Chapter Eight

Rita

The air in the hidden wing of the library was thick with the scent of aged parchment and something deeper—magic, old and restless. Rita trailed her fingers along the spines of the grimoires, each one humming under her touch like a sleeping beast.

"This one," Derek murmured, pulling a heavy tome bound in cracked leather. "It’s been calling to you since we walked in."

Rita took it, the moment her skin met the cover, a shudder ran through her.

Voices.

Laughter, sobbing, whispered incantations—echoes of every witch who had ever held this book. She gasped, nearly dropping it.

"You can hear them?" Derek’s voice was sharp, his gaze suddenly intent.

Rita blinked. "Yeah… Pru taught me how to read objects. I didn’t know it would work on books."

Derek stared at her for a beat too long before shaking his head. "I just didn’t realize you could do that."

"You barely know me," Rita countered, uneasy under his scrutiny.

"Touché." He smirked, but his eyes stayed calculating.

They spent hours pouring over the texts, Derek pointing out passages on ancestral magic, lost spells, bonds that could amplify power. Rita was engrossed—until a strange warmth prickled up her spine.

The same heat she’d felt when Nathan touched her.

She brushed it off.

 

Nathan

Nathan hadn’t meant to follow her.

At least, that’s what he told himself.

But her scent—storm-kissed and sweet—had hooked into him like a leash, dragging him through the stacks until he stood outside the library’s hidden wing. A place he, as a werewolf, couldn’t enter.

Wards.

He growled low in his throat. She was in there. With Derek. (He’d finally remembered the bastard’s name.)

What were they doing?

Forcing himself to move, he snatched a random book off the nearest shelf and slumped at a table, pretending to read while his wolf paced under his skin.

Hours. He waited hours.

Then—voices.

"—act natural," Derek was saying as they emerged. "Don’t make it obvious we were back there."

Rita’s steps faltered when she spotted Nathan. "Hey."

The tension in his shoulders unraveled just seeing her. "Hey."

Before he could stop himself, he blurted, "Can I walk you to dinner?"

She smiled, waving Derek off. "Sure."

 

Nathan’s mind raced for something—anything—to say that didn’t sound like "Why were you alone with that witch?"

"How was your weekend?" he managed.

Rita lit up, telling him about her grandmother’s farm, the biltong they’d made, the stories of her ancestors. Nathan listened, committing every detail to memory.

"I had no idea a witch lived there," he admitted. "That land’s been quiet for years."

"Gogo likes it that way," Rita laughed.

Too soon, they reached the dining hall. Nathan’s pack roared his name from their usual table, while Rita’s friends—Pru, Freda, and Deidre—watched with varying degrees of amusement.

"I’ll see you tomorrow?" Rita said, lingering.

Nathan nodded, his throat tight. "Yeah. Tomorrow."

He forced himself to walk away, even as his wolf howled to stay.