Oscar patted my ear. “You are braver than you believe, Miss.”
I swallowed hard. “I can do it. I’ll finish the cakes. I’ll help with the wards. And if I have to—” I looked up at Papa, heart pounding, “—I’ll leave. I won’t let them hurt anyone else.”
Papa shook his head. “No, you won’t. Not unless I’m with you.”
I smiled a thin, fragile thing. “Deal.”
We turned onto the dirt road that led to his place—our place—and the headlights caught a pair of eyes reflecting in the brush. Deer, probably. Maybe a raccoon. But my witch senses tingled all the same.
“I’ve already warded the house. We’re safe in here.”
He parked in front of the house, then walked me to the door, never letting go of my hand. Oscar scampered ahead, checking every shadow before we entered.
Inside, everything was just as we’d left it: the scent of clean linen, the warmth of the wood stove, the silent promise of safety. Papa made me tea, real chamomile with honey, and sat with me on the sofa until I stopped shaking.
I stared at the fireplace, flames crackling and spitting, and made three silent vows: I would bake every cake on time. I would ward this territory, even if it cost me sleep and blood. And I would never let the past win, not even for a second.
Papa pressed a kiss to my temple. “We’re gonna make it,” he said.
I believed him. I had to.
Because when the monsters came, I wanted them to find me ready. Not hiding. Not afraid.
I fell asleep on the couch, Oscar curled on my chest, the fire dying down to embers. Papa stayed beside me, one hand over my heart, as if daring the world to try to take me again.
Chapter 19
Big Papa
Every wolf knew we didn’t fuck around when we picked a fight. We rolled in with numbers, muscle, and enough reckless pride to take a beating just for the chance to give one back. Just like when we’d tangled with Greenbriar weeks ago, it was all blood and bone, and death. It was clear who the enemy was, where they were, and what they wanted to do to you. Straightforward work—a test of nerve, not a battle of ghosts.
Witches, though? That was a different hell. You trained for the wolves, ran drills and sparred until every move was muscle memory. But how the fuck did you fight a rumor, or a spell? How did you kill what you couldn’t see?
I’d never say it out loud, but there was a part of me—the broken, still-mending piece under all that leather and bravado—that was afraid I couldn’t protect Aspen from what was coming. Couldn’t shield her from curses, or ghosts, or the kind of rage that only burned hotter when you thought you’d snuffed it out. I could put my body between her and a bullet. I could take a bite, a punch, a broken bone. But this? This was like chasing smoke.
I woke before dawn, restless, and padded barefoot through the dark house to the kitchen. Oscar sat on the windowsill, preening his whiskers and muttering to himself in the dim light. He saw me and nodded, grave as a judge.
“Good morning, sir,” he said. “You look like you’ve been up since last Tuesday.”
“Can’t sleep,” I said, not bothering with lies. “Want coffee?”
“If it’s not a bother,” he replied. “Heavy on the cream, if you please.”
He watched, silent, as I ground the beans and measured the water, the quiet of the house settling over us like a thick wool blanket. When the brew was done, I poured a cup for each of us and set his tiny one by the window. He dipped his nose into the mug and let out a tiny sigh of satisfaction.
“She’s safe for now,” he said softly, staring out into the black prairie. “But they’ll try again.”
“I know.”
“She’s braver than you think. More than she thinks, at least.”
“I know that too.” I sipped the coffee and let the bitterness remind me I was alive. “Doesn’t make it easier.”
He watched me for a moment, then went back to his survey of the yard. “They’ll come for her at the bakery. It won’t do them any good. We’ve got the wards buttoned up tightly there.”
“They won’t give up I’m sure,” I said. “But we’ll be ready.”
Oscar’s mouth twitched, almost a smile. “We’ll do our best to be.”
