Total pages in book: 115
Estimated words: 112500 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 563(@200wpm)___ 450(@250wpm)___ 375(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 112500 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 563(@200wpm)___ 450(@250wpm)___ 375(@300wpm)
“No.” Ditch waved her off. “Now why are you here?”
Meera pursed her lips. “We’ve completed the audit of our food stores. It’s…dire. Conjuring can’t produce enough food to replace what the process demands. We must have supplemental sources.”
“Your binder also indicated that Umber grows food. You have my leave to contract with them.” And bother me no more. Her mind drifted—straight to Thane. What would his next move be? Why had he respected her boundaries so perfectly this week? Not a scroll. Not a message. Nothing.
What’s he plotting? And why do I keep replaying our night together? Why do I sleep curled up with his coat?
Meera lingered, saying, “Conjuring gold to pay for food creates a similar problem for us. Conjurers will expend more calories than we can buy.”
“Suggestions?”
“Uh, I’m working on it.”
“Then my suggestion: next time, come to me with fewer problems and more solutions.”
Meera flinched at her tone. “Yes. Of course. I’ll return as soon as possible.”
“There is something else,” Ditch said. “You must have heard that fate has selected me to be King Thane’s mate.”
Meera shuffled in her flats. “I had heard, yes.”
“He was caged on Mount Nothrior for the last moon. That won’t work this time.”
“Why not?”
“Because another party has booked that popular venue. I plan to send Craigdúr containment spells for the cages of Straegan and Thane. I’ll add a little beast dampener for Thane.” Wouldn’t do any good for Straegan. She had no spell to put that beast back in the barn.
“We can’t underestimate the strength their ancient ages will bring them. Those spells would need more fuel than we have on tap. We’re nearly drained.”
“After your news about our food, I figured. So I will be fueling them.”
Meera blinked. “You’d pit your personal reserves against two male Lykae in their prime—remotely?” Her analytical mind was clearly working out all the angles. “I’ve read accounts of wolves too strong for even a pack to subdue. I believe Thane might be one, especially if he’s never claimed you. He has the age, and his beast will be rabid to mark you with its fangs.”
Titillating. Would the creature mind if Ditch bit back?
She’d seen glimpses of Thane’s beast and thought it could handle every demonic inch of herself. A match made in hells…
But when given a stark choice, Thane had chosen his pack over her. Her claws rapped the desk, puncturing little crescent moons into the wood. “You don’t think your high priestess can handle two pups?” She sniffed with an aggrieved tone, and her tail drooped dramatically. “I’m more than a pretty face, Molly.”
“If you faltered or if the spell wasn’t perfection, you’d be compromised. He might still escape, and then you’d have no recourse.”
Except for my traps. And my innate defenses. Her tail perked up, all but a salute for active duty. “Then I’d better not falter. Prepare two spells. Once I put my blood signature on them, we’ll courier them to Thane. No rush. I want to keep him in suspense. Now why are you still here?”
The witch all but darted from the room, making Ditch roll her eyes.
Remembering to make an effort at kindness, she called after Meera, “You still look tired.”
***
Meera
She took the long way home to her toadstool. The waning moon lit the narrow path, coaxing night creatures to frolic in the shadows.
She both craved and dreaded Lowell’s visit tonight after a week apart. She could already picture his handsome face brightening at the sight of her—only to shutter when she confronted him about hiding the identity of Thane’s mate. Meera had waited days to tell him off!
Unless…the king had kept it secret even from him?
Pitiful Meera. Grasping at straws.
She still reeled over Thane’s fated connection to Ditch. Unlike Rosewyn, Meera didn’t believe their leader would ever surrender to the king.
More likely, Ditch had simply changed the rules of combat. Meera could practically hear the demon-witch saying dryly, Yes, young witch, I call it fuck-fighting. We body each other, and orgasms are the spoils.
Meera sighed and tugged at the waistband of her skirt as she walked. The top button pinched. Her sensible flats pinched. Everything pinched. She wanted nothing more than to curl up with Nettle, finish their leftover pie, and order a larger wardrobe from Umber.
But she needed to conserve rations. And solve the coven’s food crisis. And figure out how witches could earn gold without selling their souls—or their dignity. Once, witches had been proud mercenaries. Today’s Skein witches acted scandalized by the idea.
She neared her beloved toadstool at last and fished out her key…but the door opened before she touched the lock.
Lowell.
“How did you get in here?”
Damn him—his face did light up at the sight of her. “Your witchly lock surrendered to my wolven claw. Endless metaphors there.”
Meera wasn’t having it. “Don’t ever break into my home again.” She kicked off her flats and mutinously unfastened that cursed waistband button.