Betrayed Forced Mate (Rosecreek Special Ops Wolves #4)

“Here,” I say, showing Triste the laptop. She comes over eagerly, her eyes widening when she sees the words on the screen.

Numina divom accerso. Damnant te dormire. Somno aeterno, nuptae, perduint te.

“I see,” Triste says, pushing her sleeves up to her elbows. “This is an ancient curse. Powerful and based in blood magic.”

Her eyes meet mine, and for the first time tonight, a real shot of fear courses through me. Over the years, working with this team, we’ve overcome so many obstacles that I’ve started to just assume that we can handle whatever comes our way. That no matter what happens, we’ll be okay.

Even Percy turned out okay.

But now, looking at Triste and the expression she wears, it dawns on me that there may actually be nothing we can do to save Olivia, and the thought of that makes me feel like I’m melting. Malfunctioning. A bug I’ll never be able to find in my code.

“There must be something we can do,” I say, not missing how choked my voice sounds, or how everyone in the room is looking at me, pity on their faces.

“There…is,” Triste says, finally, nodding and rolling her lips into her mouth. “But you are not going to like it.”

“Alright,” Aris says, “if you are not unconscious, here to help, or Byron, get out. Go back to your families.”

“You got it,” Percy says, turning on his heel.

“You don’t have to tell me twice,” Bigby says, clapping me on the shoulder before he goes.

Everyone clears from the room until it’s just me, Maisie, Aris, and Triste standing around Olivia’s cot.

“There is a ritual we can perform to wake Olivia from her sleep,” Triste says, clearing her throat. “But due to the nature of the curse, she will not survive if she has a mate, and is not blood-bound to that individual.”

Aris’s face goes pale. It feels like my stomach is full of rocks.

What the fuck is it with this pack and blood bonding? Growing up, we were taught that it was an ancient practice, practically extinct, akin to arranged marriages or royals having babies with their cousins.

And now, here we are, two pairs in our pack already blood bonded.

I stare at Olivia, heart skipping in my chest. When I bring my fist to the spot and start rubbing it, Maisie looks alarmed.

“Your heart?” she whispers, and I nod, then shake my head, eyes darting up to meet hers.

“It’s fine,” I gasp, putting a hand to my head. Then, looking at Triste, I say, “You’re sure? It’s the only way?”

“As sure as I can be,” she says, nodding. “I could travel to Europe, spend a few days reading through ancient tomes in Rome, pray there’s something hidden there to undo this in a different way, but I have no idea how she’s reacting to the curse, and no idea how long she has been in this state. It could be forever; it could be ten minutes. It all depends on what’s going on inside her head.”

“What do you mean?”

“When a curse sends you under like this, it’s not like a normal medical comatose state. It’s more akin to purgatory. Right now, she could be reliving all of her best childhood moments or going through nightmare after nightmare. Whatever is happening to her right now, and how strong she is against it, will affect how long she can hold on.”

Immediately after Triste finishes her sentence, we all watch Olivia’s brow wrinkle, and something like a sob comes from her mouth.

“I’ll do it,” I say, quietly, knowing everyone in this room already knows the truth. It’s no great secret that Olivia and I are mates—the only thing people don’t know is why we aren’t together.

I don’t want a mate, don’t want a family. I know that if I go through with this blood-bonding ritual, it will tie Olivia even closer to me. My heart squeezes, and I force myself to take a deep breath.

More than anything, she wants a big family. Lots of kids running around. Sunday mornings with pancakes and the whole thing.

But I can’t give that to her. The thought of having kids makes me physically ill, makes my heart speed up, twisting, pain rippling through my chest. But the thought of Olivia dying is even worse.

I hold my hand out over her cot. Triste, without ceremony, grabs my wrist and slices my palm through with her knife, then does the same to Olivia, before joining our hands together and whispering a few words under her breath.

When it’s done, I gasp and step back, and Maisie is there, wrapping my hand with a bandage. I expect to feel sick, to feel worse than I did a moment ago, but inside, it’s like a storm has finally started to abate, a hurricane turning to a drizzle, my heart finally relaxing and taking a breath.

“Okay,” Triste says, wiping her hands on her palms. “Now that’s done, I need a few things to complete the ritual.”