Gareth, newly shifted and powerfully built, took a steady step out of the shadows. The pure, intoxicating scent of crushed lavender and ozone pulled him forward, overriding every instinct that told him to maintain distance from a powerful, unknown entity.
The woman flinched, not in fear of his stance, but clearly due to his nudity. She quickly averted her face, her hood shadowing her features as she backed up two steps, pressing herself against the rough bark of an ancient oak.
“Stay where you are, wolf,” she commanded, her voice surprisingly soft but laced with an unmistakable undercurrent of magic that made the air vibrate. “You are the intruder here, the unwanted guest. You do not demand a name from me when you stand uninvited, and certainly not when you stand… unburdened by cloth.”
Gareth stopped instantly, chastened less by her words and more by the innate, sharp authority in her tone. He hadn't considered the awkwardness of his abrupt shift. His wolf had been too focused on claiming to worry about human modesty.
A low growl rumbled deep in his chest—a warning to himself as much as to her. "My apologies. It was necessary to speak quickly." He needed to move this interaction away from confrontation. "I will remedy the clothing."
He closed his eyes for a second, focusing his concentration inward, pushing his voice out across the Pack's private, encrypted mind-link network. To Commander Torunn: Beta reporting. Coordinates 45-A. Send immediately one set of standard patrol gear. Urgent.
It would take Fenris’s fastest runner ten minutes, maybe less.
Gareth opened his eyes, his gaze fixed on her averted face. "I am Gareth. Beta of the Nightshade Pack, King Kian's right hand, and the chief of security for these mountains. My presence here is a sanctioned military operation." He waited, letting the authority of his titles sink in. "Now, you are on protected territory. Who are you, and what are you weaving into the earth here?"
She lowered her hood slowly, finally granting him a view of her face. The moonlight illuminated skin as pale as marble, framed by a cascade of hair the color of liquid silver. Her eyes, the emerald green he had glimpsed moments earlier, were large and seemed to hold the cold, deep luminescence of starlight. Her beauty was shocking—not merely attractive, but transcendent, like a piece of art shaped by the elements themselves. Gareth felt his breath hitch, the discipline that ruled his life dissolving into a desperate, primal urge to kneel before her.
Gareth didn't wait for her to speak again, his gaze still holding hers, desperately trying to analyze the magic that shimmered around her like a heat haze. White Witch. The name resonated with forgotten power and unimaginable rarity. His wolf was demanding, Mate! Claim! but his Beta mind was screaming, Danger! Political Firestorm!
"My name is Myra," she finally said, her voice softer now, yet resonating with ancient pride. "And I am a White Witch. The last of my kind."
"The scent of ozone, the ancient tongue you used... they fit the legends," Gareth said, his voice dropping low, challenging her. "But the White Witches vanished four hundred years ago, consumed by the Darkness they spent their lives fighting. They left nothing but dust and myths. You claim to be the last survivor? That is a bold, perhaps suicidal, declaration."
Myra met his skepticism with a steady, sad look. "The Darkness rarely finishes a job completely, only cripples it. My line went deep underground, into the roots of this mountain range, using the ancient convergence points—like the one right here—to shield and sustain the magic needed to maintain the Great Boundary. I was reinforcing the territorial wards—the ones that keep both your kind and mine safe from the creatures of the Ironwood, the rogues you seek. It is a gift, Beta Gareth, not an invasion. If these wards fail, your people fall first. You must understand, my ritual was not a threat; it was maintenance."
Gareth nodded slowly, understanding the gravity of her work, even if he didn't fully trust her. The air was thick with tension and the confusing pull of the bond.
Suddenly, a massive, swift, gray-furred wolf bounded silently into the clearing. It dropped the bundle of clothes near the trees and immediately retreated to the edge of the clearing, respecting the space between them.
Gareth broke the gaze and quickly grabbed the gear. He slipped the trousers on, then the tactical shirt, restoring his modesty and, thankfully, some measure of his human composure. The fabric acted like a cold dam against the flood of his instincts, allowing logic to return.
He turned back, now fully clothed, looking every inch the powerful Beta he was. "Thank you, Fenris," he muttered through the link, then focused entirely on Myra. "Myra. The wards may be a gift, but the bond is fate. And fate, witch, is non-negotiable." He closed the remaining distance between them, stopping just beyond her reach, the force of his conviction radiating off him. He reached out and gently touched a strand of her silver hair—the softest thing he had ever felt. "I have served my King, protected my Pack, and enforced order my entire life. I have never felt anything like this. This isn't just lust, or even just instinct. It is the missing half of my soul, and it is you."
The hunger in his eyes was naked, undeniable.
"You are my mate, Myra. I will not ignore what is mine."
The intensity in his eyes was met, momentarily, by a flicker of the same recognition in hers—a raw, instinctual yearning that mirrored his own. But it was quickly replaced by a profound, chilling sorrow that tore at his heart like jagged glass.
"No, we can't be," she whispered, her emerald eyes filling with tears she wouldn't let fall. "This bond must be ignored. If the outside world knew you were mated to the last White Witch... it would be a death sentence. It will be a threat to your life also."