Bewitching the Alpha

CHAPTER 6: Wolf Culture

The storm had broken sometime, leaving the world dripping and silent. We walked back to the Pack House in that silence. Guilermo didn't offer to carry me this time, and I didn't ask. I forced my legs to move, lifting my boots out of the sucking mud with a grim determination that had nothing to do with strength and everything to do with pride.

My left hand was a heavy, throbbing weight at my side, wrapped in Guilermo’s torn henley and fresh gauze he’d found in the cabin’s emergency kit. But it was the rest of me that felt raw.

Every time the wind shifted, carrying his scent back to me, my magic twitched. It was like a addict hearing the uncorking of a bottle. I kept my distance, walking five feet behind him, eyes fixed on the silver-streaked black hair curling at the nape of his neck.

We breached the tree line, and the Pack House loomed ahead.

It was bustling. The storm had delayed the morning patrols, and now the clearing was a hive of activity. Wolves in human form were hauling debris, checking vehicles, and sharpening tools.

As we stepped into the open, the noise died.

It wasn't a gradual quiet. It was an instant, collective cessation of sound. Heads turned. Eyes tracked.

I felt it immediately, the wall of judgment. To them, I wasn't just the witch who fixed the fence. I was the outsider who had spent the night in a storm-isolated cabin with their Alpha.

Guilermo ignored them. He walked straight toward the main porch, his stride eating up the distance.

"Get clean," he threw over his shoulder at me, his voice rough. "Then come to the office. We need to discuss the payment schedule for the extra blood work."

"I’ll send an invoice," I muttered, hugging my coat tighter.

"Lilura." He stopped, turning just enough to catch my eye. The gold in his irises was duller this morning, tired, but still sharp enough to cut. "Don't make me chase you."

He didn't wait for an answer. He took the steps two at a time and vanished into the house.

I stood in the mud, feeling suddenly very small and very exposed.

"You look like a drowned rat."

I closed my eyes for a second, summoning patience from a reserve I didn't have.

Ibbie Nildav Raya descended the porch steps. She was wearing riding boots that shone like mirrors and a quilted vest that cost more than my entire apartment. Her hair was pulled back in a severe, intricate braid that exposed the delicate line of her neck.

She didn't look tired. She looked energized.

"Good morning, Ibbie," I said, stepping toward the guest quarters where my spare clothes were stashed. "If you’ll excuse me, I need to shower."

She stepped into my path. It was a subtle move, just a shift of weight, but it was a blockage.

"We were worried," she said. Her voice was light, airy, but her eyes were scanning me with the precision of a triage nurse looking for a reason to amputate. "When the Alpha didn't return… the Pack feels it, you know. An unsettled Alpha makes for an unsettled territory."

"The storm washed out the trail," I said, trying to step around her.

She mirrored my movement, blocking me again. "And then I see you walking behind him. Limping. Bleeding."

She reached out, her fingers hovering near my bandaged hand without touching it. Her nose wrinkled.

"You smell like death," she observed. "And sickness. It’s clinging to you."

"It’s blood magic," I said, my patience fraying. "It’s not sickness. It’s the cost of keeping your backyard safe."

Ibbie laughed. It was a soft, pitying sound that made my skin crawl.

"Come with me," she said, turning and walking toward a stone bench near the edge of the garden. It wasn't a request.

"I need to wash—"

"It will only take a moment," she called back, sitting down and patting the stone beside her. "I think we need to clear the air. For Guilermo’s sake."

The mention of his name was the hook. She knew it.

I grit my teeth and walked over, but I didn't sit. I stood in front of her, my arms crossed, hiding my shaking hands.

Ibbie looked up at me, shading her eyes from the weak sun. "You have to understand, Lilura… our culture is very different from yours. Witches, you… you are solitary creatures. Transactional. You give, you take, you leave. It’s very cold."

"It’s efficient," I corrected.

"We are a collective," she went on, ignoring me. "The Pack is a living organism. And the Alpha is the heart. Everything he feels, we feel. Everything that burdens him, burdens us."

She leaned forward, her expression shifting into one of concern. Feigned, weaponized concern.

"Last night, I could feel his distress through the bond. He was angry. He was worried. And do you know why?"

"Because the wards were failing?" I suggested.

"Because of you," she said softly.

The words landed like a slap.

"He had to carry you," Ibbie said. "One of the scouts saw him carrying you down the ridge. Do you have any idea what that looks like?"

