Page 11 of Undesired Mate

11

LEVI

Clara’s soft laughter comes as a surprise. I thought she would be nervous about visiting her mother’s cabin again, but then she has swung from one emotion to another ever since we decided to come straight to the cabin rather than wait until morning. I understand her wanting to rush. The sooner the curse is lifted, the better her life will be. She’s tired of living the way she does.

My wolf wants that, too. The sooner she is able to shift and live as one of us, the sooner we can complete the bond. Nothing matters more.

When I give her a curious look, she shrugs before laughing again. “Sorry. It’s just… I never thought I would feel happy coming here. I never, ever imagined it.”

“We never have to come back here again after tonight.” The joy that washes over her face gives my wolf a measure of peace—at least for a minute, before his intense urging starts again. Soon. Soon. None of my reassurances seem to have any effect.

Once I finish putting on the clothes from the bag Clara wore across her chest while riding my back, we finish our short walk through the darkness. Even after taking so much of my adrenaline out on her, I’m still buzzing in the aftermath of the kill. It was, without a doubt, the most satisfying of my life. Everything looks sharper, brighter, clearer. The firelight glowing behind the cabin windows appears warm and welcoming, like a haven in the darkness.

Something tells me it’s anything but. I need to calm myself.

There’s no need to knock this time. We haven’t set foot on the steps leading up to the porch before the door swings open. Persephone’s tall, slender form is backlit by the fire in the hearth. She casts a long shadow over us. “Well? What brings you here now?” she demands, glaring at her daughter.

Her daughter whose hand I’m holding firmly. I will not allow her to hurt Clara, now or ever again. “It’s done,” I announce. “What you requested. The wolf who fathered Clara is dead.”

What sort of reaction did I expect? Happy tears? Profuse thanks? At first, the most I get is silence. With her face cast in deep shadow, even my heightened eyesight can’t make out her expression. What is she thinking?

“He’s dead. He’s finally dead. He paid for what he did.” Clara’s voice trembles, but it’s excitement I hear. Relief. She’s almost laughing, barely keeping herself in check. I had no idea she would be this relieved—I expected happiness, but not for her to almost bubble over with it.

“This seems too sudden.” Suspicion drips from Persephone’s voice. “Do you know it was the correct shifter? You didn’t make a mistake?” There’s an intensity that’s almost tangible. I can feel it in the air, can almost taste it.

“It was him,” I assure her. When it’s clear she’s not convinced, I have to swallow back irritation. Like this was my first kill. “I used his name. I referenced what he and his friends did to you. He didn’t bother pretending I had the wrong wolf—how could he, when he was so busy insisting he wasn’t the only one who hurt you? He accused you of trespassing in their territory.”

When her head snaps back, light washes over her face. Her lips pull back from her teeth in an ugly snarl. “And that’s a good excuse? You accepted that? Is the punishment for trespassing being held down and raped? Forced to carry this thing?” she demands, waving a hand at Clara.

It’s pitiful, really, the way she deflates under her mother’s cruelty. Half a minute ago, she was buzzing with excitement, almost bouncing on the balls of her feet. Now, she stands with her head lowered, with her black hair hanging on either side of her face like she’s trying to hide. She seems pretty comfortable that way, like she’s used to it. Like she defaulted back to it.

For one dangerous moment, I remember the satisfaction of killing Bradford, and I wonder if murdering the witch in front of me would be as satisfying. My wolf is a fan of the idea, urging me on. Kill. Yes. Silence her. If anything, I would be putting her out of her misery, silencing her bottomless rage. It pulses all around us like a heartbeat, like a living being fed every day by its master’s unchecked suffering.

“I killed him, didn’t I?” I ask. “He’s paid for his crime.” If only Clara would look at me. Something inside me needs her to understand she’s not alone. I don’t see her the way her mother does, no matter how she was created or what it means for her as a shifter. That’s not my concern. What matters is protecting her now, providing her with what she went without all her life. Having someone in her corner, just one ally. It’s the least she deserves.

“He paid for his crime,” I repeat after a silent moment, and this time there’s a hint of growl running under my words. She hears it—her eyes go slightly wider. “The demand you made has been satisfied. It’s time for you to make good on your part.”

The witch’s head tips to the side, her eyes narrowing now. “What do you mean?”

“The curse,” Clara blurts out. “You’re supposed to lift the curse. You said you would.”

It’s the way her mouth twitches as she stands there, staring at us. That slight movement of her lips. I know before she draws her next breath what she’s about to say, and I hate her for it. “Oh, yes. I did promise to lift the curse, didn’t I?”

