Chapter 30
(Caron – POV)
I really should be immune to the weird by now.
But no.
I’m sitting cross-legged on the wooden floor of a cabin, encircled by so kind of powder—salt, ash, maybe crushed bones, who knows—with my hands on my knees like I’m about to achieve spiritual enlightennt.
Across from , Lenora sits with terrifying calm, like this is just a regular Tuesday.
To my left: Ronan. Smug bastard. Looking far too amused at my expense.
And to my right: her father.
Technically, it’s the first ti we’re eting—though eting is a generous word for what this is. The man is a mountain. When Lenora said he was sick, I expected soone frail. Fragile.
This guy looks like he could deadlift a car and then throw it at for sneezing wrong.
And towering behind us all like a living legend is her.
The witch.
Not a witch. Not taphorical, not insult. No, an actual witch. Real magic and everything.
From the snippets I’ve heard, she’s Ronan’s grandmother. Which makes sense. Ronan’s always been suspicious to .
She’s old—probably—but sohow ageless. Her eyes are bright. Her posture sharp. She’s wearing three shawls, each one clashing with the other, and her presence fills the room like wildfire.
"I thought when you gave up your seat, I wouldn’t have to do things like this anymore, Eamon," she says, voice sharp as a whip.
Lenora’s dad—Eamon, apparently—rumbles out a low, "I’m sorry."
The old woman exhales like she’s been disappointed by n since the dawn of ti.
"It’s fine," she mutters. "There’s no such thing as retirent when you’re the pack witch. Not really."
Then she snaps, "Ronan. My bag."
"Which one, Nana?" he asks, clearly playing dumb.
She stomps on his leg. Hard.
Okay, I like this witch.
He leaves the room.
I hear the jingle of keys, the creak of the porch step, the hollow thud of car doors opening and closing. Then silence. A mont later, Ronan’s footsteps return, followed by the soft rustle of fabric.
He hands the old woman a small velvet pouch, the color deep crimson, like dried blood. She snatches it from him without a word and hobbles back toward the circle—toward —with surprising speed.
Before I can ask what’s in it, she tosses the contents across the floor in front of .
Bones.
Tiny, white, smoothed by ti and handling. So are curved like ribs, others pointed like claws. A few glint faintly in the low light, polished to ivory perfection.
I blink. Bones?
"Are those—small bones?" I ask warily. "Please tell those aren’t human."
"They’re not," she says breezily. "Mostly."
What does mostly an?!
She narrows her eyes at the bones. "Okay. He is a wolf."
Everyone exhales what I’m assuming is a sigh of relief. Wasn’t that the entire reason I was dragged out here? Weren’t they sure?
The witch squints at the bones again. Then, without so much as a warning, she turns and plucks a strand of Lenora’s hair straight from her head.
"Ow," Lenora says, glaring. "You could ask, you know."
"Where’s the fun in that?" the old woman replies, clicking her tongue and examining the hair like it personally offended her. Then she glances at , eyes sharp and unreadable.
"What did you see?" Ronan asks the question everyone else is thinking. His voice has dropped, all amusent gone.
The witch pauses dramatically. "I saw..." Her eyes narrow, scanning the bones, then lifting toward the ceiling like the answer’s written in smoke. "I saw..."
Silence thickens.
Then she smirks. "None of your business."
Ronan stares. "Seriously?"
"If I say what I saw, then what I saw won’t happen anymore," she says, cackling like that’s a perfectly logical explanation. "Fate’s a fickle thing."
Honestly? She reminds of Simone.
Not just because she’s also Black—though she and Simone do share that sa commanding presence—but sothing else. That chaotic wisdom vibe. The sense that she knows everything and is also definitely ssing with you.
The woman narrows her eyes at suddenly.
Wait.
Did she just read my mind?
Her lips twitch into a knowing smirk.
Oh hell no. Now we’re entering uncomfortable levels of weird.
"There’s no ti," the old witch says suddenly serious, her voice cutting through the silence like a crack of thunder.
"What we must do now is coax out his wolf. If this continues, he’ll never shift again. The human and the wolf are two separate entities inside him when they are ant to be one."
