Page 39 of Witch's Wolf

The way she throws herself into every situation. Reckless, determined, like she’s trying to outrun something. The way she pushed at me, kept coming back even when I shoved her away. And the way she looked at me that night in the hospital, like I’d cracked something open inside her she wasn’t ready to face. Because I remind her of him.

The thought twists through me, sharp and jagged. Is that what I am?A replacement?A second chance at something she lost? I don’t know what’s worse, the idea that she left because she couldn’t handle it… or that she never really wantedmeat all.

“Freeze, asshole!” a loud female voice shouts from behind me. The unmistakable cocking of a gun is the next sound I hear. “Turn around! Slowly!”

My spine locks up, every muscle going tight. The air in the shed shifts, thick with something electric, dangerous. But that scent.I should have picked up on it long before she ever got close, that sweet tang of cinnamon.Erica.

I lift my hands, my pulse hammering, not from fear, but from something primal. I should’ve walked away before this got messy, but I didn’t.

“Turn around! Slowly!” she commands again, her voice firm, but there’s a tremor underneath it.

I obey, rotating just enough to see her out of the corner of my eye. Moonlight spills through the shed window, illuminating the gun she’s holding, both hands wrapped around the grip, her knuckles white.

“It’s me Erica,” I say, keeping my voice calm.

“Sam?” She gasps, her hands shaking. “Jesus Christ…” She huffs, lowering her gun. “You scared the shit out of me. What the hell are you doing here?”

“Looking for answers.” I say. “I think I’ve found one”

I add, tossing the piece of paper on the table. Her eyes dart to the paper, something passing over her face that I can’t read. Is she jealous? Hurting? The gun slowly lowers, and she lets out a shaky breath.

“Oh no…” her voice is barely a whisper, her gaze locking onto the article like it might burn through the table. “This is a blatant violation of privacy, Crawford. I could have you arrested for this.”

I let out a sharp breath, jaw tight.

“A week ago, you were chasing me like a dog after a bone,” I say, my voice low, struggling to keep the edge out of it. “Youpushed and pushed, made a move on me, then fell apart when you realized something about yourself. You said it was because you thought you’d never get to have me.” My chest tightens, frustration clawing up my throat. “Now, you’re calling me by my last name and threatening to put me behind bars. Which is it, Erica? Do you want me?” I step closer, closing the space between us. “Or do you hate me?”

My heart slams against my ribs, breath shallow, waiting, needing, to hear her answer. Maybe she’ll yell, maybe she’ll slap me, maybe she’ll run. It doesn’t matter. I need something, anything, other than this silence stretching between us like a goddamn widening chasm.

Nothing. No words. No anger.

Erica just… wilts. Her shoulders curl inward, her head dipping as a shaky breath rattles out of her. She takes a step back, then another, until her back is against the doorframe. The gun slips from her fingers, clattering to the floor, bouncing once before spinning away. Then, she breaks.

A choked sob tears from her throat as she sinks down, burying her face in her hands. Her whole body trembles, shoulders hitching with each gasping breath.

“I’m sorry…” the words barely make it past her lips, raw and broken. “I’m so sorry.”

Something in my chest tightens, hard and unforgiving. Sorry for what? For pushing me away? For pulling me in? For whatever the hell is in that box?

“For what?” I ask, my voice rough like it’s being scraped over gravel. “I’m going crazy, Erica. Explain it to me.”

“For mistreating you,” she croaks, her breath stuttering. “I didn’t want to. I just… I had to.”

Had to? The words dig under my skin, sharp and jagged.

I exhale hard crouching in front of her.

“Let’s take it from the top,” my voice is steadier than I feel. “Michael. You and him were together.” A beat of silence. “What happened in Bolivia, Erica?”

Her breath hitches at the word. Her gaze lifts, glossy with unshed tears.

“Bolivia…” the way she says it, like it’s something sacred and ruined all at once, sends a chill through me. “It was supposed to be our big adventure. Two months backpacking across the country. No plans, no schedules. The road, the stars, and each other.” A bitter smile ghosts across her lips, disappearing as fast as it comes. “Then Michael decided to rent a car. He wanted to go to La Paz. The locals warned him the road was dangerous, but he wouldn’t listen.”

I don’t move. I don’t breathe.

“We were close, Sam.” Her voice is barely there, thin and frayed. “So close. Just two miles from the city, and then… a bus. The road was too narrow. He tried to maneuver around it.” A shudder racks her frame. “I jumped at the last second.”

Her eyes find mine, and for the first time, I see what she’s been carrying, the weight of it pressing down on every breath she takes.

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