dark energy swirling at her palms, but even she knew it was pointless.

“I know,” I breathed, my voice barely more than a rasp.

Because I did. I knew. I could feel it in my witchy bones, the way our magic slid off him like water on oiled steel, the way nothing we threw at him left a mark, not even a dent. The curse had taken everything and twisted Marcus into something monstrous, something terrifying, something I couldn’t reach.

My chest squeezed, a raw ache blooming in my chest.

This was the man I married. The father of my child. The one who used to carry me to bed when I fell asleep reading. Who burned pancakes every Sunday morning and blamed the stove. Who pressed his forehead to mine and promised that no matter what came, we’d face it together.

And now he was charging me like I was the enemy.

Tears stung my eyes, but I didn’t blink. I couldn’t. My hand tightened at my side, my pulse screaming in my ears.

Please come back to me.

Then Marcus let out a deafening roar—deep, guttural, filled with rage and torment.

And he charged again.

Everything else fell away. The wind. The snow. The world. It was just him. And me.

And a curse that refused to let go.

“Tessa!” Dolores cried.

He was on me in a second. His arm swung, claws slicing through the air toward my chest.

I braced, my hands glowing, screaming the only word I had left—

“Protego!” But it wouldn’t have been fast enough.

A blur of black slammed into me from the side.

Ronin.

The impact knocked me to the ground, the air from my lungs, and him right into Marcus’s path.

“Stay down!” barked Ronin.

Before I could react, Marcus snarled and lunged at him. Ronin vamped out instantly, his eyes pitch black, claws flashing like steel, and fangs fully extended.

They collided like wild animals.

Claw met claw. Fist met flesh. The sound cracked the night open like thunder.

Ronin ducked one swipe and then pivoted and drove his claws into Marcus’s ribs with all the strength his half-vampire body could muster. It would’ve dropped a bear.

But not this monster.

The cursed flesh closed around the wounds like nothing had touched it. Sigils pulsed white-hot down Marcus’s torso, alive with magic.

Marcus roared, the sound a sonic blast of rage, and backhanded Ronin across the bridge.

His body flew like a broken kite. He slammed into the railing with a metallic clang and then dropped in a heap, his head hitting hard against the snow-dusted pavement.

“Ronin!” I screamed, scrambling to my feet.

“No—” Iris’s voice cut off in a horrified gasp as she bolted forward. “Ronin!”

He groaned, bloody and dazed, one hand reaching weakly for the railing.

“I have to help him!” Iris shrieked, turning to Dolores. “Do something!”

Dolores’s hand shot out, stopping her. “We can’t. Not while he’s that close. If we cast now, we’ll hit them both.”

“We can’t just leave him like that!” Iris shouted, her voice cracking. “He’s going to kill him!”

“We fire blind, we kill Ronin ourselves,” Beverly barked, white sparks snapping off her fingertips. “Pick your disaster.”

I couldn’t breathe. Marcus, no, the thing wearing Marcus’s skin, was already turning back toward me, his chest heaving, claws dripping, and face blank with fury. Still coming. And still ready to destroy everything in his path.

I swallowed hard, my heart pounding.

Ronin wasn’t getting back up. Iris looked ready to explode, and I was out of time.

This curse wasn’t just winning. It had won unless we stopped it, and I couldn’t see how. We were out of time. Out of magic. Out of ways to stop him.

Magic was everywhere, hot and cold, light and dark. But it didn’t matter. He was too strong. The curse had taken too much. Their spells hit him and bounced. The curse shimmered around him like armor, rejecting everything and laughing at us.

He growled again, louder, deeper, rage rolling off him in waves. His gaze locked on to me, and I knew.

This was it. He would kill me. Because Marcus was gone.

“Cauldron help me,” I whispered.

Then… everything changed.

It was like the world exhaled.

The roar of wind, the clash of magic, the pounding of Marcus’s monstrous heartbeat—gone. All of it. Swallowed by an eerie, unnatural hush that dropped like a curtain over the bridge.

The air turned sharp, still, like glass about to break. It pressed in, buzzing against my skin, the cold slicing past coats and bone. Not weather. Magic—old and merciless.

The snow hissed beneath my boots. Flakes floated upward, spiraling around us in a tight, eerie vortex, as if time itself had stalled.

The scent hit next, scorched pavement, blood, and cursed flesh. And beneath it, something older. Ozone. Ash. And the wild, forgotten smell of ancient trees. Like something had stepped out of a forest lost to time and brought a storm with it.

Every sigil on Marcus’s body blazed suddenly, a blinding white flash that made my eyes water.

And then… they froze. Mid-glow. Mid-curse. Mid-attack.

The pulsing lines of fire etched across his chest and arms locked in place, flickering once like overcharged lightbulbs before dimming into stillness, lifeless, like burned-out stars on his skin.

Marcus let out a strangled sound, a mix between a snarl and a gasp, and then jerked to a halt, frozen mid-lunge.

I blinked through the whirlwind of rising snow, my chest heaving, my legs locked, and my magic gone.

A shadow stepped from the edge of the bridge. Just a step. Casual. Controlled. Lethal.

And beautiful in the most terrifying way.

Soren Tex.

His cloak billowed like it was sewn from midnight, pale eyes glinting like frozen steel under the flickering bridge lights. His presence dragged the air down several degrees, like the ley lines themselves bent around him.

Elegant. Terrible.

His gaze flicked to me and then to the monster that had once been Marcus.

“Touch her again,” he said, his voice low and smooth, “and I will unmake you.”

27

TESSA

Just when I thought things couldn’t get any weirder or worse, this happened.