"It looks like I was unconscious from blood loss," I said, my voice tight.

"It looks like weakness," Ibbie corrected, her tone turning didactic, like she was explaining gravity to a toddler. "In our world, the Alpha is the provider. The protector. But he is not a beast of burden. He is not a nursemaid. When he has to stoop to carry an outsider—a weak outsider—it lowers him."

My nails dug into my palms through the bandage. "He didn't stoop. He saved my life."

"And that is the problem," she sighed, shaking her head. "You put him in a position where he had to save you. You came here unprepared, you broke your own supplies, and you forced our Alpha to expend his energy cleaning up your mess. You made him a servant to your incompetence."

I stared at her. The gaslighting was so seamless, so confident, that for a split second, I wondered if she was right. Had I been a burden? I had broken the oil. I had needed saving.

Then I remembered the oil broke because she pushed me.

"I didn't break the supplies," I said, my voice low. "You did."

Ibbie’s smile didn't falter. "See? This is what I mean. You deflect. You blame. You don't take responsibility for your own fragility."

She stood up, smoothing her vest. She was taller than me in her boots, or maybe she just held herself with more entitlement.

"We respect strength, Lilura," she said, stepping into my personal space. She smelled of synthetic vanilla and ambition. "We respect those who can stand on their own two feet. When you drag your heels, when you faint, when you bleed all over our sacred stones… you aren't just embarrassing yourself. You are insulting the Alpha."

"I secured the border," I snapped, the amethyst glow flaring in my eyes. "I gave my own blood to seal the rift. That is strength."

"That is desperation," she countered instantly. "Strength is control. Strength is preparation. What you did was messy. It was chaotic. And honestly? It was a little bit repulsive."

She reached out and picked a piece of dried leaf from my shoulder, flicking it away with a look of distaste.

"Guilermo is too polite to tell you this," she said, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. "He was raised with old-world manners. He will feed you, he will house you, and yes, he will carry you if you collapse. But don't mistake his duty for care."

My heart stuttered.

"He tolerates you because of the Treaty," Ibbie said, driving the knife in. "But every moment you are here, smelling like… that… you are agitating him. You are disrupting the pack harmony. He hates the smell of witch magic. It gives him a migraine. Did you know that?"

I thought of the cabin. I thought of Guilermo rubbing his temples, his eyes squeezing shut. I thought of him telling me my scent was giving him a headache in the prologue to this mess.

I am poison to him.

The thought took root, fed by my own exhaustion and insecurity.

"I’m leaving as soon as the job is done," I whispered.

"Good," Ibbie smiled. It was genuine this time. "That is best for everyone. Especially him."

She patted my arm. "Don't take it personally, dear. You just… don't fit. You’re like a jagged piece of glass in a bed of fur. You just cut everyone you touch."

She walked away then, her boots clicking on the stone path, heading toward the group of wolves by the fire pit. I watched as she approached them. She touched a man on the shoulder, laughed at something another said. She slipped into the group seamlessly. She belonged.

I stood by the cold stone bench, shivering.

I looked down at my hand. The blood had seeped through the gauze, a small, dark stain blossoming on the white fabric.

Jagged glass.

Maybe she was right. My magic was volatile. My blood was toxic enough to seal rifts in reality. And last night, in the cabin, I had almost drained the Alpha because I couldn't control my own hunger.

I felt a sudden, crushing wave of isolation.

I wasn't a wolf. I wasn't really a respected witch, either; I was Sibal's battery. I was a tool. A dangerous, sharp tool that people used and then put back in the box before they got cut.

I turned and walked toward the guest quarters, keeping my head down.

I needed to shower. I needed to scrub the smell of pine and rain off my skin. I needed to wash Guilermo off me before I started believing that the heat in the cabin had been anything other than friction.

"Lilura!"

I froze.

Guilermo was standing on the porch of the main house, holding a folder. He was looking across the yard at me.

"I said come to the office after you clean up," he called out. His voice carried effortlessly over the noise of the yard.

I didn't turn around. I couldn't. If I looked at him now, with Ibbie’s words ringing in my ears, I would crumble.

I just raised my good hand in a wave of acknowledgement and kept walking.

I felt his gaze on my back. It felt heavy. It felt hot.

But Ibbie was right. He was looking at a problem to be solved, a mess to be cleaned. He wasn't looking at me.

And the sooner I remembered that, the safer we would both be.