Page 3

There are two things I’ve learned about Malcolm’s son, Wiley, in my time here. One, he’s worse than his father. And two, the only thing he likes more than tormenting witches is finding new ways to remind us we belong to him.

So when the housekeeper corners me in the kitchen and says, “You’re wanted upstairs,” my stomach drops like a lead weight.

I’m halfway to the staircase before I muster the courage to ask, “Upstairs where?”

She gives me a look that says I should know better than to ask. “His room.”

Of course. Because the universe can’t resist twisting the knife.

The hallway stretches ahead of me like a death march, and every creak of the floorboards under my boots feels louder than the last. I hate going to his room. Hate the way he looks at me like I’m some kind of toy he’s deciding whether to play with or smash to pieces. Malcolm may treat me like a tool, but at least there’s an air of detachment to his cruelty. His son? He enjoys it.

I make it to the door and raise my fist to knock when a sharp voice cuts through the quiet. “Jaslyn, change of plans.”

I whirl around to find one of the maids standing at the top of the stairs, her cheeks flushed and her hair frizzing out of its tight bun. “Malcolm wants you in the parlor,” she says, trying to catch her breath. “Now.”

Relief washes over me so fast, I have to lock my knees to keep from collapsing. I don’t ask questions. Questions get you punished, and I’m not in the mood to tempt fate. Instead, I duck past her and make my way down the stairs, letting out a shaky breath when I’m sure no one can hear it.

By the time I reach the parlor, whispers of gossip are already thick in the air. The other servants cluster by the door, their voices low and conspiratorial.

“Who do you think it is?”

“Some big shot. Rich, too, from the look of his clothes.”

“Malcolm’s practically drooling over him. You think he’s buying?”

“He wouldn’t be here if he wasn’t.”

The words make my stomach twist. Whoever this guest is, he’s important enough to make Malcolm sit up and pay attention, and that’s never a good thing. Wealthy visitors mean deals being made, and deals being made mean someone’s about to have their life sold out from under them.

I slip into the room quietly, keeping my head down and my shoulders hunched the way I’ve learned to. The less attention I draw, the better. But the second I step through the door, I can feel the change in the air. It’s heavier somehow, charged with something I recognize but can’t quite place. My magic stirs, faint and restless, like it senses something I don’t.

Malcolm is seated at the head of the room. His posture is unusually straight, and his hands are clasped together in what I’m sure he thinks is an air of authority. Beside him stands Wiley, and the smirk on his face is enough to make my skin crawl. The sight of him sets my nerves on edge all over again in a bitter reminder that I thought I was heading to his room just minutes ago. But his father must have intercepted him on his way, dragging him down here to play the dutiful heir.

It doesn’t make his presence any less unsettling. His gaze lingers on me, full of malice and barely hidden amusement, like he knows exactly how close I came to facing him alone.

But it’s the man sitting across from them that makes me pause.

I only catch a glimpse of him before I lower my gaze, but it’s enough to set my pulse racing. He’s dressed better than anyone I’ve ever seen set foot in this house—dark, expensive-looking clothes tailored to fit broad shoulders and a strong frame. A wide-brimmed hat hides most of his face, but I catch the edge of a sharp jawline and the faintest shadow of a blond beard. There’s something about the way he carries himself—relaxed but alert, like he’s sizing up everyone in the room—that makes the hair on the back of my neck stand up.

“Ah, here she is.” Malcolm’s voice pulls me back to reality, oily and full of false cheer. “Jaslyn, come here.”

I force myself to move, keeping my eyes fixed on the worn rug beneath my feet as I cross the room. Malcolm gestures for me to stand beside him. I obey without a word, though every instinct screams at me to run.

“This is one of my most capable witches,” Malcolm announces, his tone shifting into something I suppose he thinks sounds like pride. “Sharp, obedient, and quite powerful. She’s been in my service for years.”