Soren Tex—my so-called long-lost cousin, the elf who had recently turned me down like I was a door-to-door broom salesman. And now here he was, making a grand entrance like he’d just dropped in from an ancient elven perfume ad.

I straightened, ignoring the throb in my shoulder and the adrenaline still hammering through my body, and looked from Marcus—still locked in place like a nightmare someone had flash-froze—to Soren, who looked smug. As usual. So smug he could’ve been paid royalties on it.

“Tessa. I thought you said he refused to help?” said Dolores, brushing snow out of her hair, her brow shiny with sweat despite the cold.

“He did,” I said, eyeing Soren like he might spontaneously sprout out into his five other versions of himself.

“So, why is he here?” asked Ruth, flicking at her coat. A small wisp of smoke curled off her left sleeve. “Oh, no. Not again.”

A tiny orange flame sparked up from the charred spot on her shoulder. Ruth yelped and started swatting at herself with both hands.

“Hold still,” said Beverly, grabbing a clump of snow and smacking it onto Ruth’s shoulder. “There. Poof. Crisis averted.”

Ruth gave a sniff, looking down at the steaming patch. “Now I smell like a campfire.”

Dolores let out a long-suffering sigh. “Who cares what you smell like? That is the least of our problems.”

“I want to know this too,” said Beverly, stepping up beside me. Her hair was wind-whipped, her cheeks flushed, and she still had that murderous glint in her eye. “Or is he here to finish what he started a few weeks ago?”

Good question.

I didn’t answer right away. I was still trying to process the scene in front of me.

Marcus, my Marcus, was locked in place like a statue carved from fury and fire. The sigils etched into his flesh were glowing a pale, silvery white now, frozen mid-burn and casting strange shadows on the snow beneath him. Steam hissed off his skin like he’d just stepped out of a volcano. The scent of scorched hair and something far worse, burned magic and blood, curled into the back of my throat. But he wasn’t moving. Not anymore.

Thanks to the guy who just strolled in like this was his fashionably late entrance to the apocalypse. I hated how relieved I was to see the elf. Even more than that, I hated how good he looked doing it. Long black coat. Hair slicked back. Cheekbones sculpted by a god. He stepped through the swirl of snow like it parted just for him, and I felt the collective tension around me spike. Not fear. Just... irritation. He had that effect on people.

“Iris?” I turned, blinking, only just now remembering the fight hadn’t claimed everyone.

“I’m okay.” She was crouched beside Ronin, helping him to his feet. His shirt was ripped, his ribs visibly bruised, and his lip was bleeding, but his eyes were sharp. Still Ronin. Still pissed.

“I’m good,” he growled, his voice hoarse as he braced against Iris’s arm. “Mostly.”

Iris looked like she wanted to hex something—or someone. “You nearly died, you idiot.”

“That’s love,” Beverly called from behind me. “Bruises and bad decisions.”

“Seriously, though,” I said, turning to Soren. “You said no. I was there. I remember the very clear way you said no. So why the dramatic save?” It wasn’t really a save, more like a pause, but I was going with it.

Soren’s eyes darted to me and then to the frozen figure of Marcus. “Because,” he said smoothly, “you’re very bad at handling rejection.”

I narrowed my eyes. “I really don’t like you.”

He smiled. “Yet you’re still alive. You’re welcome, by the way.”

“Oh, forgive me,” I said, dusting off my coat. “I left my gratitude confetti at home.”

Behind me, Ruth patted herself down and pulled out a singed handkerchief. “I have a sparkler in my pocket. It’s a little melted but still festive.”

Soren ignored us all, walking a slow circle around Marcus while inspecting him like an art critic at a cursed sculpture exhibit. “It’s worse than I thought. The sigils are rooted. Very deep.”

“No kidding,” muttered Beverly. “We tried everything short of exorcising him with jazz hands.”

Dolores folded her arms, her teeth clenched. “You’re here now. So what changed?”

Soren turned slightly and looked directly at me. “I’m here because you were about to die. And because you said you’d do anything.”

Oh shit. Right. That.

I swallowed and stood my ground. “I said anything but sleeping with you, which I feel should be obvious.”

From the corner, Ronin groaned. “Please never put those two words in the same sentence again.”

Soren arched a brow. “I said nothing of the sort, but thank you for the reminder.”

I could already feel the aunts tightening their circle around me.

“You’re here for a price,” Dolores said flatly.

Soren nodded. “Nothing’s free, even in magic. Especially in magic.”

I crossed my arms. “So say it. What do you want?”

He stepped closer. Not threatening. Just… Soren. Quiet. Dangerous. Annoyingly elegant.

“I want a favor,” he said. “Undetermined. One day, I’ll come to you. And you’ll do what I ask.”

Damn. A chill rippled through me, colder than the wind and deeper than the snow beneath my boots. It slid under my coat, beneath my skin, curling around my bones like ice water. Still, why did it sound dirty?

“Is it to murder someone?” asked Ruth, a strange hopeful look on her face. Her eyes lit up a little too much. “Because I’ve got a list. Oh! Unless it’s that terrible pixie from the witch co-op—”

“Ruth,” hissed Dolores through her teeth.

“What?” Ruth shrugged. “You’ve never been to the witch co-op. It’s war in there.”

“I’m not telling,” answered Soren, still watching me with those unreadable, pale blue eyes that reminded me of glaciers and knives. I still wanted to punch him. “But you’ll owe me,” he added.

I swallowed, my mouth dry. I glanced at Marcus—still frozen mid-lunge, sigils burning like white scars across his chest, his monstrous face twisted in fury. Still monstrous. Still my husband.

My heart cracked down the middle.

This wasn’t just my husband. This was the father of my child. Who, in spite of all the madness, had chosen me—a witch, not a wereape, not one of his own.

