CHAPTER 4: Territorial Disputes

The forest didn’t want me here.

That wasn’t poetic personification. It was a tangible pressure against my skin, a static hum that grew louder with every step I took toward the northern ridge. The trees here were ancient, their roots twisting out of the ground like arthritic fingers, slick with moss and malice. They snagged my boots. They caught the hem of my coat.

I was twenty minutes into the hike, and I was already breathing hard. My lungs burned with the cold dampness of the air, and the makeshift bandage on my hand was throbbing in time with my heartbeat.

I felt hollowed out. Sibal’s drain earlier that morning had taken the cream off the top of my power, but the telekinesis back at the Pack House had scraped the bottom of the barrel. I was running on fumes, adrenaline, and spite. Mostly spite.

A twig snapped behind me.

I didn’t stop. I kept walking, forcing my legs to push through the knee-high ferns. "If you’re going to stalk me, Alpha, you could at least be quiet about it. You’re scaring the squirrels."

"There are no squirrels in this part of the woods," Guilermo’s voice came from my right, not behind me.

I faltered, my boot slipping on a wet rock. I threw a hand out to catch myself against a tree trunk, the rough bark biting into my palm.

He was there, leaning against a towering pine as if he’d been waiting for hours. He had shed his jacket, wearing only that tight dark henley that seemed entirely insufficient for the freezing temperature. He looked comfortable. He looked like he was standing in his living room while I was fighting a war against gravity.

"You walk loud," he observed, pushing off the tree to fall into step beside me. "For a species that prides itself on being secretive, you stomp like a wounded bear."

"I’m not built for hiking," I snapped, refusing to look at him. "I’m built for laboratories and paved streets. And I didn’t ask for an escort."

"You didn't ask for a lot of things," he said. "But you’re on my land. And you’re bleeding."

I instinctively curled my bandaged hand into a fist, hiding it in my sleeve. "It’s a scratch."

"It smells like glass and chemical burns," he countered. His nose twitched slightly. "And rage. You smell incredibly angry, Lilura."

"Stop smelling me."

"Stop giving me things to smell."

We walked in silence for a moment. well, he walked. I trudged. The terrain was getting steeper, the ground turning from mulch to jagged rock as we approached the ridge line where the main ward anchors were buried.

"Why didn't you tell me?" he asked suddenly.

"Tell you what?"

"That Ibbie pushed you."

I stopped then. I couldn't help it. I turned to look at him, breathless and incredulous. He stopped too, towering over me, his golden eyes unreadable in the gloom of the canopy.

"And say what?" I let out a harsh, dry laugh. " 'Teacher, she hit me'? I’m not a child, Guilermo. And unlike your pack, I don’t run to the Alpha every time I get a scraped knee."

"She destroyed your supplies," he said. It wasn't a question. He knew. "I saw the scorch mark on the fire pit. You burned the oil."

"I handled it," I said, turning back to the hill. "It’s done."

"It’s not done if you can’t fix the wards," he said, his voice hardening. He grabbed my arm—not roughly, but with enough force to stop me.

The contact was electric.

It wasn't the violent snap of static like in his office, but a low, vibrating hum that shot straight up my arm and settled in my chest. It felt heavy. It felt like standing next to a high-voltage transformer.

I looked down at his hand on my coat. His fingers were long, scarred, and warm. Disturbingly warm.

"Let go," I whispered.

He didn't. "Can you fix the anchors without the oil?"

"Yes."

"How?"

"That’s none of your business. It’s Coven magic."

"It becomes my business when it affects the wall keeping the monsters out of my backyard," he growled, stepping closer. "Don't play politics with me, Witch. Sibal sent you here with cheap materials and a bad attitude, and now you’ve lost your primary catalyst. So tell me—how are you going to seal a Class-A rift with nothing but chalk and bad intentions?"

I jerked my arm free, stepping back. My heart was hammering against my ribs, fueled by the proximity of him. He was too much. Too big, too loud, too present.

"I will use a substitute," I said, lifting my chin. "The Treaty requires the wards be sealed by sundown. They will be sealed."

"You hate us," he said. It was a statement of fact, devoid of emotion.

"I don't hate you," I corrected. "I hate the Treaty. I hate that my Coven uses me as a battery to keep you comfortable while you sit in your mansion and play feudal lord. I hate that I have to clean up your messes while your 'Luna-in-waiting' treats me like a biological hazard."

Guilermo studied me. The wind picked up, ruffling his dark hair, exposing the silver strands that caught the faint light.

"We don't sit in mansions," he said quietly. "We bleed for this border. Every night. While you stir cauldrons in your heated tower, my wolves are out here tearing throats out of things you only see in textbooks. We pay for this land in blood."

"So do we," I shot back. "Just because you can't see our scars doesn't mean we don't bleed."

He looked at me for a long moment, his gaze dropping to the bandage on my hand, then back to my eyes. The hostility in his posture softened, just a fraction, replaced by a calculating curiosity.

"Fine," he said. "Show me."

He gestured up the hill.

We reached the first anchor point ten minutes later. It was a massive slab of obsidian, half-buried in the earth, etched with glowing purple runes that were currently flickering like dying lightbulbs. The air around it tasted like tin.

