Page 41 of Fated to the Alpha Warrior (The Wolf’s Forbidden Mate #1)
For a moment, I hesitate. The memory of last night floods back: Kieran’s hands gentle on my skin, his voice rough with desire as he called me perfect, beautiful, his.
The way the bond sang between us, whole and complete at last. How it felt to have him within me, how right it was to be held in his arms as I drifted off to sleep…
His cold eyes this morning as I woke from dreaming of him. His casual dismissal. How easily he called me, us, a mistake. The way he’s rejected me not once but twice. He just had to make sure I knew I’m not good enough for him, mere hours after he came inside me.
Taking the knife, I slice my palm and let a few drops of blood fall into the bowl.
The symbols carved into its surface flare with a gentle white light, and power pulses through the room, making the dish rack rattle and the overhead lights flare.
I jump, whirling around, only for the magic to dissipate—and the wound on my hand heals faster than even my shifter healing can allow for, closing over almost instantly.
“It’s done,” Bonnie says with satisfaction. “Now for your bond. Stand over there.”
The witches position me in the center of their dining room floor, pushing chairs aside and sliding a sideboard over.
They draw an intricate pattern on the floor in chalk, dropping bundles of dried rose petals onto the floor.
Few words are spoken as they do it, although occasionally one of them will tell me to move here, look there, or ask me some random fact about myself, like the time I was born.
I tell them everything I know. Then, as they position themselves around me, each at a cardinal point—North, South, East, and West, with Bonnie the North—and face toward me, cupping crude beeswax candles in their hands.
“This is your last chance,” Bonnie warns.
“Once we start, we can’t stop until it’s done, not without risking your death.
And I’ll warn you only one more time: it’ll hurt like hell.
Breaking a mate bond is like tearing out part of your soul.
Changing the course of fate is no easy thing, girl, so expect excruciating pain. ”
I think of Kieran one final time. His smile, his touch, the ice blue of his eyes, how infuriating he can be—and how protective. The possessive warmth in his voice as he moved inside me, and the way he made me feel whole and complete, enough, for one brief, wonderful moment.
If he hadn’t done that, I never would’ve known how good it could be. Never would’ve felt the pain of missing something I’ve never had. Knowing that I’ll never be enough for him, that I’ll never feel the warmth of his arms around me again, it’s too much to bear, piece of my soul or not.
“Do it,” I tell them. “Break the bond.”
The witches all do something imperceptible that lights their candles.
Then they begin to chant in an ancient language I don’t recognize, the words flowing in one ear and out the other without my conscious mind being able to commit them to memory.
My skin crawls regardless, and power builds in the air around us, making my hair stand on end.
The chalk lines begin to glow with a white-hot, searing light, the same that filled the stone bowl only far more powerful.
That’s when the pain starts.
It feels like someone is reaching into my chest with a fireplace poker and trying to tear out my heart.
The feeling spreads like wildfire, to my chest and throat, all the way to my toes, which curl in pain.
I scream as the magic takes hold of me and shakes me like a ragdoll, attempting to sever what fate itself forced on me.
The bond fights back, pulsing with an agony that makes everything that came up until now seem like a mere mosquito bite.
White-hot fire races through my veins. My bones feel like they’re being crushed. My tendons writhe and my muscles spasm. The bond twists and howls inside me like a feral thing, refusing to be broken.
“Picture it ending,” Bonnie says calmly, her voice coming to me through a constant rain of agony. “Let go of the bond! Remember you want it to be gone!”
Through the pain, I can feel Kieran. His deep voice, the pine and cinnamon smell of him, how he looks when he combs his fingers through his hair—everything that makes him him, from his courage to his scorn, his gentleness to his hesitation.
And it’s all being slowly, agonizingly ripped away from me.
Some part of me digs my fingers in and tries to hold on.
I scream until my throat is raw, until I can’t tell if I’m still screaming or not.
Dark spots dance in my peripheral vision.
I can sense the witches more than hear them, can feel their magic washing over me as they keep the spell going.
The smell of ozone fills the air as their magic presses inward.
This is what I wanted, I remind myself as my vision begins to white out. I should let go of him. So that I can be free. So that I never feel the pain again.
I try to let go, like Bonnie said.
The pain won’t stop. I can’t handle any more of it.
The last thing I’m aware of is falling to my knees, gagging on my own screams, twisting and writhing as the ritual reaches its climax. Then everything goes black.