Page 16 of Shared With The Pack

He presses his mouth against the side of my neck, licking at the mark he left there. I feel the shift of a not-so-subtle snarl twist his lips.

"No," I reassure him quickly. I couldn't even if I wanted to. They'd never accept me back. Still, sadness weighs heavily on my heart. I enjoyed being at St. Salem. Even if I never made friends or grew close to anyone, I loved my classes. And the greenhouses there were amazing. "It didn't work out."

I lean back against Heath and play with the hair on his forearms.

"Why are you here?" I ask. "Ridge said you just wandered in one day."

Heath lets out a low growl and tightens his hold on me. "I was born far away. Far in the north. Vampires came one day. Cut down all the trees and poisoned the water. Dug holes to steal the earth."

He ducks his face into the hollow space in my shoulder as he speaks.

"Killed my pack. Everyone dead. I was alone, so I ran. Only stopped when I found another pack."

"I'm sorry," I say, because I don't know what else to say. My heart hurts for Heath.

"I'm not," he says with a chuckle. And a kiss. Heath kisses me, peppering kiss after kiss onto my skin. "Life and death, these must happen. That is nature's way. I'm happy to have found Griff and Ridge. And you, most of all."

"Do you ever think about leaving?"

"No, never. This is home."

As I look at the sharp towers of St. Salem and consider the protective ward around the academy, an idea occurs to me. It's a wild one. As wild as the magic of the werewolves. I don't know if it'll work, but if it does...I'll be able to make these dark woods my home too.

Though it'll take more than a few flowers.

Chapter 15

Wren

Everyone is busy when I get back to the cabin. Ridge is up on the roof, and there's hammering coming from the shed in the yard. I guess Griff made it back. I leave them to their work, fixing the damage I caused. Guilt pools in my stomach. Heath plops himself on the porch while I go inside. The stove fireplace burns low, and I add more kindling to get it burning hotter.

I roll up my sleeves and get to work. Witchy work, that is.

I dry out the flowers before I pluck the petals, sprinkling them into a cooking pot. It'd be more effective to stick them in a jar of oil and let them soak for a few weeks, but I don't have that sort of time. I need a potion now to cure Ridge's silver burn. I find a bottle of olive oil and pour some generously into the pot, sprinkling some sugar in as well.

The great thing about bumblebloom is that with a little twist of magic, it acts as its own thickening agent. I won't need to add beeswax. I place the pot on the stovetop, letting the petals infuse with the oil. While it melts, I crush the heads of the flowers, careful not to lose the pollen. I whisper under my breath, full of devotion and focus.

Bee and bloom, right as rain. Take away the pain.

I add the heads to the petals, pouring in even more oil. Shutting my eyes, I continue to stir and whisper, thinking of the burn and infusing the concoction with my intention. Once it has all melted, I pour it into a cake pan to cool.

I don't rest my heels while I wait. I tidy the kitchen and put back everything I used. In my cleaning spiral, I find a broom and a dustpan. A normal broom. I smile. There's something charming about brooms that can't be used to fly and don't clean on their own.

As I sweep, I find something lodged underneath an armchair. I bent down to fetch it. My fingers grasp a piece of wood. It's smooth to the touch, though it also has grooves in it and a rounded top. Somebody was in the middle of turning it into something else. A bird, I think, as I press my thumb over the start of a beak.

I look around the cabin, trying to find a home for it. Ah, on the fireplace mantel. It has a few other personal items and knick-knacks. Some candles, an old-fashioned clock, and a few books. And, yes, a few more wooden figurines. I place the unfinished bird next to the rest of his forest friends: a bear, squirrel, and a fox. There's also four wolves. I look but don't touch, admiring the detailed craftsmanship.

This must be Ridge or Griff's hobby. I can't imagine Heath staying in his human form long enough to pursue woodworking. Right smack-dab in the middle of the fireplace mantle is another wood creation.

It's a wooden box, as lovingly crafted as the figurines. The wood is exceptionally dark. Engraved along the sides are trees and mountains. And a river dotted with flowers...I realize what I'm looking at. This is a direct depiction of the surrounding woods. I stand on my tip-toes to get a better look at the top of the box. Instead of more nature, it's a person. A woman with long hair and a stubby nose, wearing a fierce expression.

The front door bangs open. I drop flat on my feet.

"Ah, when did you get back?" Ridge asks, wiping his hands on his jeans.

"A while ago," I admit. I glance back at the box and then back at Ridge. "Who's this woman?" I ask, curious. There's no sign of a woman in the cabin and nobody has mentioned her.

"That'd be Sage." He smiles when he says the name, but Ridge looks sad. "She died a few years ago."