She circles as she speaks, like I’m a malfunctioning engine she’s diagnosing. "The only reason he shifted that night was because—for a mont—the human and the wolf wanted the sa thing. They were united. They agreed to go to their mate."
She turns sharply, the cane in her hand tapping the floor with finality.
"But the mont passed. And instead of staying, of letting that union settle into sothing permanent, he ran. He returned to the human world and denied the wolf. With every day since, the rift between them has widened."
She’s talking about like I’m not in the room. Which is offensive, sure—but also kind of accurate. I do feel split. Like there’s sothing wild and restless clawing at the back of my ribs, sothing I don’t understand and didn’t ask for. Sothing that’s , but not.
"How do we fix this?" Lenora’s voice breaks through, tight with worry.
I glance at her. She looks pale under her silver hair, her eyes pinched with tension. It hits , the weight of her concern. She’s worried I’ll never shift again. I an ofcourse she like everyone else cares about this whole wolf side of .
"This isn’t just about the shift," the old witch says, voice dropping. "It’s about survival. The longer he stays split, the more confused the wolf becos. Eventually, it won’t know who it belongs to anymore."
The thought sends a cold ripple down my spine.
I don’t even know what it ans, but I feel the gravity of it.
They speak in terms I don’t understand, throwing around words like "consolidation," "spiritualfracture," and "ancestralmory," and my head is spinning. I don’t know what any of it really ans. I’m not even sure if I’m supposed to be listening or just sitting quietly like a sacrificial goat.
Eventually, soone sweeps away the circle of white stuff—powder? salt? magical wolf-dust?—and I’m allowed to stand. My legs feel shaky, but I don’t let it show. I nod stiffly at no one in particular and slip outside.
The fresh air hits hard. Crisp, woodsy, cold enough to make my skin prickle.
I walk into the woods, but not too far this ti. Last ti I wandered deeper, I t Lenora’s cousin with the creepy eyes and possessive energy. I don’t think I’m ready to tango with him again.
I’m standing under a pine, just trying to breathe, when a deep voice speaks beside .
"A lot on your mind, huh?"
I turn fast.
It’s Lenora’s father.
Up close, he’s even bigger than I rember from earlier. Towering, solid, the kind of man who could probably crush a tree trunk if it looked at him wrong. His presence is... intimidating, to say the least.
I clear my throat and stick out my hand, like that’ll help. "Uh—Mr. Maen. Pleasure to et you."
He glances at my hand, then back at . Finally, he takes it, shakes once—firm and brief.
"Just call Eamon."
He looks at a mont longer, then exhales.
"Honestly," he says, "I wanted to punch you."
I blink.
"For mating my daughter," he clarifies, "and then leaving her. But... after learning the circumstances, I’m less certain where to place the bla."
I gulp. My eyes flick to his forearms—thick, veined, and built like steel beams. Yeah. I wouldn’t survive a punch from him.
"I’m still trying to wrap my head around the whole ’mate’ thing," I admit.
He nods, a little too knowingly.
"Well," he says dryly, "you sure didn’t have a hard ti wrapping around other parts of her."
I choke on my own spit. "About that..."
I trail off. What am I supposed to say? That her scent short-circuited my brain? That I’m only human? Except, apparently, not?
He huffs a laugh, slapping my shoulder hard enough to make sway. "It’s natural. You’re mates. The only unnatural part is how you’re both pretending like you can keep your hands off each other."
I glance down at the forest floor, my face hot.
"When I t Lenora’s mother," he goes on, "I was worse. Couldn’t be in the sa room without touching her. Drove the entire pack mad—"
"Dad!" a voice screeches in the distance.
We both turn.
Lenora storms out of the house, white hair flying, gray eyes narrowed to slits. She looks like vengeance incarnate. And sohow—still beautiful.
She points a threatening finger at her father, or atleast I’m hoping it’s her father.Then she spins around and stomps back inside, muttering sothing about wolves needing a filter.
Eamon chuckles. "She’s got her mother’s temper. And her grace."
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