Page 37 of Curses and Casualties (Hunters Hollow #3)

Ryan

G eorgia looks up at me, eyes wide, water droplets clinging to her collarbone. For a moment I think she’ll send me back to my side. Then she shifts forward, making room.

“Get in before you freeze.”

The tub is barely big enough for both of us, but we make it work. She settles between my legs, her back against my chest, and I wrap my arms around her. The blessed water sloshes gently around us.

“This is nice,” she says after a moment.

“Mm.” I press a kiss to her wet hair. “Tell me about field work. Your happiest day. No magic, no monsters. Just you and the rocks.”

She giggles, the sound bubbling up easily. “You really want rocks?”

“Desperately.”

She leans her head back against my shoulder, the delicate line of her jaw bright with droplets.

“Once, sophomore year, my advisor took a handful of his best students to Australia so we could visit the Painted Hills. It’s this kaleidoscope of banded rock, millions of years of ancient soils stacked up like rainbow layer cake.

We were camping—actual tents, not fae-glamour hotels—and I woke up at dawn on the coldest morning of my life.

Which shocked me, because I always thought Australia was constantly hot.

But the mist was so thick it hurt to breathe.

But just before the sun rose, the colors started to bleed through, and it was like the bones of the whole planet were glowing.

For a second, I thought I’d hallucinated it. It was so beautiful I started to cry.”

I cup her cheek, careful of the way her wet hair sticks in whorls around her jaw. “You’re the only person I’ve ever met who gets emotional about rocks.”

“They’re not just rocks,” she says, mock-indignant, but she’s smiling now, the green in her eyes nearly eclipsed by the brightness of the silver. “They’re proof of time. Every layer a memory. A record of everything that ever happened, long after anyone remembers the names.”

The words hum against my collarbone, and for a second, I’m overwhelmed by the sense of how fleeting my own life is compared to the scale she loves. If this is the last day I’m with her, I want her to know I understand. That I see her, down to her moon-glow marrow.

“If we get out of this together, I want you to promise you’ll take me to see those hills.”

She tilts her head back, lips parted in surprise. “Promise. But only if you promise you’ll howl the loudest of any wolf at sunrise.”

“It’s a deal.” She turns in the tub, her legs tangling with mine. My hands settle at her waist.

“Why don’t you tell me something now? No magic. No wolves. Just good memories.”

I draw in a long breath, letting the steamy fragrant air settle in my chest. “I do have a story that involves a wolf. But it’s from when I was fifteen—no magic.”

“Go on then.”

“The local wildlife rescue put out this call for volunteers. Our town was damp and nothing-to-do, so Owen and I thought it would be at worst a few afternoons away from home, and at best, a place where girls might talk to us.”

Georgia grins, chin on my chest. “How’d that work out?”

I nuzzle her temple. “We ended up on cleanup crew. Not glamorous. We spent three weekends straight shoveling raccoon waste, scrubbing cages, and carrying crates of frozen pet food to the freezer. The girl who ran the register had a crush on Owen, so I did most of the work.”

She snorts softly. “Why does that not surprise me.”

“One day,” I go on, “they got a call about an orphaned wolf cub. We rode out with the rescue team—me, Owen, this grizzled old vet named Hal, and two volunteers for the reserve. Honestly, we were both scared shitless. There’s a huge difference between helping injured birds and facing a wild animal, even a baby.

” I smile at the memory, the way youthful bravado and real fear had mingled in the pit of my stomach.

“We find the den, and there she is, this little ball of fur, all ribs and hunger, eyes too big for her head. Hal tells us to be quiet and to avoid any sudden movements, but the second he turns away, Owen pokes his finger in the air like he’s commanding orchestra.

The cub launches herself right into my lap and pisses all over me. ”

Georgia lets out a snort loud enough to startle the orbs of light crowding the tent poles. “You were peed on by a wolf before you ever became one.”

“Destiny,” I say, and she laughs so hard she splashes water onto the tent floor.

“Did you keep her?” she asks when she can breathe again.

“For about two weeks,” I say. “She was sick, so we nursed her around the clock—bottle feeding, hand-warming her at night, all that. I wanted to keep her forever but the rescue said she needed to be wild. So we took her to a wolf sanctuary, watched her run for the tree line, never looked back.”

“Did you cry?”

“Maybe,” I admit. “But don’t tell Owen.”

“I’m telling everyone,” Georgia says, then pulls herself tighter into my chest, silent for a while except for the soft sound of her breath as she rests her cheek over my heart.

“Do you think he and Honey will be happy?” I ask suddenly, causing Georgia to lift her head up so she can meet my eyes.

“I think they’ll be disgustingly happy. Probably have a dozen kids and name them all after medical conditions.”

I smirk at that. “Little Bronchitis and Pneumonia running around.”

“Don’t forget twins Measles and Mumps.”

We dissolve into ridiculous name suggestions, each worse than the last, until we’re both laughing so hard the water threatens to overflow. It feels good. Normal. Like we’re just a couple taking a bath together, not preparing for a ritual that might kill us.

Eventually the laughter fades. Georgia shifts so she’s straddling me and we’re face to face. Her hands cup my jaw.

“Ryan...”

“I know,” I say softly. Because I do. I can feel everything she’s not saying through our bond. The fear. The love. The desperate hope that we’ll have thousands more moments like this.

She kisses me, slow and deep, like she’s trying to memorize the taste of me. I respond in kind, pouring everything I feel into the connection between us. When we finally break apart, we’re both a little breathless.

