He’d watched Layla stand by Dominic’s side in The Anchor, hand resting over the swell of her stomach, laughter bright and sharp as she baited the Volkhov Alpha into smiles he hadn’t worn in years. He’d watched her tend the archives, argue in council, stitch together frayed tempers with a well-placed barb or a quiet word. He’d watched her brave a pack that had once spat on her name.
He’d liked her.
More than that, he trusted anyone who could make Dominic laugh like that. Anyone who could soften the edges of that hard, scarred male and still be entirely herself.
He also knew what some of Dominic’s wolves whispered when they thought no one could hear.
She was a witch.
A curse.
A poison.
He’d heard the words. He’d chosen not to believe them. Or, more accurately, he’d chosen to pretend they didn’t matter.
“Arthur,” Chase pressed, “you can’t ignore it forever. Not if—”
“I said leave it.”
Chase’s eyes flashed. “Fine. Then I’ll talk. You can cover your ears if you want.”
Arthur gave him a flat look. Chase pressed on anyway.
“She was there at Voskresen,” he said, “when the tunnel came down…we all saw it.”
“They were newly mated,” Arthur argued. “It was a blessing from Lunarion, nothing more.”
Chase grimaced, swallowing down his frustration. “But it’s not just that. She’s at the heart of it. Plotting with Julian. Disappearing and coming back with answers nobody could have discovered normally.Predictingthings.”
Arthur said nothing. His heart beat a little too fast.
“You like her,” Chase said, softer now, “I know you do. But even you have to see that something isn’t…normal about her.”
Normal.
Nothing in Skymist had been normal in years.
Arthur rubbed a hand over his beard. In the Nordan pack, they didn’t talk about witches lightly. They told stories instead, of blood on snow, of wolves screaming as their bones twisted, of packs brought low by a handful of women who’d gone half-mad with power. The old grudge ran deep. Deeper than his father. Deeper than his father’s father.
He’d grown up on those stories.
And yet Layla Hawthorne had never quite fit the monsters of his childhood. Too human. Too stubborn. Too fiercely protective of the very people who whispered against her.
He’d made a choice, back when Dominic first started acting strangely around her. When the scent of the bond had started creeping into the alpha’s shadow. He’d stood in Dominic’s study and told him, plain as anything, to mate her. To take the power Lunarion was offering and use it to strengthen his pack.
At the time, her being a witch had been nothing more than an idle rumor, a cruel taunt meant to drag her down.
Now?
“The rumors are getting more persistent,” Chase said quietly, “even some of ours are talking. She never shifted. And what happened at Voskresen…”
“If it’s true,” Arthur cut in, “then he has made his choice. And I’ll deal with the consequences as Alpha of the Nordan, not as some gossipy old crone chasing shadows.”
Chase shifted on his feet. “Arthur, this isn’t going away.”
Arthur opened his mouth to snap back when he caught a familiar scent on the wind: smoke, pine, and the faintest thread of Volkhov.
He turned.