Liar . The word rises unbidden in my mind, but I swallow it down. It doesn’t matter. No one here cares about the truth.

The man doesn’t respond right away. He leans back in his chair, crossing his legs at the ankle and tapping a gloved finger against his knee. When he finally speaks, his voice is low, smooth, and oddly familiar.

“How much?”

My breath catches, and I risk a glance at him through my lashes. There’s something about the way he’s sitting, the way his voice curls around the words, that tugs at a memory buried so deep, I almost can’t place it.

Malcolm chuckles, the sound grating on my nerves. “I’m afraid she’s not for sale. She’s far too valuable for that. But…” He pauses as his lips curl into a self-satisfied smile. “I thought you’d appreciate seeing what real quality looks like. Not every witch can handle the kind of control I’ve put on her.”

The man tilts his head, and I feel his gaze sweep over me. It’s not like Malcolm’s son’s. This is something else entirely—sharp, assessing, and just a little too intense.

“No price would sway you?” the man asks, and for a split second, something in his voice cracks the shell of familiarity wide open.

I know that voice. I know it.

I dare another glance, this time longer, and the moment our eyes meet—sapphire-blue beneath the shadow of his hat—my heart stops.

Gray.

Here. In this room. Sitting across from Malcolm as if the last ten years never happened. As if I haven’t been through hell and back because of him.

But it’s him. Those eyes, that same commanding presence, though there’s something more mature about him now. Harder. I force myself to look away before my expression gives me away, dropping my gaze back to the rug as if it’ll save me.

Malcolm’s laughter cuts through the air, thick with smugness. “Oh, I see you’ve taken an interest. She is quite something, isn’t she?”

Gray doesn’t respond, but the weight of his attention is suffocating. I can feel it, even with my head bowed. Malcolm, of course, doesn’t notice. He’s too busy preening, basking in the attention of someone he clearly thinks he can impress.

“She’s completely under my control,” Malcolm continues, leaning back in his chair with the kind of arrogance that makes my stomach churn. “A little unruly at first, but nothing a few lessons couldn’t fix. Isn’t that right, Jaslyn?”

I nod automatically, though the motion is stiff and robotic. Anything else would invite punishment.

Wiley snorts from his perch by the wall. “You’re giving her too much credit, Father. She’s only as good as the leash you keep her on.”

The room fills with uncomfortable chuckles, and my nails dig into my palms to keep from reacting. I’ve endured worse. I’ve endured him.

Gray’s voice breaks the tension when he asks, “Under your control, you say?”

Malcolm nods, beaming. “Absolutely. She wouldn’t dare harm me. Not with the binding spell in place. It’s remarkable what a little magic can do, isn’t it?”

I flinch at the word “binding,” though I don’t dare let anyone see. It’s true, of course. The spell is as much a shackle as the cuffs they lock me in when they feel particularly paranoid. My magic is theirs to dictate—how I use it, when I use it, and most importantly, how I don’t use it. Against them.

“Show him,” Malcolm orders me suddenly. “Give our guest a demonstration of what you can do.”

I freeze. My stomach churns violently as panic surges up my throat. Demonstrate? For Gray? My hands shake at my sides, and I clasp them together to hide it. The last time I “demonstrated” my magic for Gray, I lost everything—my home, my pack, and whatever shred of dignity I’d had left. And now Malcolm wants me to perform for the same man who put me out on the street and doesn’t even realize it.

“I—” The word comes out shaky, and I curse myself for it. “What do you want me to do?”

Malcolm waves a dismissive hand. “Something impressive. Don’t embarrass me.”

I nod again, swallowing hard as I step toward the center of the room. My magic stirs sluggishly under my skin, reluctant and unsteady. I try to focus, to push the memories away, but they crash over me all the same. The training grounds. The jeering faces. Gray’s cold, detached stare as he banished me.

