Chapter Nine

Rita

Two weeks of secret library sessions had sharpened Rita’s instincts—both magical and otherwise.

Tonight, Derek’s questions had taken a strange turn.

"Ancestral magic is fascinating," he mused, flipping a page in a crumbling grimoire. "But imagine if you could channel the power of a living witch. Borrow their strength, amplify your own..."

Rita’s fingers stilled on the book she was holding. "That sounds like blood magic."

Derek waved a dismissive hand. "Not necessarily. There are other ways to form bonds between witches. Covens do it all the time."

"Covens share power," Rita countered, careful to keep her voice neutral. "They don’t take it."

Derek’s smile didn’t reach his eyes. "Semantics."

A chill skittered down Rita’s spine. Freda’s warning echoed in her mind: "Male witches want power."

"I should head out," she said abruptly, snapping the book shut. "It’s getting late."

Derek didn’t try to stop her.

 

The library’s main hall was eerily quiet. No Nathan at his usual table. No broad-shouldered shadow waiting to walk her to dinner.

Rita frowned, checking her phone out of habit—then huffed. Right. No number.

The dining hall was half-empty, the werewolf tables conspicuously vacant.

"Where are all the—?"

"Full moon," Freda said around a mouthful of bread. "They’re all in the woods behind campus. Turning, running, doing wolfy stuff."

"Oh." Rita poked at her food, trying to ignore the twinge of disappointment. She'd become so used to Nathan's nightly presence.

Later, curled in bed, the distant howls sent a shiver through her. She pictured Nathan—his wolf form sleek and powerful, his paws pounding the earth.

What does he look like?

Her dreams answered.

 

A black wolf, massive and dark as midnight, stood in the salt circle of her dream. It shouldn’t have been able to cross the line of salt—but it did, nuzzling her hip with a warmth that felt familiar.

Rita woke with a gasp.

A whimper.

Outside her window, the same wolf sat on the soccer pitch, golden eyes fixed on her.

This is a terrible idea, she thought—and then she was pulling on sweats, sneaking downstairs, stepping into the cool night air.

The wolf stood as she approached, the top of its head almost level with hers. Up close, it was magnificent—thick fur, powerful shoulders, a presence that hummed with restrained energy.

"Nathan?" she whispered.

The wolf nosed her hand, pressing into her touch as she scratched behind his ears.

"You’re beautiful," she murmured, marveling at the heat of him, the way his breath fogged in the air.

For a few stolen minutes, they stayed like that—witch and wolf under the moon.

"I have to go back," she finally said, reluctant.

The wolf whined but nodded, watching as she retreated to her window.

She expected him to leave.

He didn’t.

He lay down on the pitch, a dark sentinel, and Rita fell asleep to the sound of his steady breaths.

 

Nathan

Nathan woke naked on the soccer field, the rising sun painting the grass gold.

"Ah, shit."

He never strayed this close to campus after a run. The pack had stashed clothes in the woods for this exact reason.

But then—memory.

His wolf, single-minded and relentless, had refused to leave last night. Not until it saw her. Not until it touched her.

Nathan scrubbed a hand over his face.

"Of course you did," he muttered.

He bolted for the dorms, showered in record time, and grabbed his phone.

One call. That’s all he needed.

His alpha answered on the first ring.

"Nathan." His father’s voice was calm. Too calm. "We need to talk."