And this curse had turned him into something I barely recognized. It had twisted him, hollowed him, because of who he loved. Because of me.

All I’d ever wanted was to build a life with him. And now I was standing on a bridge in the middle of the night, staring down my half-elf maybe-cousin while my husband stood frozen by ancient magic, looking like something out of a damn nightmare.

“What happens if I say no?” I asked quietly, even though I already knew.

Soren didn’t blink. “Then the curse will consume him, and he will die. It’s my only offer.”

“More like extortion,” Beverly muttered.

“Tomato, tomahto,” Soren said.

Ruth raised her hand again. “What if the favor is like… a sexy favor? Because if so, I think we should at least get it in writing. In blood. Or glitter.”

Dolores groaned and clamped a hand on Ruth’s shoulder. “Please, stop talking. You’re giving me hives.”

“No,” snapped Iris, stepping forward. “Tessa, you can’t agree to that. You don’t even know what he wants. This could be something huge. Dangerous.”

“You think I don’t know that?” I said, my voice sharp. “You think I’m not aware this is a terrible, absolutely insane idea?” I knew in my gut. I wasn’t walking into this blindly. My gut was already screaming that whatever favor Soren had in mind wasn’t going to be something light or forgettable. This wasn’t going to be a “water my plants while I’m away” kind of deal. No, this kind of ask came wrapped in blood oaths and morally gray decisions I’d never be able to take back.

He hated the Davenports. Hated us for what we’d done to him—what our family had taken from his. And this? This was the moment he’d been waiting for. A chance to twist the knife. To make me pay. Not just for my choices, but for the sins of the people I came from. Yet what choice did I have?

There was no version of this where I could look into Marcus’s eyes, his real eyes, and tell him I hadn’t tried everything. That I’d walked away from the one person who might’ve been able to save him because the cost scared me.

No. If this was the price. I’d pay it. Even if it wrecked me. Even if it broke everything I had left. Because the only thing worse than owing Soren Tex… was losing Marcus forever.

I turned to him, my voice raw. “And you’re sure you can rid him of this curse?” I asked the elf. “You’re absolutely sure?”

Soren tilted his head, just enough for a lock of pale hair to catch the light. His expression was unreadable, elegant, and eerie all at once. “Yes,” he said simply. “I am sure.”

The single word hit like a brick to the chest.

He didn’t blink. Didn’t smirk. Just stood there in his long, dark coat like a nightmare dressed in couture. “I know the roots of this magic. I know the threads that weave it. And I know how to unravel them.”

My breath caught. Behind me, I felt the eyes of everyone I loved—watching, waiting, hoping.

“But,” he added, and there it was—that glint of danger in his pale eyes, “only if you agree to my deal.”

I closed my eyes for half a second, trying to push down the scream in my chest.

The favor—the one he wouldn’t name, the one that could mean anything.

He could ask me to turn on my family. Hand over my child. Destroy someone innocent. I didn’t know. That was the damn point.

But Marcus was dying. Slipping away with every cursed breath. If I didn’t act now, I’d lose him forever.

I opened my eyes and met Soren’s. His were glowing faintly now, threaded with power older than time.

“Do we have a deal, Tessa Davenport?” he asked softly.

I glanced back at Marcus. It wasn’t just the fear. It was the grief. The ache. The raw, burning guilt inside me that whispered this was all my fault.

He’d chosen me. And now he was cursed. Tortured. Almost lost.

I saw it all in my mind in rapid, broken snapshots—his smile. His morning routine. His arms around me when I couldn’t sleep. The quiet way he touched my stomach while Darian kicked from the inside. The look on his face when our son was born.

All of it. Our life. Our love. Gone.

No. Not gone. Not yet.

And in that moment, I knew. There was no turning back.

I looked back at Soren. My breath hitched, but I held his gaze. “Fine,” I said. “I agree. I’ll do it. Whatever it is. Just save him.”

And just like that, the deal was sealed.

Somewhere in the back of my mind, a tiny internal voice screamed, You idiot. But I smothered it with a mental pillow.

Now all I could do was hope to the cauldron that I hadn’t just traded my soul for my husband’s.

But maybe… I had.

Soren nodded once. “Very good. Stand back.”

The air shifted.

And I mean really shifted. Like someone had just cracked the lid on a long-sealed box of ancient magic and all the creepy, dusty, powerful stuff slithered out to have a look around.

The snow around us rose in a slow spiral, floating like glitter in a snow globe on its most dramatic day. Light caught on every flake, casting a soft halo over the bridge. The hum began—low, thrumming, like the sound of something old waking up.

Soren stepped forward and muttered something low under his breath, sharp, dark. The shattered vase stirred, fragments lifting into the air and locking back into place with a series of sharp clicks. Within seconds, the vase was whole again, pulsing faintly with residual energy.

Soren lifted the ugly vase Beverly had brought, the one with the horrific orange and green floral pattern, and cradled it in one hand. With the other, he reached for Marcus.

The elf’s hand touched Marcus’s monstrous forehead. His palm glowed faintly, veins of silver light crackling along his fingers.

The curse reacted instantly.

A shimmer peeled off Marcus’s chest like smoke being lifted by an invisible wind. Wisps of white, like gauze soaked in pain, curled up from his skin. They writhed and twisted in the air as they streamed into the vase.

It was the same thing Dolores had tried. Only this time… the curse listened. It moved like it wanted to obey him.

The sigils on Marcus’s body, those hideous, glowing scars, began to fade. One by one. The pulsing light dimmed and then blinked out completely, until only bare skin remained.

Cauldron help us. It was working.