“You didn’t offer,” I growl. Let her hear it. Let her remember who she is toying with. “You said you would. Those were the terms. The shifter who raped you is dead. Bradford was his name. He has paid for what he did. Our part of the bargain is complete.”

“And I appreciate you dispatching with him. So quickly, too,” she adds, snickering. “I’ll sleep better, knowing he will never see another sunrise.”

Clara’s hand tightens around mine. Her palm is slick with sweat. “And me? What about me?” she asks.

“You?” Persephone’s voice drips disdain. “Why should I care?”

Clara’s pained gasp is a white hot blade sliding into my heart. “What?” she whispers, shaking her head, almost laughing like she can’t believe it, like this has to be a joke. “But you said?—”

“I know what I said.” The almost playful disdain drops from Persephone’s voice. The air is still and yet a rush of icy wind washes over me, stirring my hair. “I don’t need you reminding me of what I said, girl.”

“Then why?” Clara releases my hand, which is probably for the best since I’m beginning to lose control. I don’t want to hurt her. She takes a step forward, her hands clenched at her sides, her chin held high. In spite of everything, a sense of pride stirs in my chest at the sight of her facing the woman, who glares at her so hatefully. “Why did you say you would lift the curse?”

“To get what I wanted. Why else would I?” Persephone’s gaze lands on me, and I hold it without blinking. “He got what he deserved.”

My wolf’s roaring is almost enough to deafen me. I knew it, didn’t I? Nothing about this felt right from the moment she confronted us out here.

“You lied.” Somehow, after spending eighteen years with his witch, Clara is still capable of surprise. Dismay. “You said you would lift the curse. Why won’t you do it?” She might as well ask why her mother refuses to love her. It’s the same question, really, only expressed using different words.

“Because I can’t.” How can she be so cruel? She sounds downright happy to watch her daughter crumple under the weight of her rejection. “I never could, you brainless nothing.”

It’s the laughter that lights my brain on fire. So cruel. So sincere. She’s deriving joy from this—maybe the only joy she’s felt in a long time. That she should feel it at her daughter’s expense strikes me as pitiful and enraging all at once. “But thank you for killing that filthy dog,” Persephone adds before laughing again. “You have no idea how you’ve satisfied me. I only hope it was slow and painful.”

About as slow and painful as her death will be if she doesn’t stop laughing. If Clara wasn’t standing beside me, I doubt I could keep myself from voicing that thought—or worse, slashing her to ribbons. “You don’t have the ability to lift a curse you cast?” I ask with a snicker.

It does the trick, slicing through the high-pitch laughter. “I cast a permanent curse, dog,” she sneers, somehow standing taller than before. The air around us goes from icy to hot in an instant. “I never intended to lift it. Why would I want my offspring to possess the power to shift into a dog the way you do? Even this useless nothing is worth more than that,” she adds, waving a dismissive hand toward her trembling, whimpering daughter.

I feel the pain coursing through her. My wolf cries out, demanding she be comforted, but there isn’t much I can do beyond wishing Clara wasn’t here so I could tear the witch limb from limb. “Come on,” I urge, reaching for her hand.

To my surprise, she yanks it away, almost ignoring me in favor of glaring at her mother. “I’ve never understood what I did to make you hate me so much,” she whispers. There’s no trembling in her voice now. None in her body, either. She’s found strength. “But now I get it. You’re incapable of anything else. This was never about me.”

“Whatever you need to tell yourself.” Persephone tosses her head with a cold laugh. “Now take pains to never step foot on this land after tonight. For any reason. I don’t want to see your face again.”

“That’s fine,” Clara grits out. “I don’t ever want to see you again, either.”

The door slams shut, and all at once, the air goes back to its normal temperature. Instinct makes me reach for Clara, who sags in my arms like all of her strength is gone. She used it all to face her mother one last time. There’s plenty of pride mixing with the anger I feel on her behalf, but the anger far outweighs it.

“How did you manage to spend eighteen years with her?” If anything, my pride deepens as I lead her away from the cabin. The farther, the better. She’s already been through enough.

“What choice did I have?” she whispers with a faint, sad laugh. “Besides, this is all I ever knew. How was I supposed to know mothers normally love their children?”

A sob makes her voice break, and the next thing I know, her face is pressed against my chest. “Why? Why can’t she love me?” she asks through her tears. “Why can’t she at least say she’s sorry?”

Because she isn’t. “Don’t worry,” I offer, holding her close as if that can do anything to take away the years of pain she’s endured. “We’ll find a way through this.”

“What? How?” She lifts her head—my T-shirt is soaked with tears, sticking to my skin. “You heard her. There’s no way of lifting the curse. There’s no hope.”

I can’t believe that. I won’t. “We’ll find a way,” I insist.

All I can do is hope that isn’t a lie.