Page 18 of Witch's Wolf

Shaking my head, I return to my bed, but sleep continues to elude me. I stare at the ceiling, trying to wrap my wits around the shift in all I thought was true to this new reality. Maybe it’s not true. Sam could be wrong. Or it could be… a ruse. Some kind of sick, twisted joke.

How, Erica? What does anyone stand to gain by doing something this elaborate?

There is no answer to that question, which leaves me back to where I started. I’m a witch. Sort of. Can I be a witch if I didn’t know it?

Morning comes much too early. The sun wakes me from the fitful bits of slumber I finally fell into at some point. I stretch, the smell of coffee drawing me upright. That brings a smile.

Sam. Maybe you’re not all jerk after all.

I slip out from under the covers, quickly dress for the day, knowing we need to leave soon, and go into the kitchen. Sam is leaning against the counter, sipping from one of my mugs. He nods towards the coffee pot. I get a mug and pour myself a cup, blowing on the hot liquid before sipping.

“Mm, good, thank you,” I say.

“You’re welcome.” Sam’s voice is gruff, but there’s a warmth in his eyes that throws me off. At least he has his shirt on, thank God. Yet, even clothed, he dominates the space like he owns it. Likehebelongs here more than I do.

For a second, I think about last night, how I couldn’t look away from him. I wonder if he caught me staring, if he knows the war raging inside me. I hope not. I don’t need his pity or his smugness. I take another sip of coffee and focus on the steaming liquid, the earthy taste grounding me.

“We should probably get going soon,” I say, breaking the silence.

I manage to keep my voice steady, at least. That’s something. Sam sets his mug on the counter and crosses his arms, his eyes boring into me like he’s trying to read my mind.

“Are you ready for this?” he asks.

Ready? That’s a laugh. As if I didn’t spend the night drowning in questions.

Who am I, really? What does being a witch even mean? Is it dangerous? Will it change me?

Yet I don’t want him to see me as weak, so instead of saying any of that I shrug.

“Do I have a choice?”

“You always have a choice, Erica,” he says, frowning.

“That’s rich, coming from you,” I snap before I can stop myself. The tension thickens like a storm cloud. “What choice do I have, Sam? Ignore this? Pretend it doesn’t exist? You saw what happened with that book. You know I can’t just...walk away from it.”

He doesn’t flinch at my outburst and doesn’t rise to meet it with his usual sharpness. Instead, he softens, stepping closer but keeping enough distance to let me breathe.

“I know it’s a lot,” he says quietly. “More than a lot. But running from it won’t help. If anyone knows that it’s me.”

I want to ask what he means, but his expression closes before I can pry. There’s something in his eyes. Pain, maybe, or regret. It’s not the first time I’ve seen it, but I still don’t know what it means. Maybe he’s as haunted by his past as I am by my future. Whatever it is he doesn’t let me see it for long. He glances at the clock on the microwave, then back at me.

“We leave in ten minutes.”

I nod and he walks out of the kitchen to grab his things. When he’s gone, I lean against the counter and let out a shaky breath. Ten minutes. Barely enough time to shove down the fear clawing at my insides and paste on a brave face.

I know he’s going to take me to Helena and I’m terrified. Of what she’ll tell me, yes, but also of whatever power I might have buried inside me. What if this power takes over? What if I hurt someone… or worse? The thought alone is enough to make my stomach churn. It feels like a betrayal of everything I thought I knew about myself. I’ve spent my whole life building an identity, and now it’s unraveling like I pulled a loose thread.

I finish my coffee and rinse out the mug. The mundane action grounding me enough to keep moving. When I step outside, Sam is closing the trunk of my car, having placed the worn box in there for safe keeping during our trip. He watches me come down the steps and, for the moment at least, there’s no smirk, no walls, just quiet understanding.

“Ready?” he asks.

No. Not even close.

But I square my shoulders and nod.

“Let’s go,” I say before the growing fear can convince me to run back into the house, lock the door and hide.

If this is destiny, I’ll face it like I’ve faced everything else in my life, head-on. Running isn’t who I am, even if standing my ground terrifies me.

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