Page 29 of The Enemy to the Living (The Wild Hunt #2)

Quinn

I ’m floating on a cloud as I make my way to Mischief he’s big and broad, with the grey-ish tint to his skin that this type of fae seems to have in common.

“The twins want to see you,” he says. He folds up his newspaper and stands, then tucks it under his arm. “This way.”

I leave the room ahead of him, stomach twisting. I haven’t done anything to break our bargain. I haven’t told Asher or anyone else in the Hunt a damn thing about what’s going on here. I’ve been here for every fight they’ve requested.

He leads me back into the office from the other night, and when I set my eyes upon the spot where Bryn knelt, guilt and grief threaten to choke me. Bryn’s dead now. I swallow them down, then frown when I realise.

The room’s empty.

I whirl back around. The troll is standing in the doorway, newspaper still tucked under one arm.

“Are they…”

“No,” he says and pulls the door shut.

I hear the click of the lock and for a second, I stand there, frowning. He’s locked me in? Are they coming here?

Too late, it dawns on me what he’s just done. I try the door, but no matter how I pull or hurl myself against it, it stands strong.

Panic claws at my throat. I pull my phone out of my pocket, but I have no signal. The fire dances merrily in the hearth, and I yell and pound the door, but no one comes.

No one comes at all. I don’t hear the guests who must be in the pub by now or the sounds of fighting. I pace the room, hands curling into fists and then uncurling again.

It might have taken me a few minutes to work out that they trapped me in here, but I know what they’re doing. Fuck. They’ve played me for a fucking fool. I never should have made a bargain in the first place—just like with Bryn, they knew we’d end up here.

Time ticks by slowly as my despair only grows. I really thought I’d be done tonight. Especially after they called me in so early; I thought I’d go a few rounds, and my bargain would be done, and I could finally, finally explore things with Asher. Patch things up with Drew. Work out what to do next.

I sink into one of the chairs by the fire but barely feel the heat of it.

Drew and the others… They won’t know what happened to me.

If the twins drop me outside our pack house, will Asher tell them what he has to have guessed?

I swallow a sob and blink rapidly as I tip my head back to stare up at the dark ceiling.

I hope so. I know the Hunt are planning to move on this place soon.

I hope they do it before any other wolves get hurt.

I don’t jump when the door opens, hours and hours later. The pub closes just before sunrise every day, and the twins won’t have changed that just to toy with me.

Celyn crosses into view first. He lowers himself elegantly in the armchair opposite me and crosses one leg over the other. His nails—blood-red, like his hair—tap a tune against the wood of the armchair.

“You missed your fight, little wolf,” he says. None of the gleeful pleasure I’m expecting to hear is present in his tone. His voice is flat, even, like he’s just stating a fact. I suppose he is.

“You tricked me,” I reply.

“Oh, of course we did,” Sorrel says, and there’s the viciousness I’m expecting. He rounds Celyn’s chair, drapes his arms over the top of it, and rests his chin on his hands. “What else did you expect from the fae?”

“He didn’t,” Celyn replies. He leans forward in his seat. “None of you are prepared for what we can unleash on this world. Not one.”

“You wolves are supposed to be our greatest enemies. Our best match.” Sorrel snorts, dark eyes shining with malice. “We should have not expected anything from a wolf not in touch with his wolf at all.”

“You’re going to kill me.”

“Eventually,” Sorrel says with an artful shrug. “We don’t want to, you know. It’s not about that.”

“It isn’t?”

His little fangs flash in the firelight. “Of course not. If we wanted to kill you wolves, we could slaughter you pack by pack. You’ve no idea how to fight back.”

Celyn reaches up and pats his twin’s arm. “It’s not about that. We want your wolf .”

“You wanted Bryn’s, too.”

Sorrel and Celyn exchange a glance. Sorrel slinks around the side of Celyn’s chair and perches on the arm. “His wasn’t enough. There were a few before him, too. All those sad little lone wolves, with no one to look out for them.”

“Yours will be different,” Celyn says, easily picking up the thread. “You might have neglected your wolf, but he’s still part of a pack. Still has a mate. There’s magic in that, and that’s what we need. All that magic to punch through the veil.”

“Punch through—” I shake my head. “I don’t understand.”

“It’s better that you don’t,” Sorrel says. He moves closer, and when he tips my head up with claw-tipped fingers, I swallow hard but don’t resist.

I could fight them, but I already know they’d win. I don’t have magic. I don’t even have my wolf, for all I feel a sudden stirring in my chest. It’s too late. I can’t beat them both. It’s all too late.

“We’ll honour one final request, of course,” Celyn says, and Sorrel frowns briefly, just a downward twitch of his lips.

“What is it?” I ask.

“Where do you want us to leave you ? Outside your pack house or your mate’s house?”

“My—” For a brief moment, my heart stops. I know who he means. I can’t not know who he means. “You knew.”

“We’re fae ,” Sorrel says. “Of course we knew.”

Does it matter? Asher will be—he’ll be upset. Hurt. Drew, too, but maybe one of the others—

“I… I don’t know.”

“Our choice then,” Sorrel says, aiming a smirk over his shoulder, and before I can do anything—because that urge to fight is there now, suddenly rising as the fact I’m going to die truly dawns on me—he slams a hand against the centre of my chest and his magic surges inside.

It hurts. Pain gets its hooks in and pulls, and I feel the moment Sorrel’s magic wraps around my wolf and tries to tug him from my chest. No!

I fight it, hands digging into the arms of the chair I’m sitting in, and for a brief, glorious moment, claws erupt from the ends of my fingers, gouging through the smooth wood.

“No!” I cry, and Celyn pushes from his chair, expression fraught. More magic sinks into me, pulling at my wolf, who’s trying to cling to me, whimpering and snapping and clawing at what they wrap around him—

I don’t want this. I don’t want to be parted from him. I scream, and I promise that I’ll do whatever it takes to make things right—I’ll apologise to Drew and help my pack and, fuck, Asher’s my mate , but if keeping my wolf means never seeing him again, I’ll do that too—

With one final yelping howl, my wolf is torn from under my skin.

My eyes snap open. Like that night with Bryn, I see the silvery magic in the air, claws trying to reach for me, trying to keep us together.

Already pain is flooding every sense, the hollow feeling in my chest so much emptier and so much worse than I ever could have imagined.

“Hush now, little wolf,” Celyn murmurs. He moves his hands, dragging my wolf closer to him—and further from me.

I start to get up from the chair, but Sorrel pushes me back, a growl in his throat. “Get it away from him,” he snarls. “He is stronger than we thought.”

Not strong enough. Celyn pulls , and my wolf is dragged firmly out of my reach. My head swims, body listing to one side, and I manage one final, pained groan before everything goes black.