Wolf, Willow, Witch (The Gideon Testaments, #2)

by Freydís Moon

Power was a borrowed thing. Sometimes the gods soaked her to the bone, and sometimes they left her parched and desperate, scrabbling for a sacrifice that would earn

their favor.

Places held on to pain, items kept the imprint of aggression, walls were watermarked with memories, and that nasty chair had witnessed the departure of a soul.

Loved the way a simple question could unmake a conversation. Polite niceties had never been her strong suit, but she’d always appreciated candor. Even when it was dangerous.

Power resembled pheromones; everyone had a unique flavor. But Lincoln motherfuckin’ Stone . . . He tasted off. Scarred. Defying death by way of brutality, lust, passion—deep, unyielding want—had left him smoky and well-worn.

That taste was a warning.

Many people had decided on Tehlor Nilsen. Crafted a personality for her, assumed her past, predicted her future. But Lincoln Stone was the first person with enough audacity to trick her.

Lincoln’s gaze snapped to her. He smiled, nodding along to something someone said. His sly eyes hooked around her ribs. Pulled. Cinched everything a little tighter. She wanted to extinguish the fire he lit. Wanted to walk into the ocean and let the waves pummel her, then crawl back onto shore renewed and restored, unchanged and unbothered. But the spark he’d carried back from Hell continued to grow, and Tehlor Nilsen burned.

“We’ve come to an understanding, haven’t we? I could squeeze the life out of you. Crush your windpipe. Shatter your rib cage.” He traced the bird’s feathers, following its jagged shape to her shoulder. “You could put me back in the wall. Poison me. Stab me again. Send me straight to Hell.”

Brave sounded like careless.

“C’mon, take it off. I need you raw and wolfy, Michael Corvin.”

“One more dog joke and I’ll drown you in a lake.”

He was chaos where it mattered. Wild, debauched, and fucking terrifying.

“You’re ashamed of useless—”

“Watch your mouth,”

“Lions don’t apologize to gazelles. Bears don’t cry...

“I’m allowed to grieve the woman I could’ve been while honoring who I am, Lincoln,”

“Just like you’re allowed to mourn your cozy little life with Bishop while you chase the promise of power with me. Grief and ambition can coexist.”

Lincoln Stone was a consequence—karma coming back to sink its teeth into her—and Tehlor hated how her heart bent toward him.

But she didn’t hate him, and he didn’t hate her, and that was a lovely, frightening surprise.

“I can teach you patience; I can give you power.” Laughter gusted across her neck, gritty and tempered. “I can make you worse,” he whispered, pressing his clothed cock between her legs, “if you let me.”

She felt like a beautiful fraud. Like Mary Magdalene, a reformed whore.

“If you try to make me feel crazy about this, I’ll get crazy. I’ll get real fuckin’ crazy, Lincoln,”

But Tehlor was obsessed with him. Hyper-fixated on what he did to her, how he influenced her. She clung to the rich, heady desire boiling in her stomach. Chased the devotion they’d mutually ignored and exploited. She wanted to be his source. His point of contention. The thing that made him weak and selfish.

What a sad, sorry thing to watch a murder take place and expect an absent god to intervene.