Page 35 of Witch's Wolf

“Erica…”

“Goodbye Sam,” she whispers and then she walks out the door.

A hollow numbness spreads through my chest, heavier than the pain radiating from my battered body. I stare at the empty space where Erica stood, my brain scrambling to make sense of what just happened. One moment she was here, fragile but present.The next, she was gone, slipping through my fingers like water, leaving nothing but silence in her wake.

She didn’t even give me a real reason. Saying she’d hurt me? What the fuck does she think this is? She’s driving a knife straight through my ribs with her words. With her absence.

I clench my fists against the thin hospital blanket, frustration simmering beneath the surface. I should go after her. Demand the truth. Force her to look me in the eye and explain why she thinks walking away is the only option. But I can’t.

I’ve got a leg wrapped in plaster and an IV in my arm. And I feel like I’ve been run over by a truck. Helplessness presses down like a two-ton weight. I hate this feeling this powerless. I’ve been through hell before, but at least then I could fight. Now, I’m stuck in this damn bed, watching the woman I’ve fallen for slip away without a fight.

And the worst part, the part I feel in my bones, is that she doesn’t want to leave. She’s scared. Of what, I don’t know. But something has her convinced that the idea of us is impossible.

I drag a hand down my face, exhaling slowly. If she thinks I’ll just let her go without a damn good reason, she’s got another thing coming.

This isn’t over. Not by a long shot.

19

ERICA

“Why? Did I do something wrong?”

“It’s just that… the more I think about us, the more I realize that I’m going to hurt you.”

It’s been two weeks and the ache in my chest hasn’t faded, no matter how much I tell myself I made the right choice. I left Sam because I had to. Because if I didn’t, I’d drag him into a darkness he doesn’t deserve. None of which means I’ve stopped wanting him.

The memory of his face when I walked out, stunned and wounded, haunts me. I tell myself it’s for the best. That he’ll move on, heal, and find someone who can give him everything I can’t. But I don’t believe it. Not really. My past won’t let me.

As I step into Michelle’s bar, the familiar scent of wood polish and coffee is the first comfort I’ve found in anything in days. It’s early, so the place is empty save for a handful of staff prepping for the evening shift. I nod to them and walk over to the Yamaha tucked in the corner, running my fingers over the smooth keys.

Music has always been my escape. My refuge. When the weight of memories threatens to drag me under, this is where I flee, to the steady rhythm, the predictable patterns, the control I can never seem to find anywhere else.

I sit down and press a single key, letting the note ring through the quiet space. Then another. And another. A melody takes shape beneath my fingertips, something slow and aching, the kind of song that expresses the words I can’t say.

I close my eyes and let myself get lost in it. Maybe, for a little while, I can forget the way Sam looked at me. The way I wanted to run back to him. Maybe, for a little while, I can pretend I made the right choice. Music is supposed to be an escape. A sanctuary.

My fingers glide over the Yamaha’s keys, coaxing out a melody that should soothe me, but it doesn’t. The notes feel hollow, the rhythm off, like my heart isn’t in it.

Because it isn’t.

I close my eyes, trying to lose myself, but all I see is Sam. The moment his truck disappeared over that cliff, the helplessness that swallowed me whole. The way his face twisted in confusion when I told him we were over.

I dig my thumbs into the keys, an unharmonious clash ringing through the empty bar. No. I can’t do this right now. I came here to forget, to drown in music, not memories.

Frustrated, I push back from the piano, my bench scraping against the wooden floor. I need a distraction. I look around the bar, needing something that can pull my attention out of my head.

Patricia is wiping down a table in the middle of the bar, her bronze hair pulled into a neat ponytail. Not far from her, Gina is mopping the floor in front of the counter, humming to herself. The normalcy of their routine pulls me out of my head. I take a breath and force a smile and then walk over.

“Morning, girls,” I greet them, rolling my shoulders as if I can shake off the tension. “It’s been a while since we last talked.”

Patricia’s eyes glint with something unreadable when she looks up. Her gaze flicks from me to a guy I hadn’t noticed waiting in a dark corner.

“We’re finishing up because that man is here for you,” she says, speaking softly. Then she flashes a bright smile. “And we want to hear the scoop when you’re done.”

My smile falters as I follow her gaze. He’s a graying man sitting with his back straight, hands folded neatly on the small table. His beige suit is expensive, the cut precise. Michelle’s is nice, but not that nice. It’s more than clear that he doesn’t belong here. Unease creeps along my spine.

“Thanks,” I murmur. “You don’t have to rush on my account.”

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