His monstrous form trembled and then convulsed. He shrank, bones cracking, muscles pulling inward, fur retreating. His monstrous claws withdrew. The beast’s snarl twisted into a grimace of pain.

And then, Marcus collapsed. A man again. Naked. Bruised. Unconscious.

But alive.

I staggered forward, half stumbling, and dropped to my knees beside him. “Marcus?” I whispered, brushing his hair back from his sweat-slicked forehead. “It’s over.”

His lashes fluttered. His lips parted. And he blinked up at me like he was seeing the moon for the first time. “I’m… so sorry,” he croaked.

“Don’t talk,” I said quickly, a sob hitching in my chest. “It’s done. You’re safe now. The curse is gone.”

Behind me, the vase, now swirling with white smoke, glowed faintly in Soren’s hands.

“It’s done,” I said again, more to myself than anyone else. “It’s actually done.”

“Yes,” said Soren coolly. “And I’ll be keeping this.”

My head jerked up. “Why?” That was not good.

“The curse,” he said, holding the vase like a sommelier holding a vintage wine. “It’s powerful. Ancient. Useful. I’ll need it for… something.”

“I don’t want to know. Do I?”

“No,” he said with a smirk. “You really don’t.”

And then, just like that, he turned on his heel, his cloak fluttering like some dramatic movie villain, and strode off into the night.

I didn’t even see where he went. One moment he was there and the next—poof. Gone. Damn elf magic.

I turned back to Marcus, cradling his head in my lap.

His face was slack, his eyes closed again but peaceful. No glowing sigils. No monstrous rage. Just the man I loved, bruised but whole.

I could breathe again.

And then, as if to remind me this was still my life, Ruth cleared her throat.

“I’m just saying,” she said from somewhere behind me, “that vase better not end up on eBay.”

I barked a laugh through my tears. Love my aunt Ruthy.

Because this family? We didn’t break. We didn’t shatter. We just got weird and held on tighter.

And I wasn’t letting go.

Not ever again.

28

TESSA

What does a witch do when her husband is saved from an abominable evil curse that morphed him into a frothing beast from hell?

She throws him a party, that’s what.

Michael Bublé’s “Sway” played in the background, the jazz tones floating through Davenport House like they’d been charmed to match the vibe. Because nothing says “thank you for not murdering us all” like classy crooning and snacks.

And the snacks? Ruth had outdone herself. The dining table was loaded with trays of cheesy mini quiches, puff-pastry broomsticks, deviled dragon eggs (with a tiny disclaimer: “Not from actual dragons. Mostly.”), charmed crescent sandwiches that spelled out “WELCOME BACK MARCUS” every time someone bit into them, and a cauldron-shaped bowl of bubbling fruit punch that smelled suspiciously of both berries and firewhiskey.

Tinker Bell zipped past me with a teeny tray in her hands, practically vibrating with pride as she offered said quiches to our guests. “Mini cheesy moon pies?” she squeaked.

Our guests were mostly family and close friends, which was plenty when your family consisted of three witches, a Dark witch, one half-vampire, a reformed wereape-monster, and a cat familiar with zero manners.

Speaking of which.

“Back off, furball,” said Ruth, swatting Hildo’s paw as he tried to snatch one of the veggie pastries straight off the cooling rack. Her apron read: I BAKE WITH ATTITUDE AND QUESTIONABLE INTENTIONS.

Across the room, I spotted Martha locked in a staring contest with Dolores. My aunt’s voice floated above the low hum of conversation: “I am the mayor, Martha. That means I get final say.”

Martha huffed, but surprisingly she didn’t argue.

Yeah. Dolores was living her best life.

I heard a flirtatious giggle and glanced over to find Beverly in the corner, her arms wrapped around two burly men who looked like they’d just walked off a lumberjack-themed cologne ad. Both were vying for her attention. One had thick, muscular arms and a square jaw. The other stood tall with a broad chest and the kind of build that came from years of hard labor or dedicated training.

“I told you,” Beverly said to them, her eyes twinkling. “You can take turns fanning me with that napkin, or I’ll have to pick a favorite.”

Yeah, she was loving this too.

And then, my eyes found Iris and Ronin in the living room, talking quietly on the couch. Her legs were tucked under her, a wine glass balanced in one hand, while Ronin sat beside her, his gaze fixed like he never wanted to look away. They looked stupidly, annoyingly in love. I was happy for them. I really was.

But a part of me still burned when I thought about what her family had done to her. The way they wiped her memory clean, like she was a chalkboard with too many emotions. Yeah, we all had dysfunctional families. That’s what families are made of. But the Clairmonts? They took dysfunction to a whole other level.

Still, Iris was strong. A sharp-tongued, hex-slinging, demon-borrowing, black-coat-wearing powerhouse. She’d survive. She’d rebuild.

And judging by the way Ronin was inching closer, she’d have help doing it.

I adjusted the charmed decorations above the fireplace—floating candles, glittering black and silver streamers, and a crystal banner that blinked: WELCOME BACK, MARCUS (PLEASE STAY HUMAN THIS TIME). The blinking letters were either being cute… or having a breakdown. Hard to tell. Honestly, same.

Only yesterday, I thought I’d lost my beautiful wereape forever. Not metaphorically. Literally. As in—curse, monster, claws, glowing sigils, blood. The stuff of nightmares. The stuff I might need therapy for until I’m one hundred and eighty.

But that was the past now. Sort of.

Because Marcus, the wereape of honor, was still at his office.

I’d texted him three times already. And each time, he’d answered with: On my way.

That was an hour ago.

I looked around the house, warm, glowing with magic, friends and family laughing, eating, living. And I was staring at the door like a dog waiting for its human.

