Morgan stomped back and forth across the clearing, cursing when she called upon the dormant magic in her blood and nothing happened. The runes on her back remained frustratingly unresponsive. The torque was preventing her from accessing the power.

She focused on the embers of her anger, wanting to trigger her rage and rip the torque off her neck, but even with her extra strength, no matter how hard she tried, the metal wouldn’t budge. While she understood the torque was protecting her, right then, she felt nothing but hatred for it.

Without magic, she couldn’t open the rift.

She couldn’t go after Ascher.

The loss devastated her, the hollow feeling expanding, crushing her chest, until breathing became difficult.

They were after her, and Ascher sacrificed his life for hers. If the hellhound had been born with too much human blood in his system, he would be dead within days. The magical atmosphere of the primordial realm would weaken him until he slowly and painfully wasted away.

He was at least part hellhound. He also accidentally ingested some of her blood when he bit her when he was injured, linking them together, but she couldn’t stop fretting…what if their connection wasn’t enough to save him?

Morgan wanted to stay, wait for the rift to open again, but it could take days or even weeks.

And even then it didn’t guarantee Ascher would be waiting for her.

What if the wraith returned?

Or something worse?

His sacrifice would be for nothing.

With a heavy heart, she turned away, feeling as if she was leaving part of her soul behind as she headed back to the mansion.

All she could do was wait and hope for his return.

She refused to believe he was dead.

Refused to believe he wouldn’t return to her.

She first met the hellhound when she found him caught in one of the cruel traps the witches placed throughout the woods to catch creatures from the void. The beast was clearly starving, his leg severely injured from the serrated jaws of the bear trap. Despite knowing it would be dangerous, she couldn’t allow him to suffer. If the witches discovered him, they would conduct painful experiments on him with their magic.

When they learned what they needed, they would drain him of his essence, taking the primordial magic that gave him life, until he expired, riddled with agony. The “experiments” would go on for weeks, and Morgan had no stomach for torture.

She had pulled her weapon from its sheath to put him out of his misery when their eyes met.

The intelligence there caused her to hesitate, and she reluctantly lowered the blade, instinct urging her to help him instead.

When she edged closer, the beast snarled ferociously, jerking back, causing his leg to bleed freely.

He saw her as the enemy.

Knowing she would be in serious trouble if anyone learned what she was about to do, Morgan sheathed her blade, then reached for the torque around her neck. The necklace contained a spell to trap her magic in her body, blocking others from discovering her darkest secret.

When she was a child, the torque was immovable. No matter how hard she tried, she wasn’t able to take it off.

Until a few years ago.

By accident, she learned that when she was around certain creatures, she was able to remove the necklace so she could help them.

She also learned that she was able to break any spells or curses when the torque was off…such as the one preventing the hellhound from escaping the trap.

The first time the necklace detached, the surprisingly heavy metal came away in her hands, and her neck felt naked without it. The relief at being free almost made her giddy…until the magic carved into her back began to build.

The power would gain strength and continue to grow, until it seemed it would consume her from the inside out. Only when she couldn’t take the pain anymore did she replace the torque. The metal would click into place, warming in welcome, as if glad to be home.

The witches didn’t know she carried magic, and she had no intention of telling them. They were ruthless, many of them believing their powers made them special and above the law. After being treated worse than a slave by the witches for the past ten years, she wanted nothing further to do with them.

The torque helped keep her secret, often changing its shape, as if trying to amuse her. It was protecting her, not the prison shackles as she originally feared.

In order to rescue Ascher, she needed magic to release his foot from the contraption. Different sigils were etched into the metal, the spell glowing slightly to her enhanced senses. Only a witch would know the combination to open the trap.

But if she had enough power, Morgan could destroy the spell altogether.

Much to her surprise, the torque came away easily, curling itself around her wrist like a snake. Almost immediately, the runes along her back shimmer to life. The hellhound sensed the change, and crouched down, his head lowered, never removing his gaze from hers.

She moved slowly, not wanting to startle the hound, and gripped the edges of the trap. Magic surged down her arms and slammed into the metal. The light from the spell dimmed, bowed under her magic, until she heard a crack. The sigils grew tarnished, the glow of the spell floating in the air like a cloud of sparkling red dust before dissipating.

The rusty metal screeched in protest when she used her enhanced strength to wrench it open.

The hellhound whimpered in pain, his leg clearly broken.

Morgan carefully lifted his limb out of the trap, unprepared when the hound lunged forward and clamped his jaws painfully around her wrist. Teeth sank deep, drawing blood, and she sucked in a startled breath.

Almost as fast as it happened, the hound whimpered low in his throat and retreated, staring at her remorsefully. Morgan knew she should to run, knew he couldn’t follow, but the pain in his eyes tempted her to linger.

She ripped off the bottom of her shirt, and carefully approached the hound, gingerly wrapping his injury.

Then she noticed the collar clamped painfully around his neck, so brutally tight, his hair had been rubbed away, his skin chafed and so abraded that nothing remained but a motley collection of scabs.

When she touched her fingertips to the collar, magic jolted into her so hard she was knocked off her feet, landing flat on her back.

The spell shattered, and red, sparkling dust floated in the air, leaving her feeling like she’d wrenched something deep inside.

The runes on her back burned like hellfire, wiggling under her skin like worms burrowing through her flesh, and nausea rolled through her. The markings were changing shapes—which should have been impossible. The torque tightened painfully on her arm, and she obediently unwound it, replacing the metal around her neck.

As soon as the torque clicked into place, the pain eased, and she shivered in relief, grateful the disturbing feel of her flesh rippling had stopped.

She was startled when Ascher licked her face, and she peered up into his clear blue eyes. She reached out, tentatively brushing her fingers against the rough, velvety fur-like hide covering him, noting the collar was gone. Seconds later, he turned and bounded into the woods.

For the next few weeks, Ascher stalked her every time she ventured out, careful to keep his distance.

Both of them pretended not to notice.

When she hunted at night, he joined her, and they quickly became inseparable.

The perfect team.

When the witches discovered the pairing a year later, they demanded she turn the creature over to them.

Morgan refused, accepting the inevitable beatings as punishment for her defiance. MacGregor finally overruled them, declaring it was more important to catch the creatures harming humans than capture and experiment on a simple hellhound. Though he wouldn’t admit it out loud, she sensed he was pleased to know she was no longer hunting alone, that she had a protector, no matter how unlikely.

That didn’t stop the witches from setting their traps for him in secret.

As she neared the mansion, she saw it was ablaze with lights, shining like a beacon in the night, and her stride slowed.

That couldn’t be good.

For a half a second, she debated heading back into the forest, but she wouldn’t shirk her duty.

What if there was a problem with one of the soldiers?

A tiny clutch of worry tightened her gut.

What if there had been more creatures hunting her?

While the soldiers seemed more than capable of protecting themselves, that didn’t mean they were indestructible.

She pulled her shoulders back, ignoring the sting of her injuries, and reluctantly trudged toward the place she called home…coven headquarters, and her own personal hell.