Page 11 of Alpha Charmed

I close the door on their laughter.

The walk back to pack territory is quiet. The mist curls around my boots, thicker than usual, swirling in patterns that seem almost deliberate. Mistvale after midnight is a different creature than the town that exists during the day—softer, stranger, full of magic that doesn’t quite behave.

I think about Anouk.

The way she’d admitted her magic was unstable. The vulnerability in her expression before she locked it away. The scent of lavender and sage that still clings to my jacket from standing too close.

Years.

I recognized her the first time we met—a coven ceremony, her first week as leader, both of us newly appointed to positions we hadn’t expected to hold. She’d looked at me across the gathering with those dark, assessing eyes, and my chest simply said: Her.

Not a question. Not a suggestion. A statement of fact.

I’d been waiting ever since. Watching from a distance. Learning her patterns, her preferences, the way she holds herself in public versus the moments when she thinks no one is looking. Waiting for a sign that she might want what I could offer.

The Winter Solstice celebration, five years ago—standing too close in a doorway, her breath misting the cold air, both of us half a second from something that could have changed everything—before an alarm sent us running in opposite directions.

Tonight she invited me in.

It’s not a declaration. It’s not even an acknowledgment. But it’s a beginning.

And for the first time, a beginning feels like it might be enough.

I shift at the edge of pack territory, letting the change take me. Four paws hit the ground and I run—through the ancient trees, past the cabin I’ve never shared with anyone, toward the high ridge where I can see the whole valley below.

Mistvale spreads out beneath me. The Hollow with its clustering shops. Ironwood Row where the shifters make their homes. The faint glow of the Warding Line at the valley’s edge. And there, in the heart of the witch quarter, the apothecary where a light still burns in an upper window.

She can’t sleep either.

I throw back my head and howl—long, low, carrying across the sleeping town. Not a call to pack. Not a warning. Just a wolf claiming the night, letting the magic know he’s here.

In the distance, the light in her window flickers.

I pretend it’s a coincidence.

We’re both very good at pretending.

Tomorrow that changes. Tomorrow we’re partners—in investigation, at least. Tomorrow I’ll see her again, work beside her, exist in her space with her permission.

And maybe, if patience finally pays off, I’ll get to stop pretending.

I settle into a watchful crouch on the ridge, gaze fixed on that distant window.

I’ll wait.

I’m good at that.

THREE

ANOUK

Meredith Thornwood’s hands haven’t stopped shaking since we arrived.

The elderly witch clutches her teacup with white-knuckled determination, as if the delicate porcelain might anchor her to the present. Her sitting room is cramped and over-warm, filled with the accumulated clutter of seventy-three years—embroidered cushions, dried flower arrangements, photographs of children and grandchildren covering every available surface.

“She was different in those last weeks,” Meredith says, her voice thin. “Not herself at all. Distracted. She kept forgetting what day it was, what she’d eaten for breakfast. Once she called me by her sister’s name—and her sister’s been dead for thirty years.”

I make a note in my leather journal. Beside me—close enough that I’m acutely aware of his presence without looking—Caius stands near the window. Watching. Listening. Taking in details I might miss while I focus on the conversation.