He’d gone in early this morning to do the right thing—to face the consequences and report what had happened. Dolores had gone with him, not as his friend but as the mayor of Hollow Cove to bear witness and to make it official. He had to tell the Gray Council everything. That he’d killed someone under the influence of a dark, ancient curse. That he’d nearly killed someone else—though I’d heard the witch would live. Still, that didn’t change the fact that blood had been spilled.

It wasn’t up to him anymore. The council would decide. Dolores would weigh in. An investigation was already underway, and with Marcus being the chief of Hollow Cove, the stakes were higher than ever.

And if they decided he was no longer fit to serve? If they stripped him of his title? Or worse—if they punished him further?

He didn’t ask for this. He didn’t want it. And he sure as hell didn’t deserve it. But that had never stopped the council before. The party was supposed to be a celebration. Of hope. Of survival. But now it felt like I was hosting a party in limbo.

Part of me had wanted him to lie. Not a big lie. Just a tiny one. Like that murder-y rampage? Definitely not Marcus but some other rogue wereape that must’ve slipped into town. And with our heroic assistance, from me and my aunts, we obliterated it. Poof. No body. No evidence. Just justice served with a side of sass and spellwork.

Was it airtight? No. Was it plausible? Also no. But we could have sold it with enough magical flair and Beverly’s natural talent for distraction.

But Marcus had shut it down. Immediately. Without even a pause. No moment of hesitation. He looked me in the eyes, calm, steady, immovable, and said no.

His voice had that tone. The one that didn’t invite debate. The alpha tone. The chief of Hollow Cove tone.

“My scent is all over the body,” he’d told me this morning before he left. “The crime scenes and the surrounding areas. The blood. I can’t lie about this, Tessa. It’s pointless. Lori knows.”

Whether he was cursed or not, whether he was in control or not, he had taken a life. And for him, that mattered. There was no hiding. No spinning the facts. No twisting fate into something more convenient. Because Marcus wasn’t just my husband. He was a leader, and leaders didn’t run—not from the truth and not from responsibility.

Not even from the hellish aftermath of being possessed by an ancient supernatural curse that turned you into a raging murder-monster. So, yeah.

He never once considered hiding. Never once asked for leniency. Because in his mind, being alpha meant taking the fall—if the fall was his to take.

Which made me love him more, damnit.

And also want to shake him by the shoulders for being so damn noble.

Because while I admired his strength, his morality, his unwavering commitment to doing the right thing… well, it also really, really sucked.

“He doesn’t like it when you do that,” came my mother’s voice, pulling me around.

Amelia was perched on the edge of the Davenport couch. Her eyes were locked on Katherine, who was bouncing Darian in her lap, except it wasn’t so much a gentle bounce as it was… aerial acrobatics.

“Of course he does,” Katherine replied smoothly, catching Darian midair as he flung himself backward with the trust of someone who clearly thought gravity was optional. “Marcus used to love this too.”

Darian squealed with delight, kicked his chubby legs, and threw himself forward this time, right into Amelia’s lap.

“Ah!” My mother shrieked, clutching him like he was made of antique porcelain. “He just launched himself at me. He could have broken his neck. Or mine.”

“He’s fine,” said Katherine calmly, adjusting the hem of her ridiculously elegant silk blouse. “That’s normal wereape behavior. The more airborne, the better. Builds coordination and dominance instincts.”

“He’s just two months old,” Amelia hissed, looking scandalized. “Babies aren’t supposed to do that.”

“He’s part wereape,” said Katherine with a smile. “And part witch and demon. The rules don’t really apply.”

Darian giggled in Amelia’s lap and then reached for Katherine again, clearly planning to repeat the performance. Before my mom could react, he flung himself back like a pint-sized gymnast, and Katherine caught him effortlessly.

“Damn. He’s like a flying squirrel.” I laughed, watching them go back and forth.

“More like a magic boomerang,” said Ruth, walking by with a tray of tiny frosted cupcakes.

I crossed my arms and leaned against the wall, watching the circus unfold with a weird swirl of amusement and unease. Because despite the adorable airborne baby acts, my brain hadn’t stopped thinking about last night.

After we’d gotten Marcus back to the little cottage behind Davenport House and tucked him in to sleep off what was, quite literally, a curse hangover, Katherine had showed up and taken me aside.

She told me what she’d told Dolores and the others. That the order had refused to see her, refused to speak to her. She’d tried. She’d looked genuinely sorry—not for failing but for ever being one of them in the first place.

Still, I couldn’t lie to myself. I wasn’t thrilled. The Order of the Fenrir had branded my husband. Had turned him into a monster because he dared to love me. Because he dared to defy their precious, twisted rules about bloodlines and power and purity.

And Katherine had once been part of that. Even if she’d left. Even if she was here now. Even if she was bouncing my kid like he was a toddler-shaped beach ball. I didn’t know if I could ever fully trust her. What other secrets did she have?

But watching her now, so at ease with Darian, smiling, laughing, treating him like he was the center of the damn universe, I had to admit, she loved him.

And more importantly? He loved her right back.

“Okay,” I said, stepping forward and scooping Darian into my arms mid-launch like a practiced ninja mom. “That’s enough airborne monkeying around for now.”

“Aww,” said Katherine. “He was just warming up.”

“I don’t need him flipping from the curtains,” I replied. “We already had to re-ward the wallpaper after the last incident. I’m not even going to ask how he lit the nursery rug on fire.” Yeah, House had not been thrilled.

Amelia sniffed. “Probably that demon side of him. I told you not to let him nap near open spell books.”

I looked between the two women. My mother, bossy and dramatic, in love with the idea of motherhood but allergic to responsibility.

