Chapter 2: The Witch’s Receipt

“What will she tell me?” Draven’s voice didn’t rise. It didn’t need to.

The temple doors were open behind us. Snow blew in. Lyra’s face went gray.

“The witch,” she stammered. “I mean, nothing. I meant—”

“Lyra,” Caiden hissed. Too late.

Draven let go of my elbow. He walked back into the temple. Slow. Every step was a countdown.

He stopped in front of Lyra. She was still by the throne. Still in silver. Still shaking.

“Speak,” he said.

“I misspoke,” Lyra said. Her voice trembled. “The branding. The pain. I’m not well.”

Draven tilted his head. He looked at Elder Moira. “High Priestess. Did the Hollow Pack make a deal with a witch?”

Elder Moira’s mouth opened. Closed. “Alpha Draven, I—”

“The brand,” Draven said, pointing at me without looking. “It’s not standard Unmated. It’s blocked. Something is carved under it. Witch runes.”

What?

I twisted to look at my shoulder. The cloak covered it. The brand still burned.

Caiden found his voice. “Uncle, you’re seeing things. There’s no—”

Draven moved again. He grabbed Elder Moira’s staff. Snapped it over his knee. The crystal shattered.

“Tell me,” he said, “or I start asking the pack. House by house. Starting with the Hollows.”

The Alpha King slammed his fist on the throne. “Enough! Draven, take your bride and go. The wedding is tonight at your fortress. We’ll discuss the law after.”

Draven looked at his brother. Something passed between them. Old and ugly.

Then he turned to me. “We’re leaving.”

He didn’t ask. He picked me up. One arm under my knees, one behind my back. The cloak stayed around me.

“Put me down,” I whispered. My voice was wrecked. “I walked.”

“You’re bleeding out,” he said. “And the brand is cursed. You have ten minutes before you seize.”

Cursed. Lyra said witch. Witch. Deal.

My head spun. “What deal?”

“Later,” he said.

He carried me through the doors into the snow. An armored convoy waited. Black vehicles. No crests. His personal guard. All of them looked like him. Scarred. Silent.

He put me in the back of the largest one. Laid me on the seat. He climbed in after and slammed the door.

“Drive,” he told the front.

The convoy moved.

Draven pulled a kit from under the seat. Medical. Military. He cut the cloak off my shoulder. The air hit the brand and I screamed.

Black lines pulsed under the burn. Not blood vessels. Symbols.

“Witch leash,” Draven said. He poured something clear on it. It smoked. I arched off the seat.

“Hold still,” he said. He put his hand on my sternum. Pinned me. “This will hurt more than the iron.”

“How is that possible,” I gasped.

“Because I’m cauterizing a curse, not skin.” He pulled a different blade. Smaller. Silver. “The witch who made this deal is tied to your life. You die, she gets power. You live branded, she controls you.”

“Who made the deal?” My teeth chattered.

He looked at me. “You tell me. Who benefits if the Goddess’s chosen consort is branded and rejected?”

Lyra. Caiden.

“The brand blocks the fated bond,” Draven went on. He set the silver blade tip against the edge of the burn. “That’s why Caiden could sever it. That’s why he didn’t feel pain. The bond was muted. Leashed.”

I grabbed his wrist. “Wait.”

He waited.

“If you cut it, what happens to the witch?”

“She feels it,” he said. “And she comes for who broke her contract.”

“Lyra,” I said. “She said ‘what if she tells him about the witch’. She made a deal.”

Draven’s eyes narrowed. “To do what?”

“I don’t know.” My head pounded. “I was nobody. Why curse me?”

“Not you,” he said. “The bloodline. The King said your bond would heal the bloodline curse. Someone doesn’t want it healed.”

The vehicle hit a bump. I cried out.

Draven set the blade down. “I can’t cut it here. You’ll go into shock. We need my healer.”

“How long do I have?”

“Till moonrise,” he said. “Then the leash tightens. You’ll either obey the witch or your heart stops.”

Moonrise was three hours away.

He looked out the window. Snow. Forest. “We won’t make the fortress in time.”

“Then what?”

“Then I break the curse another way.” He looked at me. “Blood bonds override witch leashes. But it has to be full. Not claim. Consummation.”

My stomach dropped. “You mean—”

“The wedding is tonight for a reason,” he said. “The King knows. He’s using you to force my hand. He needs the bloodline healed before the Summit. He needs me tied down.”

“Summit?”

“All packs meet in five days,” he said. “They’ll challenge the Duskbane line. They smell weakness. A prince who rejects the Goddess. A King with no heir. Unless the Butcher takes a mate and produces a secured bloodline.”

I laughed. It hurt. “So I’m a broodmare.”

“You’re a key,” he said. “And someone paid a witch to melt it.”

He pulled the cloak back over me. “You have a choice, Wren. Let me break the leash my way. Or die at moonrise and let Lyra win.”

Lyra. Who stood there in silver while I burned.

“Break it,” I said.

He nodded once. “Driver. Take the old pass. There’s a chapel.”

“Chapel?”

“Weddings need witnesses,” he said. “And sanctified ground hurts witches.”

The vehicle turned. The road got worse.

Twenty minutes later we stopped at a stone ruin in the woods. Snow covered half of it. Two of his guards got out. Walked the perimeter.

Draven opened the door. Cold hit me. He lifted me again.

Inside the chapel, the roof was gone. Moonlight came through. There was an altar. Cracked.

He set me on it. His guards stood at the broken doors. Witnesses.

He cut his palm again. Held it out. “Your turn. Blood on blood, or we wait for moonrise.”

I looked at my branded shoulder. Black lines crawled.

I bit my lip until it bled. Pressed my bleeding lip to his palm.

His blood was hot. Mine was copper.

The brand screamed. The witch lines lit up under my skin. I convulsed.

Draven grabbed my face. “Look at me. Not the pain. Me.”

I looked. Winter eyes. Scar on his throat.

“Mine,” he said. “Say it.”

“Yours,” I gasped.

The chapel shook. Not the stone. The air. Something shrieked far away, like a fox dying.

The black lines under my skin turned to ash. The brand stopped burning.

Draven exhaled. “Leash is broken.”

I sagged. “So we’re married?”

“By blood and Goddess, yes,” he said. “By law, not until I mark you.”

Mark. Bite. Full claim.

“Don’t,” I said. “Not yet.”

He studied me. “Why?”

“Because I want to walk into that Summit,” I said, and my voice was stronger, “and I want Lyra to see I’m not branded. Not leashed. Not dead.”

His mouth twitched. Not a smile. Close.

“Then we have five days,” he said. “In five days, you’ll either be strong enough to stand beside me, or you’ll be dead weight I cut loose.”

He lifted me off the altar.

One of his guards ran in. “Alpha. Rider from the capital. The Prince is gone.”

Draven stopped. “Gone where?”

“Took Lyra,” the guard said. “They’re heading for the witch’s marsh. The one north of Hollow Pack land.”

Draven looked at me. “What’s in the marsh?”

I remembered stories. Omegas were told to scare us. “The witch who eats names. She trades favors for firstborns.”

Draven’s jaw ticked. “Lyra made a deal for a firstborn?”

The guard nodded. “Rider says they promised the firstborn of the Goddess’s chosen consort. You.”

My blood went cold. “They sold my baby. Before I even—”

“They sold the bloodline cure,” Draven said. “If you bear an heir, the witch gets it. The curse continues.”

He looked at the doors. At the snow. At the path to the marsh.

“Change of plans, little wolf,” he said. “We’re going hunting.”