Page 3 of Witch's Wolf

The room erupts in applause, and I’m left staring as she takes her seat at the piano, her fingers hovering over the keys like they’re an extension of her body. When she starts to play, I feel an ache in my chest that I can’t put a name too. Her voice pours into the room, rich and layered, hitting notes that shouldn’t be possible.

She’s good. Better than good. Every note, every movement feels alive, like she’s baring her soul in the music. And I hate how much I notice. Noticing means I care and the one thing I don’t want to do is care.

“Thank you,” she says, her voice smooth yet laced with something I can’t quite place. Her hazel eyes catch the flickering candlelight, turning them molten. “Just so you know, I’ve got two special reasons to give it my all tonight. Don’t ask who, but they’re here, and that’s all I’ll say.”

Raul nudges me, his grin smug and infuriating.

“Think she’s talking about us?” he teases.

I growl, shaking my head, and refusing to take his bait. For two hours, she commands the stage like she was born on it, weaving through classic ballads and modern hits with a passion that’s impossible to fake. I sit there, silent and still. Fighting the instinct to lean forward and drink her in.

As the set ends the crowd erupts. They’re on their feet roaring with approval and shouts for more. I’m grappling with a truth I don’t want to face. She’s more than the sarcastic, infuriating woman who’s made a hobby out of getting under my skin. She’s extraordinary, talented, and fascinating. Which terrifies me.

She bows twice then exits through the same curtain she entered. She belongs on stage. Every movement, every note felt like anextension of her soul. She undeniably owned this room and every ounce of attention in it. Her little note about this being her playground wasn’t arrogance. It was fact.

I stare at the shadow of the exit, hating that she’s good. That she’s more than good. Hating the way she’s left me feeling. Her scent lingers in my nose, intoxicating, inviting me to do something stupid. All of it complicates things.

“You mind waiting in the truck?” I ask Raul gruffly.

He quirks a brow but nods, tossing a fifty onto the table.

“Sure,” he says, standing up. “Go ahead, but hey, don’t scare her off, yeah?”

I grunt and turn away, leaving him smirking as I head for the curtain she disappeared through. The scent of cinnamon lingers in the air like a taunt, growing stronger as I step into the narrow corridor. Overhead, a single buzzing light casts long shadows, and two doors stand at the end of the hall. The first readsStaff Only,but it’s the second one, markedSinger,that draws me forward.

My fingers hesitate on the knob. Her scent is everywhere, summoning me, but even so, it’s unwelcome. It pulls at instincts I’ve spent years suppressing. Reluctantly, I push the door open.

She’s leaning against the edge of a dresser, one hand braced on its wooden surface, In the other hand, she cradles a glass of something clear over ice. Vodka, probably. She tilts her head back as she takes a slow sip, and for a moment, she looks vulnerable.

“Great performance,” I say, stepping inside, carefully keeping my voice even, not too appreciative, but not unappreciative either.

“Reverend Crawford,” she greets me with that maddening smile, her eyes dancing.

She gestures with the half-empty glass. I snort, the corner of my mouth twitching despite myself.

“Another nickname?” I ask. “Is it the beard? Something wrong with having a beard?”

“Nothing at all,” she says, setting her glass down. Her hazel eyes look tired but still sharp as they meet mine. “You enjoyed the show?”

Enjoyed? Not nearly strong enough a word, but fuck all if I’m going to say that. This is thin ice.

“You’re good,” I agree, trying to keep it noncommittal.

“Remember I said there were two reasons I wanted to give my best tonight?”

“Yeah. Why?” I nod, wary of where this is going.

“You’re one of them,” she says. Her voice is calm, matter-of-fact, like she’s commenting on nothing more important than the weather. “The other, bigger reason, is your brother. He’s a good guy. You? Not so much.”

“Thanks for the glowing review.”

I raise an eyebrow, crossing my arms over my chest. She chuckles. The sound is soft but laced with something sharper.

“Don’t take it personally. You make it easy to figure out another nickname for you, though. Want to hear it?”

“Not particularly.”

“How about ‘grumpy old man’,” she laughs with a mischievous gleam in her eye. “How old are you, anyway?”

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