And my mother-in-law, cool and composed, an ex-cultist with designer shoes and secrets I was still unwrapping.

Family. Gotta love ’em.

“Is he giving you trouble?” came a female voice next to me.

I turned and found Iris and Ronin standing side by side, just as Darian flung himself from me toward the couch cushions. “He’s inventing a new sport,” I said dryly. “I call it death-defying diaper aerobics.”

Iris laughed. “You need a glass of wine.” She slipped her arm through mine and tugged me gently toward the dining room.

Ronin followed behind, muttering, “I need another beer.”

We passed Beverly, still sandwiched between the two flirt-dazed men like some kind of witchy VIP. She winked at us. “If any of you need me, I’ll be weighing my options.”

“Right,” I said under my breath.

Iris poured me a generous glass of red and handed it over like a pro. “So,” she said, her tone casual but her eyes knowing, “where is he?”

I pressed the cool glass to my cheek for a second before answering. “He’s still at the office. Said he had to wrap things up.”

Iris nodded slowly, taking a sip of her wine. “You told me this morning. About what he planned to do.”

“Yeah.”

“And you’re okay with it?” she asked gently.

“No,” I said truthfully. “Not even a little.”

“But you understand it.”

I looked away. “Yeah. I do.”

Ronin joined us then, cracking open a beer with his vampire-strength fingers like a man opening a soda. “The guy’s too noble for his own good,” he said. “Seriously. If someone cursed me, and I went berserk, and then it got lifted? I’d be hiding in the basement with a PlayStation and a fake mustache.”

“I can totally see that,” said Iris.

“You have seen that,” Ronin replied, taking a long swig. “Admit it. You love it.”

I let out a shaky laugh, still watching the other room where Darian had managed to scale the back of the couch and was now launching himself toward Ruth like a pint-sized missile. She caught him expertly and then rocked him back and forth with a proud grin, muttering something about bone density and grandma reflexes.

I was just starting to relax, sipping my wine and letting the warmth of it soften the edges of my stress, when the toaster rattled.

“Uh oh,” said Iris, her eyes wide.

The old silver toaster on the kitchen counter shook once, twice—and then dinged.

A small, charred message card shot from the slot like a warning flare.

I moved fast, crossing the room and snatching it midair before it hit the ground. My fingers shook as I flipped it over.

A single seal burned into the thick paper.

Gray Council.

I stared at the card, unease settling deep within me.

Iris came up behind me. “That doesn’t look like a party invitation.”

“No,” I said, my voice tight. “It’s not.”

Ronin leaned over my shoulder. “Gray Council?”

“Yeah.” I read the inscription.

Official Decree of the Gray Council:

The child known as Darian must be presented before the council within thirty days. Failure to comply will result in Tessa Davenport and Marcus Durand being declared enemies of the paranormal order.

“Fuck me,” said Ronin, after reading it.

“This is bad, Tessa,” said Iris, her voice filled with tension.

I looked up at her. “I know.”

“Marcus is here!” shouted Ruth from the living room. I glanced over. Sure enough, my hot, sexy wereape was walking in. Dark jeans, leather jacket, gray T-shirt clinging to a body that had absolutely no business looking that good after everything he’d been through.

But then I looked at his face. And the swoon took a backseat.

His jaw was tight, his eyes scanning the room. Something lay just under the surface, something tense, unsettled. Like he was bracing for bad news or already carrying the weight of it.

“You going to tell him?” asked my Dark witch friend.

I nodded. “Yeah. No more lies.”

Marcus saw something on my face and made a beeline for me. “What’s going on?” he asked as he joined me.

“Here.” I gave him the card.

Marcus took the card from my hand, his eyes scanning it fast. I watched his face harden, not with surprise but with resignation. He looked… tired. The kind of tired that went bone-deep. Like every step he’d taken since that curse had been a fight.

He rubbed his jaw and exhaled. “Of course they want him.”

“He’s a baby,” I snapped. “Our baby. And they think they can just—what? Demand him like he’s a damn artifact?”

“We knew they would come back,” he said gently, folding the card and slipping it into his coat pocket. “They were always going to want a closer look.”

I scoffed. “A closer look? That’s what they call it now? What if they try to take him? Study him? Lock him away? I am not handing over my child like he’s a lab sample with a heartbeat.”

“You won’t have to.” He looked at me, steady and calm, but I could feel the fire simmering just below. “We’ll figure it out. Together.”

“We better.” I lowered my voice. “How did it go? The Gray Council... the town council. Did you talk to them?” Yes, I was a curious beast. I needed to know.

He nodded, quiet and calm. “Everything’s fine. I took care of it.”

I felt some tension leave my shoulders as I searched his face. “And you? How are you feeling?”

His eyes met mine, warm and steady. “I’m good. I feel fine.”

Fine. Like he hadn’t just spent the last day possessed by an ancient curse and nearly ripped everyone we loved to shreds.

But that was Marcus. Strong. Grounded. Ridiculously composed.

“We’re not giving him to anyone,” I added. “Not the Gray Council, not the order, not even Santa Claus if he shows up with a reindeer escort and promises to keep him safe.”

Marcus’s lips twitched, just slightly. “I’d like to see Santa try.”

Iris and Ronin were behind us, quiet but tense. “They’re testing you,” said Iris. “Us. They want to see what we’ll do.”

Ronin took a swig of his beer. “Then let’s give them something they don’t expect. Like the finger,” he said, and flipped his middle finger for good measure.

I looked at all of them, my aunts, Iris, Ronin, Marcus and then at the little boy in Ruth’s arms, who was currently yanking on her hair like he was testing it for structural integrity.

We were a mess. A magical, dysfunctional, wildly inappropriate mess.

But we were a family.

