Chapter 88

Chapter 88

“Real magic can never be made by offering someone’s liver. You must tear out your own, and not expect to get it back.”

Peter S. Beagle

*Ambrose*

In the thousands of years since he’d been on this planet, Ambrose had only been truly fearful a handful of times. It was an envitable part of immortality. You stopped being frightened of the big, bad monster in the dark because you were the big, bad monster in the dark.

Until her.

His mate.

It was like tearing out your own heart and hoping nobody trampled over the delicate organ when you weren’t looking. That was the kind of vulnerability his little wolf provoked – though he usually just circumvented it by refusing to let her out of his sight.

Till now.

Ambrose walked swiftly to the throne room, almost positive that’s where he’d find Amara hiding in wait. After all this time, he could sense her presence like a snake rattling on the ground. The witch might’ve managed to claw her way out of the grave, but she’d made a dire mistake attacking the home he shared with his mate.

And he’d make sure it was her last.

He used his magic to effortlessly swing the doors of the throne room open, his chest tightening with anger when he caught sight of the woman perched on his throne.

She looked just as young as the day he’d killed her – and just as arrogant. She had sprawled herself across his throne, clothed in a deep red dress that matched her hair. When she saw him enter, her eyes gleamed with dark satisfaction.

“You’re late,” she purred, and shifted so that he got a better view of the dress’ neckline, which dipped all the way to her naval. “I was beginning to think you weren’t going to find me.”

He stopped five feet from her. “You’ve gathered your witches and infiltrated my home. You want my attention so bad, you have it.” Every part of him wanted to blast her off that throne, but Ambrose knew better than to underestimate her.

Her long, red coffin nails tapped the edge of the throne. “Is that all you have to say to me after all these years? I was hoping for a more personal reunion.”

“This is no reunion. I intend to put you right back in the grave where you belong.”

Her lips curved into a smirk. “Look at you. Just as much courage as when you were a little boy.”

Although he knew she was just trying to rile him up, Ambrose bristled. He hadn’t been a boy for thousands of years, and he wasn’t going to let her speak to him like one. “And even more power,” he said.

She wasn’t his coven leader anymore, trying to teach him advanced magic for her own gain.

She was just a soon-to-be-dead bitch.

Her eyes narrowed. “My power, you mean. My coven’s power. That’s what I’m here for.”

“You speak of power when you died trying to steal mine,” he countered. “Power is the only thing that matters to your kind. Taking it, keeping it – it’s your downfall.”

Amara tilted her head to the side. “Don’t you mean ‘our kind’? Surrounding yourself with these…abdominations doesn’t make you any less of a witch. You can call yourself whatever you like, find a little girl to warm your bed at night, but you’re still –” Her words turned into a choked garble, and she grabbed at her throat, desperately grasping for air.

A growl rumbled through Ambrose’s chest. “You will not speak of my mate. In fact, I think I’ve heard enough of your voice – it’s time to end this.”

He tightened his magical hold on Amara, watching as her hands clawed at her throat.

Seeing her die was a beautiful sight, one he’d cherish for the rest of his days.

But then she started laughing – or as much as she could without air filling her lungs. The sound was grating, and though he was killing her, she was smiling at him like a woman who’d already won. “G-go ahead,” she managed to choke out, “Kill me.”

Every instinct in him wanted to end her life here and now, but the victorious smile painted on her face gave him pause.

“What trick do you have up your sleeve?” he growled, and it took every bit of his self-control to slowly release the magical hold he had on her.

She let out a breathy laugh. “It’s not a trick. It’s a plan.” Her eyes glanced at the entrance to the throne room, though Ambrose felt it before he’d even turned around.

True fear.

One of Amara’s witches had his unconscious mate slung over his shoulders like a sack of potatoes. In a flash, Ambrose had magically broken the witch’s neck and was cradling in his mate in his arms.

She didn’t stir, and if it weren’t for the flush of her skin or the soft beat of her heart he’d memorized the sound of long ago, he might’ve mistaken her for…

He couldn’t bring himself to say it. Not her.

Ambrose brought two fingers to the middle of her forehead, whispering a spell.

She still didn’t wake.

He whipped his head around to stare at Amara, who was watching him cradle his mate with rapid fascination. He growled, pulling her close so that Amara wouldn’t be able to make out his little wolf’s features.

She didn’t deserve to look upon his mate.

“What have you done to her?” His voice echoed through the room like a storm.

Amara stood, stepping off the dias with all the grace of a venomous snake poised to strike. “You know, long ago, one of my teachers told me that we’re only ever as strong as the weakest parts of us,” she said, “And for all your power, Ambrose, your weakness is glaringly obvious.”

Anger burned through him, and it took everything in him not to blast her to bits. He would – as soon as he figured out what she’d done to his mate.

“You know,” she continued, and he could tell she was enjoying this. “I’ve learned a lot about werewolf mates since I’ve returned. I’ve heard they’re supposed to be equals, two halves of the same soul. I was very interested in meeting yours.” The corner of her lips pulled down in something that resembled pity. “Imagine my disappointment when your equal turned out to be just some girl whose little more than a child. Do you really believe she’s capable of ruling beside you? Of being a leader? She didn’t even put up a fight.”

Ambrose’s hand rested on his little wolf’s mane of curls. “Enough games, Amara. Tell me what you’ve done to her or I’ll end you and anyone you’ve brought with you.”

“Oh, you’re welcome to kill me,” she purred. “But I don’t think you’re going to want to.”

“Tell me,” he ground out. His rage was reaching its boiling point, and if it weren’t for his fragile, unconscious mate tucked in his arms, he wasn’t sure he would’ve been able to keep his magic at bay.

The smile on her face widened. “You don’t know?”

His eyes narrowed but he said nothing. He would not give her the satisfaction of reacting.

*“Non somnum,”* she said and the words might as well have been a knife through his heart.

“I will kill you,” he growled, his magic beginning to crackle through the room.

Amara was not fazed. “No, I don’t think you will. You know as well as I do that the *non somnum* curse can only be undone by its caster.”

He did – but that fact did nothing to quell the fury coursing through his veins. He was going to flay her alive, skin from muscle, nerve by nerve.

“Right now,” Amara continued, “Your mate is stuck reliving her worst memories with no way out. And she’ll keep reliving them – again and again until her body wastes away.”

Oh, he was familiar with the nasty curse, only undone by the person who’d cast it. If he killed Amara now, his little wolf would be trapped till it killed her.

“What do you want?” He asked, never taking his eyes off his mate. “This is your leverage. You want something from me. Tell me what I must do for you to break the curse.”

“Oh, how easily you fold,” she murmured, “As I said, we’re only as strong as our weakest parts.” She turned, stepping back onto the dias and sitting down on his throne. She smiled so wide the blunt edges of her teeth were visible. “Don’t worry, Ambrose. I’ll break the curse for you, and it won’t cost you your life or your power.” There was a pause before she added, “At least, not in the way you think it will.”