Chapter 4: Heston
1027 Words
Heston
The witch’s hips swayed as she walked away, that stupid white skirt moving like it had a personal vendetta against my self-control.
It wasn’t even the top. Though that damn halter had barely any fabric and far too many intentions. It was the way she moved. Like she knew exactly what she was doing. Like every step was a dare.
She smelled good. Too good.
Not just alluring—addictive. Like wildflowers in a thunderstorm. Like magic just before it sparks. Sweet, earthy, dangerous.
My fingers curled at my side.
My teeth ached.
My wolf prowled just under the surface, hackles raised, breath shallow, claws scraping at the inside of my skin.
Mine, he snarled.
I grit my teeth and blinked hard, dragging air through my nose and locking him down. No. Not mine. Couldn’t be. Shouldn’t be.
But the truth sat in my gut like a stone.
My eyes had shifted. I knew it. I could feel the burn around my irises, the gold bleeding into the blue.
When I looked up again, she was already on the dance floor, laughing with her friend, spinning like she hadn’t just shattered my glass or rattled the part of me I kept chained.
I didn’t even realize I’d been standing there like an i***t until I heard the snort.
“Well,” Ridge drawled, sliding back into my space like he lived there. “That was subtle.”
Rowan joined him, sipping his drink and raising a brow. “Are you trying to start a war? Because, brother, the treaty is already flimsy as it is.”
Max didn’t say anything at first. Just gave me that look. The one that said he knew I was spiraling and was already considering how to cover it up.
“I’m not starting anything,” I muttered.
“Oh, really?” Ridge grinned. “Because from where I stood, your eyes went full wolf, and she looked like she was two seconds from hexing your dick.”
“She shattered your glass, man,” Max finally said. “With magic. That’s not nothing.”
“It was a reflex,” I said, jaw tight. “She’s emotional. And arrogant.”
“And hot,” Ridge added, unhelpfully.
“She’s a witch,” I snapped.
They all went quiet for a beat.
Then Rowan, ever the diplomat, stepped in. “Look, we’re not judging. You’re allowed to look. But don’t forget what’s at stake. Your Luna isn’t just about you, Heston. She’s about the pack. The bloodline. The legacy.”
I exhaled slowly, watching Cordella laugh under the colored lights, her eyes lit up with mischief and moonlight. I couldn’t hear her, but I didn’t have to.
She was wildfire.
And I was already burning.
“I haven’t forgotten,” I said. But it came out like a lie.
Because the thing clawing at my chest. The part of me that recognized her on some primal level, wasn’t about legacy.
It was about want.
I downed the whiskey in one long swallow, the burn a welcome distraction from the one crawling under my skin.
Cordella Blackwood hadn’t looked my way once since Piper Goode dragged her to the dance floor. Not once. Like I hadn’t rattled her, like I hadn’t caught her wrist and felt the spark ignite between us. Like she wasn’t currently laughing, spinning, her skin gleaming under the lights and her magic humming in the air like a damn siren song.
And that necklace, that vial of wolfsbane swinging at her chest, still burned my nose every time I scented her.
Didn’t stop me from doing it anyway.
I couldn’t help it. My instincts kept pulling my attention back to her. The sway of her hips, the curve of her neck, the way she threw her head back when she laughed, like nothing in the world could touch her.
Goddess, she was infuriating.
Smart-mouthed. Cocky. Reckless. And she had the nerve to shatter my glass and walk away like it was foreplay.
Which—f**k—maybe it was.
But that wasn’t the point.
The treaty was clear. Witches were forbidden from using magic to cause bodily harm to wolves. That line existed for a reason, and she’d danced right up to it and winked.
She was toying with me.
I barely registered the conversation happening around me. Ridge was still rambling about some bartender with a nose ring. Rowan mentioned something about zoning permits. Max asked me a question I didn’t answer.
Because I was watching her.
And then I saw him.
A warlock. Young, slick, smiling like he thought he had a chance, slid in behind her on the dance floor. Hands too close. Voice too familiar. And Cordella didn’t shove him away immediately, which made something deep in my chest snap.
My grip on the fresh glass in my hand tightened. Too tight.
Crack.
I looked down to see a jagged fracture webbing across the glass. Whiskey sloshed over my fingers. My heart beat in my ears.
My wolf surged beneath the surface.
Mine.
No.
I stood abruptly, scraping the stool back with a screech. My brothers looked up, startled. Max raised a brow.
“Work in the morning,” I said tightly, already moving for the door. “Early start. Big meeting.”
“Uh huh,” Ridge said behind me. “Sure, boss.”
I didn’t stop.
Didn’t look back.
Didn’t breathe until I hit the cool night air and the door shut behind me.
Because I needed to get out of there. I needed distance. I needed clarity.
I couldn’t afford to lose control. Not in front of my pack. Not over her.
Cordella Blackwood wasn’t mine.
She couldn’t be.
She was a witch. The Alter’s daughter. A legacy in her own right, but not my kind of legacy.
I was an Alpha. A Blue. And my Luna needed to be everything the pack required—pure, powerful, political.
Cordella was chaos in a halter top.
No matter what my wolf thought.
No matter what my gut whispered.
She could never be Luna.
She could never be mine.
- Writer