And no way in hell were we letting the Gray Council tear that apart.

Let them come.

29

MARCUS

I stood in the dining room, my boots heavy on the wood floor. The air was warm with laughter, clinking glasses, and the faint, buttery scent of Ruth’s cooking as I watched the people I cared about most act like the nightmare had ended. Like we’d crossed the finish line. Like the monster I’d become wasn’t still burned into their memories.

And I stood in the middle of it all, lying to the woman I loved.

Twice.

Tessa’s eyes had lit up when she saw me walk in, relief softening her face like sunlight after a storm. She’d asked how it went with the council, with the town, with the mess I’d left behind.

I told her it was fine. That I’d handled it.

That was lie number one.

And when she touched my arm and asked how I felt, I gave her a smile. Told her I felt good. Strong. Like myself again.

That was lie number two.

The truth was, I didn’t feel fine.

I’d been through worse. Battles, betrayals, near-deaths—but this… this was something different. Like something inside me had been cracked wide open and ripped out of me, and not all the pieces were put back in the right place.

The curse was gone—or so Soren claimed—but something about it still lingered. Like a shadow that didn’t know when to quit. A whisper under the skin. A burn that never cooled. Not magic. Not pain. Something deeper. Something that didn’t want to leave.

Remnants remained inside me, like splinters of glass buried in muscle and bone. The kind you couldn’t see but felt every time you moved.

I still felt the hum of it. Quiet now but not gone. Not completely.

And that terrified me.

The council had been… less forgiving than I’d hoped. Dolores and I had arrived early this morning. She stood beside me the whole time, chin up, voice clear, calling me the strongest protector Hollow Cove had ever had. The town owed me a second chance, she said.

They heard her, but it didn’t change the facts. I’d killed someone. And nearly torn another witch in half.

So, no, everything wasn’t fine.

And I couldn’t tell her, couldn’t tell them. Not Tessa. Not her aunts. And I wouldn’t tell them. Not yet.

Because tonight is for them. For Tessa. She deserves one damn night without worry. After everything I put her through, fighting her own husband, a monster who tried to kill her. She deserves this.

So yeah, I lied, but I did it to give her peace.

And I’d do it again.

I shifted my stance, my arms crossed as I leaned against the table. Ruth was dancing with Darian on her hip while trying not to trip over the cat. Beverly was flirting with two men like it was her second job. Dolores argued with Martha over something about party permits.

It felt normal. Almost.

But I could see the edge in Ronin’s eyes when he looked at me. The way Iris watched Tessa a little too closely. They knew the score. Knew what I’d lost. Knew what I’d become.

The council didn’t care that I hadn’t been in control. The badge I’d earned, the town I swore to protect, was on hold. Official reprimand. Investigation pending. And until they decided what to do with me, a temporary chief was filling in.

I wasn’t surprised. I would’ve done the same thing. You screw up? You own it.

That’s what it means to be the alpha. What it means to lead.

But this thing with the Gray Council? With Darian? That was different. That wasn’t justice. That wasn’t protocol.

That was a threat.

And it lit a fire in my chest hotter than anything I’d felt since the curse took hold. Because I knew what happened when the Gray Council “requested” a child like mine. They didn’t issue those kinds of decrees unless they’d already made a decision behind closed doors. And once they got their hands on him, my son, my kid, I’d never see him again. He’d disappear into some locked-down fortress with smiling guards and hollow promises, and Tessa would tear the world apart trying to get him back.

But she wouldn’t find him. No one would.

Because that’s how they worked.

I’d seen it before. As chief, I’d read the classified reports, seen the redacted files, listened to things whispered behind closed doors—cases that never made it to the public. Kids who were “too powerful,” “unstable,” “unfit for normal magical society.”

That’s what they called it when they were scared. When they didn’t know how to control something, or someone, they filed it under “containment.” They called it “for the greater good.”

But I knew what it really was.

Elimination.

And they weren’t getting my son, not while I was still breathing. Not while I still had strength to fight and a body to throw in front of him. They wanted to see what kind of threat Darian is? Fine.

But first, they’d have to deal with his father.

My gaze shifted to my mother across the room. Katherine Durand, poised, polished, and composed as ever, sipping something expensive like this was just another social event. But all I could see was the shadow of the order clinging to her like smoke. She’d been one of them. Part of the same twisted cult that had cursed me. That had tried to take everything from me.

Because of her past, I became their target. And because of her, I’d nearly killed the woman I loved.

My mother had said she was sorry. Maybe she was. But sorry didn’t change what had happened. Sorry didn’t scrape the blood off my hands or erase the nightmares.

And it sure as hell didn’t stop the Order of Fenrir. They marked me. Twisted my blood, my mind, my instincts and turned me into a weapon aimed straight at the people I swore to protect—my pack, my town, my mate.

They almost made me kill her.

Tessa. The strongest woman I’d ever known. The mother of my son. My match. My moon. And if she hadn’t been as powerful, if she hadn’t fought back, I would’ve torn her apart.

That truth sat in my bones like a curse of its own—a reminder, a warning.

So yeah, I’d been reading, researching, digging through every record, every whisper, every scroll buried in the Gray Council’s archives I had access to as chief.

Tessa didn’t know. She didn’t need to. Not yet.

But I knew who they were now. I knew what they’d done to others like me—shifters who stepped out of line, who dared love outside their species, who challenged their backwards laws about purity and blood and strength. They called themselves protectors of the old ways. But they were just cowards hiding behind ritual and blood oaths, a pack of zealots poisoning the future with fear.

They didn’t just curse me. They tried to erase me. Turn me into a monster. Make me the executioner of my own family. They came for my wife. They almost took my son.

