Apredator.
While I’m laying here, so easy to be attacked, mauled…eaten.
But this isRyder. He won’t harm me.
So, distracting myself from the heat spanning my insides, I ask, “Why are your beds so comfy? I swear, I could happily die in the one in your cabin, but this thing?” My arms stretch to either side, unable to reach the edges. “A hole in the ground shouldnotbe this cozy.”
“Nest,” is all he grunts, his voice a rough scrape against the cave’s deafening silence. “Our beds are called our nest.” Steps approach. “Wolves are possessive about their space. It’s sacred.”
I’d been slowly learning a bit about shifter culture over the days, mainly thanks to Leah. Everything is different from the dangerous villains Mom made them out to be. They’re simply living peacefully—before Sloane came along anyway.
“How so?” I turn, coming up onto my knees, finding him closer, hovering partway between the entrance and me. Shallow breaths raise his chest, and corded muscles tighten in his neck. I follow the line to his arms, hands clenching with each exhale as he scans me.
“Males create their nests with a future mate in mind—not necessarily a specific person, but we prepare the nest in preparation. Casual sex is kept away, because the only people allowed in them are mated pairs and the children they create.”
Oh.Well, that may explain his behaviours. I lower onto my heels as my gaze drops to the furs peeking between my knees. The ones that are part of an area I should probably get out of.
“Am I—should I?”
His eyes flash away from the wall he’s been otherwise staring at. They’re a menacing silver again—a colour I really need to ask him about. It happens so often, but I’ve caught none of the others doing it.
“You’re fine.” His tone sounds too rough for “fine”, but moving will call attention to being in it, so frozen, I remain.
“I could have slept on the floor of your cabin.”
“You also could have had your own set aside so you weren’t in anyone’s home, but here we are. I put you in mine because I wanted you there.”
I sink lower, chewing on my bottom lip. My mind races with every possibility of those words—and comes up with nothing. Less than nothing when he prowls—prowls, because there’s no other term for it—in my direction. His eyes, dark again, glint with the threat of pain—but I don’t feel he’d harm me. He’s a creature cornered, whereas I’m the threat to his life.
Head down, I slide onto the lip and keep my socked feet buried within the furs. “Knees started to hurt,” I explain, though it’s a lie.
The cave is silent, but it feels loud. The pressure of the conversation settles like a cloak of uncertainty onto my shoulders.
Talk. Say anything. First thing that comes to mind.
“So…mates?”Thatwas the first thing? Fuck my life. “How’s that work?”
There’s a beat of silence before he approaches, his feet scuffing on the dirt and stone. He settles across from me, bringing his knees up to wrap his arms around them while keeping his feet outside the nest.
“Explain witch relationships first. More details than what you gave the other day. How do you choose a mate?”
One glance at his deadly expression heightens my curiosity over why he wants to know this fading.
“Like humans, we date. At its core, we choose a person we feel connected to. Magick calls to magick and if two are compatible, they remain together. During a binding ceremony beneath Hecate occurring on full moon nights, a couple’s powers are bound together, so we pick who we feel comfortable with. Only death ends the union. Blood magick used to be used to strengthen the bond, but it’s been considered a form of black magick in recent decades, and most covens ban anything Dark, so no one uses it anymore.”
“Blood.” He shivers. “You ever do that?”
“And have Mom blast my ass from here to Hawaii? That’s a funny joke. Your turn; mates and shifters.”
He sighs, unhooking his hands from his knees to instead stretch them behind him. “In some ways, it’s similar. Shifters choose based on who they best connect with, and everything’s a mutual agreement between the couple. Generally, we’re encouraged to look outside the pack, to form inter-pack connections.”
“There’s others?” My question, admittingly pretty stupid, comes out as a squeak. Of course there’s others. It’s not like Highridge is the only coven in existence, so obviously there’d be other packs.
“There are others. Plenty worldwide, a few in the area. That’s how most wolves pick mates, but there is one more way. It’s veryuncommon, and it’s called thenîkâkîstisbond.” His body tenses, shoulders all corded muscles now.
Ni…Nope, can’t even mentally attempt pronouncing that. Ryder saying it, the syllables rolling off his tongue, is magick itself.
“It’s the Old Language of the shifters and translates to ‘heart of the wolf.’ It’s fate’s way of picking who’s best for us. Our wolf recognizes them, urging us to complete the bond. Which isn’t a ceremony like yours, but more…intimate.” Silver flames burn in his eyes, hotter than any fire lit in camp.
