Page 14 of Witch's Wolf

“You sure?” he presses, his gaze never wavering. “Maybe you should have a word with them.”

The words punch me in the chest, harder than he could possibly realize. My throat tightens as the familiar ache of grief surges up.

“I can’t,” I say, my voice thickening, the memory rising like a wave I can’t outrun. I can’t stand looking at him, so I turn partly away. “They died in a plane crash back in nineteen-ninety-nine. I wasseven, thank you very much.”

I sense his confidence faltering. His shoulders slump, just barely, and his gaze flickers like he’s debating whether to pull back or press on.

“I’m sorry,” he murmurs, his voice softer, the edge gone.

He bites his lower lip, and for a second, I let myself believe he regrets it. That maybe, despite everything, there is a warm, beating heart beneath all his gruffness and pushing me away.

“Either way,” he continues, still determined, “I think you should do some digging.” He pauses, frowning deeply, then making a sound that is almost a snort. “I can help if you like.”

The offer catches me off guard, and I hesitate, weighing his words. A part of me wants to brush it off, to tell him there’s no point. The other part, the reckless part, jumps at the chance to have him close. Impulsive, as I usually am, despite how often it gets me into trouble, I roll the dice.

“If by ‘help’ you mean driving back to New York with me tonight, fine,” I say, despite the heaviness in my chest.

The idea of him in my world, on my terms, feels like an unexpected gift. The city is my home, my territory, andfor whatever it’s worth, it feels like I’ll have the homecourt advantage.

“Sure,” he agrees with a nod. The tension in him eases. “What time are you leaving?”

“Around seven.”

“I’ll be here,” he promises, his eyes studying me in a way I can’t define or decipher. “I’ll see you tonight, Ms. Connors.”

I don’t tell him, but his suggestion of “digging” feels like a joke. My parents? Into witchcraft? The idea is as laughable as it is absurd. They were devout Catholics, raised in strict traditions, with no room for spells or magic. The thought of them chanting incantations is as likely as being struck by lightning twice in the same day.

Still, as I watch him walk away, a flicker of anticipation stirs.

I’m envisioning Sam in Manhattan. In my world, my comfort zone, far from the mountains that feel like his domain. The thought of being alone with him again, and in my world where I can control the narrative, sends a thrill through me. But with that thrill comes a whisper of fear. Sam isn’t a man you can predict, no matter where you meet him. As exciting as this could be, there is no guarantee it will end well for either of us.

8

SAM

“New York, here we come!” Erica is practically singing as she smiles broadly.

Her eyes are alight with a spark I haven’t seen before. Every part of her radiates excitement as if she can’t wait to reach the city. Her happiness feels like a noontime sun, warm, but too bright. Part of me wants to bask in it and hope it thaws the cold knot of worry firmly lodged in my chest. I can’t, though, because the problem isn’t the city.

New York doesn’t bother me the way it does a lot of other shifters. Sure, it’s loud, chaotic, and reeks of humans and their filth, but that’s not what’s weighing me down. It’s her. Her and what we might learn once we’re there.

Helena’s warning circles in my thoughts like a predator stalking its prey. The witch doesn’t spook easily, but her inability to see into Erica’s future, has her on edge. And when a witch like Helena gets uneasy, anyone with half a brain damn well pays attention.

I watch Erica, laughing softly at something she said that I didn’t catch. She’s clueless and certain that there’s nothing to find. I wish I felt the same, but I can’t shake the feeling that something, or someone, has kept her in the dark. That, more than anything else, scares the hell out of me.

We agree that I’ll follow her in my truck, and we head for the city without further doings. My thoughts are spinning in the same circles for the entire drive. Everything about this feels wrong.

Three hours later, I follow her sleek BMW onto a quiet street lined with cookie-cutter homes. It’s the kind of neighborhood that looks nice enough on the surface, but the devil is in the details.

The house she pulls up to appears no different than any of the others. Two stories, a small driveway, and a crumbling charm that it’s trying too hard to hold onto. One wall bears faded graffiti scrawled in uneven black letters that once readFREEDOM. I wonder who or what they’re trying to free.

The stench of rot and garbage from a nearby dumpster makes my nose wrinkle, and my wolf stirs uneasily. This is her world, her territory. It sure has hell couldn’t be farther from mine. I climb out of my truck, my boots hitting the pavement. Erica’s already at the door, her keys jingling in her hand.

“I just moved in here last week,” she says over her shoulder, her voice tinged with pride. “I know it needs a work, but it’s a hell of a lot better than my old apartment.”

Her tone is casual as she fiddles with her keys and unlocks the door while avoiding eye contact. She’s putting on a brave face, like this house is more than just a place to live. I’m not sure if it’s a statement or a way of proving something.

My gaze drifts to the shed on the side of the house. It’s smaller than the cabin I call home, with a beige door that looks newer than the rest of the property. Something about it feels… off. The door is too new, too clean, like it doesn’t belong with the rest of the property, but it’s not only the door. My wolf senses a wrongness, a faint trace of something unfamiliar.

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