And I would never let that happen again.

The next time they came out of the shadows, I wouldn’t be cursed. I’d be ready.

They wanted to test the strength of a true alpha? Good. They would. Because, this time I wasn’t the one running anymore. I was hunting. And when I found them, I’d rip their order apart, limb from limb. Every last one of them.

And then there was him. Soren Tex.

The elf bastard who walked like he owned the wind and talked like he was centuries above the rest of us. Tessa told me he was the one who pulled the curse out of me. Said he showed up in the nick of time and froze the damn thing mid-strike. That he saved my life.

But I didn’t remember—not the spell, not his magic, nothing. All I knew was that now I owed him. She owed him. Because she made a deal.

She didn’t give me the details, just that it was vague, that he would come asking for that favor one of these days.

It infuriated me. Because I knew guys like him. The ones who hid ambition behind charm. The ones who pretended to help but always collected in blood later. Soren Tex didn’t do this out of kindness. He did it because it benefited him. Because now he had leverage over Tessa. And I hated that. I hated that she had to carry that weight. That while I was lost inside a curse, my wife was making impossible choices, bargaining with monsters.

She protected me. Again.

And now I had to protect her from whatever Soren had planned. Because that son of a bitch wanted something. And whatever it was, it wouldn’t be small. It wouldn’t be clean.

But the second he came to collect, I’d be waiting.

He might’ve saved me once. But I’d tear out his throat before I let him take her.

My fingers flexed at my sides as I scanned the room again. Tessa was laughing now, one hand around a glass of wine, the other keeping Darian from launching himself off the dining table. Her smile was soft. Real.

And damn if it didn’t gut me. Her smile, her laugh, that fire in her eyes even after the hell we’d just walked through. She was everything.

Not in some poetic, moon-and-stars kind of way. No. She was forged steel wrapped in velvet. All sharp wit and stubborn heart, too bold for her own good, and exactly what I never knew I needed. She didn’t just stand beside me. She challenged me, called me out, pulled me back when I lost myself.

She was my mate in every way that counted, not just because of some supernatural bond. Not because fate decided it. Because she matched me, fire for fire. She took all the broken, jagged pieces of who I was and didn’t try to soften them. She let them stay sharp. Made me stronger with them.

And I’d be damned if I let anything rip that from me. Especially now after everything.

I let my eyes linger a second longer, taking in the curve of her neck, the wild mess of dark hair piled up like she’d meant to fix it but got distracted, the way her body curved protectively toward our son without, even thinking about it.

She didn’t know I was watching, but I was always watching.

Because that woman was mine.

Seeing her laugh like that, really laugh, did something to me. After everything we’d been through, after everything I’d put her through… it lit something in my chest. Settled something I hadn’t realized was still raw. She deserved moments like this. Normal. Happy. And if I could give her that, even just for tonight, then yeah, I’d take the weight of the rest.

Her laughter, her smile. That’s what I needed to see. That’s why I didn’t tell her the full truth.

Because right now, we didn’t need more fear. We needed normal. We needed each other. And whatever came next—we’d deal with it together.

But the weight was on me. That’s how it was supposed to be.

I was the protector. The chief.

And I’d carry it all.

Even if something inside me still wasn’t whole. Even if part of that curse was still buried somewhere deep.

I’d hold the line.

For her.

For our son.

And for this damn town.

No matter what came next.

Don’t miss the next book in The Witches of Hollow Cove series!

After fifteen years of marriage, I catch my husband cheating on me. What do I do? I laugh, which probably wasn’t the reaction he expected.

And then I laughed some more.

So, when a job comes my way from The Twilight Hotel—a paranormal hotel in midtown Manhattan that serves as a sanctuary and residence—I take it.

Cue in tattooed, sexy as sin, grumpy restaurant owner Valen, who can’t do drama or high-maintenance women. The problem? He’s cruel and dangerous.

And he’s hiding something.

Rumors arise of a dark spell that would mean the hotel's closure, and I don’t know who I can trust. Do I have what it takes to fight this new evil? We’ll see.

BOOKS BY KIM RICHARDSON

WITCHES OF NEW YORK

The Starlight Witch

Game of Witch

Tales of a Witch

THE WITCHES OF HOLLOW COVE

Shadow Witch

Midnight Spells

Charmed Nights

Magical Mojo

Practical Hexes

Wicked Ways

Witching Whispers

Mystic Madness

Rebel Magic

Cosmic Jinx

Brewing Crazy

Witchy Little Lies

Magic Gone Wild

THE DARK FILES

Spells & Ashes

Charms & Demons

Hexes & Flames

Curses & Blood

SHADOW AND LIGHT

Dark Hunt

Dark Bound

Dark Rise

Dark Gift

Dark Curse

Dark Angel

TEEN AND YOUNG ADULT

SOUL GUARDIANS

Marked

Elemental

Horizon

Netherworld

Seirs

Mortal

Reapers

Seals

THE HORIZON CHRONICLES

The Soul Thief

The Helm of Darkness

The City of Flame and Shadow

The Lord of Darkness

MYSTICS SERIES

The Seventh Sense

The Alpha Nation

The Nexus

DIVIDED REALMS

Steel Maiden

Witch Queen

Blood Magic

NEWSLETTER

Never miss a new release! Sign up for Kim’s Newsletter to receive exclusive updates on upcoming releases and discounted books!

Click here to get started!

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Kim Richardson is a USA Today bestselling and award-winning author of urban fantasy, fantasy, and young adult books. She lives in the eastern part of Canada with her husband, two dogs, and a very old cat. Kim’s books are available in print editions, and translations are available in over seven languages.

To learn more about the author, please visit:

www.kimrichardsonbooks.com