“We should probably bathe,” she says against my lips. “Or they’ll know we didn’t follow instructions.”

“Fuck their instructions,” I growl, but I reach for the soap anyway.

We wash each other with careful hands, memorizing skin and scars. The soap smells of lavender and something earthy—more blessed herbs, probably. Georgia traces the marks on my neck where Kane first entered me, her touch feather-light.

“Does this still hurt?” she asks quietly.

“Not anymore. Before our bond started to change me, it was like a burning from the inside out, always there.” I smooth soap along her shoulders. “What about your leg?”

“It hurts a little. Just a dull, constant ache,” she admits. “But it’s part of me now. Like Luna.”

I wash her hair, taking my time, massaging her scalp until she’s practically purring. She returns the favor, her nails scratching lightly, and I have to remind myself about the rules. No funny business. Save it for the ceremony.

By the time we’re clean, the water has cooled and the light filtering through the tent has taken on the golden quality of late afternoon. Soon. Too soon.

“Ready?” she asks, but neither of us moves.

“Georgia...” I start, then stop. What is there to say that our bond doesn’t already communicate?

“I know,” she echoes my earlier words. “Me too.”

We help each other out of the tub, using the soft towels that smell like they’ve been dried in sunshine.

The ceremonial robes hang on wooden stands—white silk for her, dark gray for me.

The fabric shimmers with delicate silver threadwork that seems to shift and move in the light, forming patterns of moons and wolves and intertwining vines.

“Very sacrificial chic,” Georgia mutters, but her hands shake as she ties the belt.

I catch her hands, stilling them. “You’re not a sacrifice. You’re my mate. My equal. My?—”

“Everything,” she finishes. “I know. You’re mine too.”

A shout from outside makes us both pause—someone calling coordinates for defensive positions.

We finish dressing and step outside to find the camp in organized preparation mode. Final weapons checks, last-minute spell weaving, the quiet efficiency of warriors getting ready.

Scarlett looks up from where she’s still sitting with Fenris, who’s now lifting his head slightly, strength returning. “You look good,” she says. “Very mystical.”

“Thanks. Keep Fenris safe,” Georgia tells her. “When this is all over, we’re going to help you figure this out.”

Scarlett’s jaw tightens. “Just worry about yourselves. We’ll be fine.”

Amara glides over, the other witches flanking her. “We need to move to the portal point. It’s a mile’s hike through rough terrain.”

“In these?” Georgia gestures at her silk robe.

“Would you prefer to change into your ceremonial attire in the middle of a battlefield?” Amara asks mildly.

“Point taken.”

We set off as a group, our strange procession winding through the forest. Georgia’s limp is more pronounced in the ceremonial sandals, but she waves off my offer to carry her. The sun sinks lower with each step, painting the sky in shades of amber and crimson.

“This is it,” Amara says when we reach a small clearing. “When the time is right, I can portal you into the cave system from here.”

“Which means this is goodbye,” Scarlett says, stepping forward. She’s already stripped down to the bare essentials—just enough clothing to maintain modesty before she shifts. “For now.”

Georgia pulls her into a fierce hug. “Don’t do anything stupidly heroic.”

“That’s rich, coming from you.” Scarlett’s voice is thick. “Just... complete the bond, okay? Make all this worth it.”

“We will,” I promise.

Erik approaches, already in his hybrid form. “The úlfhéenar are in position. We await your signal.”

“Remember,” I tell him. “Wait until you hear the first clashes from Scarlett’s team. Then come in hard from the north.”

He grins, all teeth. “We remember. Happy hunting, brother.”

Lucien sweeps into an elaborate bow. “Try not to die before you complete this ritual. I’ve grown rather fond of your dramatic little story.”

Jules gives Georgia a quick hug. “Trust the ritual—it will work.”

Ethan approaches last, his expression serious. “I’ll watch Scarlett’s back. Keep her from doing anything too heroic.”

“Good luck with that,” Georgia says, embracing him. “You stay safe too.”

Then they’re moving away, our friends and allies disappearing into the darkening forest. Scarlett shifts mid-stride, her wolf form powerful and deadly as she leads her team toward the compound.

Erik’s warriors melt northward. The fae simply vanish.

Soon it’s just us and the witches in the clearing, waiting.

“I feel like I should be with them,” Georgia whispers, pressing close to my side.

“I know.” I wrap an arm around her, feeling her tremble. “But this is our part. We have to trust them to do theirs.”

The first clash echoes across the valley—snarls and howls as Scarlett’s team engages. The pack’s response is immediate and vicious. Then comes the sound of magic meeting magic—crackling energy that makes the air taste of copper and ozone. The battle spreads like wildfire through the forest.

“Not yet,” Amara says when Georgia shifts restlessly. “Wait for the chaos to peak.”

We wait in tense silence, listening to our friends fight our battle. Each howl, each scream, each thunderous crash of power makes my wolf strain to join them. But we hold position, two figures in ceremonial robes while war rages around us.

“Now,” Amara says suddenly. “They’ve committed their forces. The cave will be as clear as it’s going to get.”

The portal shimmers to life, showing a glimpse of dark stone tunnels.

Georgia takes a deep breath, straightening her shoulders. “Together?”

I hold out my hand for her to take. “Let’s finish this.”

We step through the portal as one, leaving our allies behind and entering the place where we began, the darkness of the Soulcave.