I dropped my bag, my knees shaking. I was spent. The climb had taken the last of my physical energy. Now I had to give up my vital energy.

I knelt in the mud, pulling out the chalk and the silver knife.

Guilermo stood back, arms crossed, watching like a hawk. "Where’s the substitute?"

I ignored him. I began tracing the circle around the stone, my hand steady despite the exhaustion. The chalk dragged over the wet rock, leaving a stark white line.

"The anchor requires a binding agent," I murmured, more to myself than him. "Something to bridge the gap between the earth and the void. Usually, we use Aetheric Oil because it mimics the resonance of life."

"And without it?" Guilermo asked.

I picked up the knife.

I looked at the obsidian. The rift was widening. I could feel the cold draft from the Hollows seeping through, smelling of rot and ancient dust. If I didn't seal this now, something would crawl through tonight.

"Without it," I said, "you use the real thing."

I didn't hesitate. I couldn't afford to. If I thought about it, I would stop.

I sliced the blade across my left palm.

It wasn't a small cut. It was deep, precise, and agonizing.

"What are you doing?" Guilermo’s voice was a roar.

He lunged forward, but I slammed my bloody hand onto the obsidian stone before he could reach me.

"Vincire Sanguinem. "

The spell tore out of me.

It didn't feel like casting a charm. It felt like being hooked to a car battery. The stone drank my blood, and the runes flared with a blinding, violent amethyst light. The connection snapped into place—my life force acting as the mortar for the cracking wards.

A scream built in my throat, but I clamped my teeth shut, refusing to let it out. The pain was absolute. It felt like the stone was pulling the marrow from my bones.

"Lilura!"

Guilermo was there. He dropped to his knees in the mud beside me, his hands hovering over mine but not touching. He couldn't touch. If he broke the contact now, the feedback would kill me.

The smell of my blood hit the air.

I heard a growl rumble deep in his chest. It wasn't anger. It was hunger. It was instinct. A wolf smelling fresh, magical blood.

My vision grayed at the edges. The drain was too fast. I was already empty from Sibal. This was suicide.

"Stop it," Guilermo snarled, his eyes flashing fully gold, the pupil narrowing to a slit. "You’re killing yourself. Break the seal!"

"Can't," I gasped, sweat dripping down my nose to mix with the mud. "Almost… done."

The runes pulsed one last time, drinking deep, and then stabilized. The flickering stopped. The hum turned steady, low, and secure.

I yanked my hand back, gasping for air.

The world tilted. The gray sky spun into the dark trees, and the ground seemed to rush up to meet me.

I didn't hit the mud.

Guilermo caught me.

His arms were like iron bands, wrapping around my waist and shoulders, hauling me up against his chest. The heat of him was overwhelming. He smelled of rain and panic.

"You idiot," he hissed, his face inches from mine. "You reckless, stupid witch."

I tried to push him away, but my arms felt like wet noodles. My head lolled back against his shoulder.

"It’s fixed," I mumbled, my speech slurring. "Your fence is fixed, Alpha."

He looked down at my hand. The cut was deep, still welling with dark blood. His nostrils flared, his jaw clenching so hard a muscle ticked in his cheek. He was fighting his wolf. I could feel the tension vibrating through his body. The urge to bite, to claim, to react to the scent of prey.

But he didn't.

Instead, he ripped the hem of his expensive henley, tearing a strip of fabric with a savage jerk. He wrapped it around my hand, winding it tight, covering the scent, stemming the flow.

"You used your own life force," he said, his voice low and dangerous. "Why?"

"Because," I whispered, fighting to keep my eyes open. "I pay my debts."

He froze. He stared at me, his expression shifting from anger to something else. Something confused and profoundly unsettled. He looked at me not as a nuisance, but as a puzzle he couldn't solve.

"You could have asked for help," he said.

"Wolves don't help witches," I recited the old adage, my eyes fluttering shut. "We just… clean up the mess."

"Open your eyes," he commanded, shaking me slightly. "Lilura. Look at me."

I forced my lids open. His face was blurry, but those eyes burned like beacons.

"We have two more anchors," he said. "You’re not doing that again."

"Have to," I breathed. "Contract."

"Fuck the contract," he growled.

He shifted his grip, and before I could protest, he scooped me up into his arms, bridal style. I let out a small yelp, instinctively grabbing his shoulders.

"Put me down," I protested weakly. "I can walk."

"You can barely stand," he corrected. "And we’re not going to the next anchor. We’re going back to the cabin."

"But the wards…"

"The other two can wait until morning," he said, turning and starting back down the hill. He carried me effortlessly, as if I weighed nothing more than a bag of feathers. "If you die on my territory, the paperwork will be a nightmare."

I rested my head against his chest. I was too tired to argue. The rhythm of his heart was steady, powerful, thumping against my ear like a war drum. It was annoying. It was comforting.

"You’re warm," I murmured, the darkness finally pulling me under.

"And you’re freezing," he replied, his voice gruff. He pulled me tighter against him, shielding me from the wind with his own body.

As I drifted off, suspended between the cold air and his burning heat.

I feel safe.