Season of the Witch (Claws Clause 2)

Even worse, whether he perched on a chair or prowled back and forth, the stares and the way-too-fucking-loud whispers seemed to follow him wherever we went. The Ants were nervous, some of the other Paras wary, and it made his wolf raise its hackles when the undeniable slick of lust settled over him.

Didn’t the women—and some men—watching him like they were in heat know that he had a mate?

Well, of course not, but that was gonna change and fucking soon if Colt had anything to say about it.

He was still barefoot. In the rush of everything that happened, he was still shirtless. Alpha, they were lucky he remembered to button his jeans after he yanked them back on.

Sweat coated his bare chest. Colt pushed himself as he ran, pounding the frozen pavement so he could work off some of his worry and aggression. His wolf had sensed the interruption before Wright cleared his throat and Colt finished his latest lap before he spun around, barely winded from his fifty-yard sprint.

As Wright approached him cautiously, the human had his coat zipped to his throat, his breath coming out in white puffs as he said, “I was wondering if I’d find you freezing out

here. It’s gotta be twenty degrees out.”

Colt shrugged. “Arctic wolf shifter. It doesn’t bother me.”

“Yeah, well…” Wright had a bag tucked under his arm. He tossed it at Wolfe. “Thought you could use this anyway. Hospital will overlook the whole no shoes thing, but the no shirt is a dealbreaker.”

Colt opened the bag. A white t-shirt was balled up at the bottom. He yanked it out, pulling it on without even stopping to look down at it. If Wright was out here…

“Where’s Hudson? What’s going on in there? How’s Shea?”

“That’s why I came to get you. The hospital found rooms for both of them. Different floors, since one is doing a little better than the other, but the good news is that they’re both gonna be fine. Okay, Wolfe? They’re gonna be just fine.”

He couldn’t care less what happened to Hudson except for how it would affect Shea. That wasn’t what was bothering him. The way Wright said that one was doing better had his wolf baring its teeth. It took everything he had not to mimic the gesture as a man.

“Is it Shea?”

A sour tinge colored Wright’s spicy scent. Nervousness. Fear. “I—”

Colt growled. “Is my mate the one in trouble?”

Wright held his hands up in a placating gesture. “The doctor said she nearly gave up everything she had to heal her brother. If you hadn’t gotten her here in time, well…”

He let his sentence hang there. Or maybe he didn’t. Colt wouldn’t know since, as soon as just the thought that he could’ve lost Shea while he was still dicking around, pretending she wasn’t the one he would’ve chosen to be his… as soon as he had to accept that he might have lost his mate, he bolted toward the hospital entrance.

He had to get to her. He had to see for himself that she was still with him.

The receptionists had been warned to keep an eye out for him. Even before he ran over to their station, one was already calling out a room number to him.

Third floor. Colt dashed for the stairs. He wasn’t a fan of elevators; never had been since the small, confined room was another type of cage to him. He easily took two or three stairs at a time, bursting into the hall as his wolf grasped for some sliver of Shea’s scent.

He couldn’t find any hint of Shea’s natural woodsy scent, but when he got a lungful of baby powder, he took off in that direction.

The door was open. Inside, he found Shea lying still on her hospital bed, her black curls splayed out beneath her. Her eyes were closed, her chest moving just enough to prove that she was still breathing.

He searched for her first, his wolf whining when he saw that there was no change to how she looked earlier. Her skin was still sallow, her petite body so small and breakable. He wanted to climb up into the bed, wrap his body around her, and never let her go.

But, first, he had to deal with the stranger in the room.

It was a woman—but it wasn’t Luciana. The head witch was a redhead who, despite being much older, seemed like she was twenty-five at most. This woman was much older, her raven-colored curls streaked with white.

“Who are you?” Colt demanded, his claws unsheathing as she looked at him with an arched eyebrow. “You’re not Luciana. What are you doing here?”

“I’m finishing up a set of protective wards on this room,” the witch answered. “Nice shirt, by the way. I’d ask who you are, but I’m sure I know.”

Colt glanced down. The white shirt that Wright bought for him from the gift shop had a drawing of a cute wolf pup cartoon stretched across his chest. Near the top, scrawled in a cutesy font, the shirt read: Howl You Doin’?

Fucking cop. Good in a crisis, but Colt was going to kill him for the shirt as soon as he got the chance.