Page 17 of Witch's Wolf

Ackers

Bolton

Connors

Dyer

Hammond

McAlister

Pepperidge

Reigns

Stones

Whitby

“This…” Erica whispers. Her hand trembles as she grips the edge of the counter. “This isn’t real. It can’t be.”

“It is,” I say. Her scent and trepidation fill the air, so I try to speak softly and gently. “Helena was right, Erica. You are a witch.”

Her eyes cloud with disbelief, her lips part in protest, but no words come. She stares at the page as though it might disappear if she blinks.

“How?” she asks, her voice cracking.

I sigh and set the book down.

“I don’t have any idea, but I know who might. When’s your next gig?”

“Tuesday.”

“Good. We’re going back to Dawson.”

She doesn’t argue. The shock clings to her like a second skin, but there is a flicker of understanding. She knows this is a truth she can’t ignore. We have to return to Dawson. If Helena was right about this much, then she’s right about the rest too, and Erica is in danger.

The wolf in me stirs, restless and protective. It doesn’t care about logic or consequences; it sees her as mine to guard. But the man in me knows better. She’s human, and getting involved with her is courting disaster. My grip tightens on the book, a futile attempt to hold myself back from instincts screaming for one thing.

Protect her, no matter the cost.

9

ERICA

Sam is in my house. My space, my bedroom, my living room, my kitchen. It doesn’t matter where we are here because I’ve already imagined showing him a great time in every possible corner.

The thought used to tease me endlessly, spinning around in my mind since the first moment I laid eyes on the maddeningly handsome bastard. Back then, I was sure I’d spend the night devouring him, unraveling him until nothing remained.

But now? Now, we’re here, in my house, mere feet from each other, and I can’t touch him. I’m frozen in my bed, staring at the ceiling as the weight of revelations crush me. My parents’ secret is too enormous, too impossible to reconcile with the life I thought I knew. How can I wrap my head around this? Aroundme?

Unable to sleep, I wander into the kitchen for water and catch sight of him lying there, carved out of shadows and moonlight. His chest rises and falls in slow rhythm, his abs taut and lined like something from a sculptor’s masterpiece. My mouth goes dry, and for a moment, I forget how to breathe.

Of course he’s making it harder. Probably not intentionally, I don’t think anyway. Itisa warm night, but did he have to be shirtless on my couch? Couldn’t bother with a blanket? No, not Sam, not the slightest effort to cover all that lean, tanned muscle stretched out like a damn Faustian offering.

It’s torture. Normally, I’d eat him alive. Hell, the number of times I’ve imagined his hands on me... Those long, strong fingers gripping my waist as he takes me, pushes me to my limits so many times. Imagined how his lips would feel on my skin, how his weight would press me into the bed, and how he’d murmur my name in his low, gravelly voice.

Despite all of the times, those fantasies are ashes in the wind. Blown away by the loss of who I thought I was and leaving only this raw, hollow ache. Because I’m not just a woman with desires and wants. I’m something else.

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