Bronc bristled beside me, but I stepped forward, Oscar’s weight steady on my shoulder.
“I’m here,” I called. “Let him go.”
She laughed, a sound like a crow choking on glass. “Do you think you can bargain with me, child?”
My voice came out steadier than I felt. “That’s the deal, isn’t it? The book for the man. Or are you a liar as well as a thief?”
She snarled. “Do you have the book or don’t you?”
I pulled it from the satchel, holding it up so she could see the battered leather, the iron clasps, the faded sigil on the front. “Proof of life first,” I demanded.
She considered, then flicked her fingers. One of the coven women slapped Papa’s face. It jerked violently to the side.
He looked up, blood and sweat in his eyes. “Sunshine,” he rasped.
I nearly broke, but Bronc’s hand kept me grounded.
The Wyrdmother stepped forward, her feet barely disturbing the grass. “Give me the book, Dud. Or I’ll start carving pieces off your mate, one finger at a time.”
The air thickened with ozone. I felt the spell before I saw it—a crackling wave of green light that rolled out from the Wyrdmother’s outstretched hands. My knees locked mid-step. Bronc’s grip on my shoulder became stone.
Panic flooded my throat as I realized I was the only thing still moving.
“Clever trick, yes?” The Wyrdmother stalked toward Papa’s bound form, her dagger catching firelight. “Your mongrels make excellent statues.” She pressed the blade beneath Papa’s jaw, drawing a bead of blood that slid crimson down his throat. “Now. The grimoire. Or I unmake your pretty wolf.”
“Last chance, little moth,” the Wyrdmother purred, her shadow elongating into talons. “The grimoire… or watch his blood water these boards.”
My fingers twitched on the grimoire, the ancient leather warm as a heartbeat in my hands. The spell to rend power, I thought. To unmake every witch. Across the ground, Papa’s eyes fluttered open—bright, achingly alive. His gaze found mine, and for a fractured moment, the world thawed.
“Don’t,” he rasped, blood flecking his lips as he strained against the chains. “You know what she’ll become.” His voice softened, a cracked plea. “I know what you are, Sunshine. Who you are.”
My name in his mouth undid me. Days ago, it had been a beautiful song at my neck; now it was a dirge. I stumbledforward, the grimoire’s weight suddenly unbearable. “I can’t just—!”
“You can.” Papa’s smile was a blade. “You think I’d want eternity if it’s built on your ashes? On everyone’s?” His throat bobbed, the chains clinking as he lifted his head. “I loved you before I knew your face. Before time. Before reason. I’ll love you after the stars burn out. But not like this. Never like this. Please don’t trade our love for evil.”
The Wyrdmother’s snarl ripped through the moment. “Enough!” Her palm slammed down on the altar, veins bulging black beneath her parchment skin. “Choose, child—or I’ll peel his beating heart from his ribs and let you wear it as a pendant!”
My hand closed around the grimoire’s spine. I could feel its pulse now, ancient and hungry, pages whispering promises of desolation. Papa mouthed a silent no, tears cutting paths through the grime on his face.
Two futures split my soul:
A world drowned in the Wyrdmother’s shadow, every heartbeat mine to crush.
A pyre of my own making, grief carving me hollow.
Happiness, I thought wildly. The word tasted foreign. Weeks stolen between doubt—Papa’s laugh tangled with dawn light, his hands steadying me in the bakery when I picked up big cakes. His sweeping floors and refilling napkin holders. Simple things that were truly big things. Just the way he loved me. A lifetime’s worth of peace crammed into stolen hours.
“I love you,” Papa whispered, the words a sacrament. “Now end this.”
My fingers tightened. The Wyrdmother lunged.
And I understood with devastating clarity that some choices aren’t made—they’re endured, teeth gritted against the fracture.
Chapter 27
Aspen
For a single heartbeat, I was paralyzed—watching my mate bleed out on a slab, the Wyrdmother looming over him with her knife like some high priestess at the altar of my nightmares. Bonfire light danced over her blade. The flames flickered over the wood, the blood, the tangle of runes carved across Papa’s chest and arms. He didn’t even scream anymore, just watched me with eyes that said,“Don’t do it, Sunshine.”He knew what the Wyrdmother wanted, and he’d rather die than see me hand it over.