I force the thoughts away and extend my hand, trying to pull the faint hum of energy from my core. A spark flares to life in my palm—weak and flickering, like a match struggling against the wind. I try to feed it, to shape it into something more, but the harder I push, the more erratic it becomes. It wavers, snapping and popping unpredictably, until it shoots out, completely out of my control.

The spark leaps from my hand, slamming into a shelf on the far side of the room. Glass jars rattle and crash to the floor, shattering into a glittering mess of shards and spilled powders. One jar explodes outright, sending a burst of smoke spiraling into the air. The force of it almost topples another shelf—one dangerously close to where the guest is sitting.

The man moves with inhuman precision, jerking to the side just enough to avoid the falling debris. It misses him by inches, but his hat slides off in the commotion, tumbling to the floor.

The silence that follows is deafening.

Malcolm’s face darkens, and his smile vanishes like a shadow at dawn. “Is this a joke?” he growls at me, rising from his chair. “I told you to impress him, not fumble around like a child!”

“I-I’m sorry,” I stammer, taking a step back. “It’s—”

“Excuses,” Malcolm growls. He crosses the room in three quick strides, raising his hand before I can register the motion. My body locks up, bracing for the blow, and time seems to slow.

But it never comes.

Gray leaps to his feet, and his hand shoots out, catching Malcolm’s wrist mid-swing. The movement is fluid, almost casual, but the force behind it is undeniable. Malcolm freezes, and his face twists in shock and indignation as he glances from his restrained arm to the man holding it.

“That’s enough,” Gray declares. His voice is calm, though an unmistakable edge cuts through the words. “You’ve made your point.”

Malcolm sputters, yanking his arm free with a forceful jerk and taking a hasty step back. His face shifts from surprise to anger, and his lips curl into a sneer. “This is my house, wolf,” he snarls. “You don’t get to tell me how to handle my property.”

Gray doesn’t flinch. His posture remains relaxed, almost bored, but something in his stance shifts ever so slightly—a dangerous stillness settling over him. The tension in the room ratchets up to an unbearable level, and my magic stirs uneasily beneath my skin, as though recognizing the dangerous situation we’re in.

Malcolm’s eyes narrow as he looks over Gray’s now exposed face. “Wait a second… you…”

It happens so fast, I almost miss it—the subtle stiffening of Malcolm’s shoulders, the widening of his eyes, and the sharp intake of breath. Recognition hits him, and his face flushes with a mixture of anger and alarm.

“You,” Malcolm hisses this time, pointing a trembling finger at Gray. “You’re that alpha. From the Red Arrow pack.”

I lift my line of sight ever so slightly, just enough to see Gray fully for the first time in a decade. There’s no mistaking him now. His golden hair is shorter than I remember, his features sharper, more weathered by time. But those piercing blue eyes? They’re exactly the same.

Gray.

The name crashes into me like a freight train, and suddenly, the room feels too small as the walls press in on me from every angle. My legs lock in place as everything I’ve tried to bury for the last ten years surges to the surface—memories, rage, and a bone-deep hurt I’ve carried since the day he banished me.

“I knew something was off,” Malcolm snarls, his voice shaking with a mix of fury and fear. “You lied your way in here, didn’t you? All this talk of money and deals—this was never about business, was it? You came for her.”

Gray doesn’t deny it. He doesn’t say a word as his eyes remain locked on Malcolm. The air around him feels electric, charged with barely restrained fury.

Malcolm’s lip curls as he recovers some of his bravado, his chest puffing out. “I should’ve known you’d try to pull something like this,” he spits. “But you’re wasting your time. She’s mine, Alpha. Bought and paid for. And I don’t care who you are—”

Gray cuts him off. “You care about money, don’t you, Malcolm? That’s what this is about to you. So name your price.”

The room falls silent, and the weight of Gray’s words hangs heavy in the air. Malcolm’s eyes flicker with greed, even as his pride wars with his practical side. But I can barely process any of it.

After all these years, it’s him. And he’s here. For me.