Archie pats my shoe with his tiny paw. “As long as you don’t bite her, I’m sure you’ll be just fine. Try not to worry.”
I groan. “This is going to be awful, isn’t it?”
Cade’s mouth twitches. “I’ll be right by your side. Arm and all.”
I blink. Hard. “Did…did you just make a joke?”
His expression remains stoic, but his eyes betray him with a glint of wicked amusement. “You’ll never prove it.”
“Oh gods,” I whisper dramatically. “Cade Westin has humor. The sky is falling. The packs are doomed. Someone alert the council.”
A low rumble of laughter rolls out of him, warm and quiet and aimed entirely at me. It hits me somewhere deep—somewhere still bruised but healing.
And somehow, that makes it a little easier to breathe.
Cade offers me his arm—which I promptly callthe sacrificial limb—as we head downstairs, and I try not to visibly drag my heels. The manor is quiet in that eerie NightShade way, where every creak sounds like a ghost with opinions. I keep waiting for it to come to life like The Keep, but the walls never talk to me here. A fact I should be grateful for, but I guess maybe I did get a little Stockholm-y.
Archie perches on my shoulder like a furry guardian angel who absolutelywilljudge me if I scream.
We reach the sitting room, and the witch is already there.
She’s older—maybe late sixties—with iron-gray hair twisted into a bun. Deep lines frame her mouth. Though not likely from smiling, but from decades of disapproving of everyone’s life choices based on the way she blankly stares at me now. She wears layered shawls, mismatched rings, and an expression that suggests she was promised a simple job and is now regretting answering her own phone.
Her gaze flicks to me, sweeping slowly from head to toe, then shifts to Cade.
“Is she your wolf who needs branding?” she asks flatly.
“That would be me,” I answer, even though she wasn’t talking to me.
She sighs like I just told her I was here to return an item without a receipt. “Of course.” Her once-over is all judgment and zero kindness. “Try not to scream too loud. I’ll make it worse.”
Who is this woman, and why on earth would Cade select her for this job?
I might have wanted to run for the hills earlier, but now, I’m requesting a rocket to the moon, please.
Cade bristles. “She won’t scream.”
“Right,” the witch says, completely unimpressed, then mutters, “Foolish alpha.”
Before I can snap back, Iris comes breezing into the room like a chaotic lavender-scented storm with Liz trailing behind her.
“There you are!” Iris announces a little too loudly,looking at me before the rest of the room. Her gaze drops to the witch’s supplies. “Are you getting your shifter mark?”
“Unfortunately,” I mutter.
Iris’s lips thin, and she glares back at Liz. “I wish someone would have told me. I would have asked Jacob to help.”
I glance at Liz, wondering who Jacob is, but she just shrugs like she has no idea.
“Who’s Jacob?” I ask, not really because I feel like we need to know, but she’s been so off lately, I’m worried about her sanity.
She waves a hand like it’s obvious. “My warlock friend. He stayed here months ago. Lovely man, but terrible fashion sense.”
That at least sounds like the normal Iris.
“Right. Well, next time,” I promise her, which seems to ease the growing tension in the room.
“Are we here to waste my time, or can we get started now?” the witch demands with a curl of her upper lip.
