Page 27 of The Howling (Monsters of the Yeavering #2)

I stare into the fire and drum my claws on the counter, making deep indentations in the polished oak. No doubt Bessie will make me pay for my destruction later.

I dislike immensely being separated from my Wynter. While she should be safe with the witch—I’ve known Bessie since I was a pup—I want to be by her side.

It makes my fur itch all over. It makes me want to shift form, simply to assuage the deep discomfort in the pit of my stomach. I have known this little creature for no time at all, but she is bound to me in ways which I wouldn’t have thought possible.

“Barghest!” A hiss outside has me turning on my heel and marching out into the gathering gloom of the evening.

Before he can get away, I have the healer, Harold, by his collar, and he swings in my grip, protesting.

“I only wanted to know how the human is,” he grumbles.

I put him on his feet but don’t let go of his clothing.

“She is well.”

“I have some medicine for her.” He fumbles in his robes. “I brewed it after treating her. I was going to bring it to you but…”

“I had a Wyrm visitation?” I nod. “You were wise to avoid the castle.”

His eyes dart from me to the shop and back again.

“Is she…your mate?” he asks.

“What do you think?”

“I think a mated Barghest will bring Chilburgh back to life,” he says with a smile and a nod at the dark shape of the castle on the hill behind the village.

“She is a human.” I look longingly at the shop. “I would die for her.”

The sentiment surprises me, but I keep it to myself. Killing a Barghest is not a simple task, but as the thought crystallises in my head, I know what I will need to do when the time comes.

“Then she is your mate,” Harold says quietly. “Here.” He presses a small blue bottle into my hand. “Make sure she takes three drops a day.”

I release him, and he scurries off, disappearing up a ginnel, relief following him like a cloud. I uncork the bottle and sniff at it, recoiling at the scent.

I doubt very much my Wynter will want to take this brew, not if it tastes as horrible as it smells. She liked my favourite sweet treat, so she is not going to like something this sour.

I make sure he has gone, and I empty the contents into a nearby plant pot before pacing past the window of the seamstress’s shop and back again. The pacing feels good, so I continue back and forth, emptying my mind of everything except my mate’s sweet face.

“You’re going to wear out the road.” Bessie’s voice breaks into my thoughts. “I’ll have to charge you for that.”

She has her hands on her hips, glaring at me. I let my lips ripple in response with a snarl which would send fear into anyone’s heart.

I am the Barghest.

“Where is my mate?”

Bessie sighs. “ Wynter ,” she says pointedly, “is preparing herself. I’ll send the other items on.”

I nod, attempting to see past Bessie to catch a glimpse of my mate.

“And”—Bessie moves to one side, entering my view and blocking that of her shop—“you need to tell your ancestors she will only marry you when she’s ready.”

“My ancestors have nothing to do with what or whom I mate,” I growl.

“Unless you’re in the habit of handing out wedding dresses, it was those you left behind, and their pushing will not break your curse, Barghest, not without her consent.”

I feel the snarl before I hear it.

“My mating is my business, and mine alone,” I say.

“No.” My sweet Wynter steps from behind Bessie.

She’s wearing a dress which is made from deep blue silk, setting off her beautiful hair and skin. The softness of the silk matches the softness of her.

“No?”

“It is my business too, Reavely.”

She is right.

Bessie glares at me, her gaze, as always, almost painful. Like the first pair of trousers I ever wore. This witch knows me more than I know myself.

I give my Wynter a deep bow. “Of course,” I say. “It is always the female’s choice as to whom she mates. If you have other suitors, I will gladly rip them limb from limb in a contest to the death.”

Wynter gasps. I’m relatively certain Bessie chokes back a laugh. Meddling witch.

“I don’t have any other suitors ,” Wynter chokes out, “but even if I did, I would not want anyone to be killed. ”

“Then how does a human mate prove himself to his female?” I query. “Without bloodshed?”

“This is your conversation now, Wynter,” Bessie says, a wicked smile playing over her lips. “I’ll leave you to it. And presumably you can return to Chilburgh by a more conventional route now you have clothing?” She eyes me as if she challenges me.

Which Wynter is also doing.

“Yes, that’s something I’d prefer, along with less limb removal.”

I feel myself wilt under her gaze.

“Yes, mistress,” I hear myself pant.

“And you will pay Bessie for her time and expertise too,” Wynter says.

“Yes, mistress.” I meet her eyes. “And what do I get in return?” I chance the question.

Wynter narrows her eyes. I’m sure I scent something about her which isn’t fear, and it isn’t disinterest.

“You get me to come back with you,” she says. “And not run away.”

My heart pounds, blood hot, my prick like iron in my pants.

“What if I’d like you to run?” I do my best to keep the rasp from my voice but I’m not sure I’m successful.

“Then I won’t run,” Wynter says defiantly.

I think my prick might have messed my trousers. My chest heaves with the effort of not sweeping her from her feet and taking her away instantly, the heat inside becoming molten rock and cooling once again.

“You always have a choice, little deer.” I shift from foot to foot uncomfortably. “To run or not to run, to stay or not to stay. Your every wish is my command.”