Page 134 of Roaring Flames

“I’ve never been to a werewolf party before,” I whisper to Christian as we finally join the crowd I spotted from the car.

“Wolves aren’t the only shifters out there,” Christian tells me softly, his eyes dancing with amusement. “They’re just the most common.”

“But ‘werewolf’ sounds so much cooler than ‘shifter,’” I protest.

He chuckles again. “Don’t let anyone here hear you say that. Werewolf is almost considered a curse word in these parts.”

My eyebrows shoot up to my hairline. “Is it really?”

Oh my god. How many times have I jokingly called one of the guys or Hale or Gerry a werewolf?

Christian winks at me. “No.”

“You asshole!” I playfully swat at his shoulder as he stealthily dances away from me.

A part of me can’t seem to coincide this Christian to the one at my school. Mr. Montgomery. I wonder if this was how Christian was before he discovered he was a lone wolf, before hemoved out of his home and into the wilderness, before he left everyone and everything he knew behind.

A sudden sadness replaces the joy I felt only moments before.

Christian, oblivious to my change in mood, grabs my arm. “Come on. Let me introduce you to people.”

The introvert in me wants to shake my head adamantly and retreat to the perimeter of the party, where I can watch and not be forced to interact. But the part of me curious about this world and the people in it allows Christian to pull me forward.

The party takes place between four houses—two on one side of the road and two on the other. All of them are rustic in appearance, seeming to be constructed out of red-brown logs.

Both adults and children alike play on the street, in the yards, and on the front porches. There’s what appears to be a buffet in the front lawn of the largest house. A game of volleyball takes place on the lawn across the street. The sound of laughter fills the air.

It’s…perfect.

Almost too perfect, like flipping through a catalog encouraging people to buy property in a new town.

The sight does very little to calm my rapidly growing unease.

Christian moves towards two men who are conversing a short distance from us.

“Izzy, I’m sure you know?—”

“Silas, how are you?” I interrupt, recognizing the man closest to me.

His broad shoulders, scarred face, and perpetual scowl are unmistakable. I haven’t seen him since my last shift at the theater, before…

A knot forms in my throat.

Silas downs his bottle of beer. “I’ve been better, kid.”

Dark shadows distort the skin beneath his eyes.

I don’t know what to say to him. Apologizing seems…wrong, somehow. I never understand why people say “I’m sorry” when something bad happens, despite having nothing to do with it. Those two words don’t change anything, don’t fix anything. I think an apology is designed to expresssympathy towards a situation, but it just feels shallow, somehow. Insincere.

So what I say instead is, “I wish that never happened.”

I could clarify what I meant—I wish Minnie never died, I wish Silas didn’t lose his business, I wish Minnie’s family and friends didn’t have to deal with the grief of losing a loved one—but I don’t.

Silas’s expression turns softer. “Me too, kid. Me too.”

The second man has turned towards us at some point during the conversation, and I finally get a good look at him.

“Mr. Remington?” I ask, aghast. “You’re a shifter too?”

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