Page 5 of Shared With The Pack

Griff doesn't want me there. Though Heath doesn't agree with him.

I'm almost knocked off the stool as Heath rests his colossal head in my lap. He lets out a whine of protest as he side-eyes Griff. Slowly, I rest my hand between his ears.

Ridge glances at me and Griff. There's a moment of hesitation in his brown eyes, but then he looks back at me...I don't know. Ridge smiles and reaches out to brush one of my damp curls off my forehead. "How about we work out the particulars in the morning?"

"Fine," Griff grunts and disappears out the front door. It bangs shut behind him.

"Let me find you something to wear." While Ridge fetches me some clothes that aren't a tattered mess, Heath curls up on the floor in front of the stove. Within moments, he's fast asleep.

"Are you all brothers?" I ask when Ridge returns holding a small stack of clothing. They act like they could be related, though Ridge and Griff look nothing alike. Ridge just smiles at me.

"We chose to be a pack together. That makes us closer than being born into the same family. Are you from around here?"

Nobody can know where I come from or what I've fled. Heath and Ridge seem fine with me being a witch, but if they knew my family's legacy...and what about the vampires? I'm sure they'd toss me back into the storm rather than risk me bringing any more trouble into their home.

The necklace around my throat doesn't feel like a mere piece of jewelry anymore. It feels like a collar about to choke me.

Chapter 6

Ridge

"Let me help you."

I don't know what I've said or done wrong, but Wren looks like he's about to have some kind of panic attack. His eyes have gone wide. His bottom lip trembles. There's a watery shine to his eyes.

Damn, he's crying.

It twists my heart into a knot.

All I want to do is help. That's all I ever want to do these days. No more violence. No more death. I'm done with all that. It doesn't matter that Wren is a witch. I don't care where he's come from or where he was trying to go. He's on our land now, and he's in our home. Nothing else matters.

Besides, he's only a boy.

And he's hurting real bad.

Outside, I can hear Griff smacking the bottoms of his boots together, cleaning them of mud. I leave my pack leader to that and focus on Wren.

"You want that off?" My gaze fixates on the gaudy necklace around his throat. That jewelry is too big for such a twig like him. He's trying to claw it off, but he can't get the clasp to unhook. I set aside the clothes I scrounged up, taking to one knee before him.

Scars and callouses riddle my hands, evidence of my former life of ill-deeds, but my touch is gentle as can be as I brush Wren's dark curls off the nape of his neck. My fingertips barely touch the clasp, but even that small contact is enough to sear my skin.

Shit, it's genuine silver.

I can't stifle the sound of pain that leaves my throat. I withdraw from Wren, rocking back on my heels and bringing my fingers and thumb to my mouth to soothe the burn. Griff returns from the porch like a shot. He watches me cradle my hand, his blue eyes full of concern and a trace of fear. Though it sharpens to anger when he looks at Wren. "What'd you do?"

Wren tries to both protest his innocence and make an apology in one fumbled sentence, but I cut things off before they can escalate in either direction. There's no need for all that. From either of them. I can smell the guilt coming off both Wren and Griff in equal measure.

"My mistake, Griff. I didn't realize his necklace was silver."

Griff curses under his breath, but he's gone and back in the blink of an eye carrying something to make things right: a pair of shears from his woodworking toolbox.

"Hold still," Griff grumbles as he puts a hand on Wren's shoulder. The boy sits as docile as a lamb while Griff snips the necklace clean off. It falls to the ground. Wren acts like the silver may very well burn him too. At least his breathing comes easier. He touches his naked throat and looks up at Griff with wide, dark eyes.

"Thank you," he says with a soft voice. "For everything."

Griff only grunts and disappears back out onto the porch.

"I'm sorry about your hand." Wren fidgets on the stool. I've warmed up a bowl of hot water and got a new bar of soap to tend to his cuts. "Isn't there something we can do? Do you have a first-aid kit?"