Page 4 of Witch's Wolf

“I’ll be thirty in June,” I say flatly.

“See? That’s not even old, but you’ve got this sixty-year-old vibe going on. One of those guys who yells at kids ‘to get off my lawn’,” she says, mimicking my voice by deepening hers in an exaggerated way.

“You know, excessive sarcasm is boring,” I say, narrowing my eyes and keeping my voice even. “It’s an art, knowing when to use it and when to let it go. You should really work on that.”

“Noted,” she says with a playful salute before raising her glass and sipping. “Drink?”

“No,” I say, shaking my head. “I came here to ask you something.”

“Oh?” she asks, raising one eyebrow, her glass hovering near her lips.

“A broken heart,” I begin, the words heavy in my mouth. “What does it do to a human?”

Her response is immediate and sharp. She sets the glass down with a soft clink. She stares into my eyes intensely.

“It doesn’t kill us, if that’s what you’re asking,” she says, pausing and looking thoughtful. “It hurts like hell, but it doesn’t kill. All those songs about not being able to live without someone? Romantic nonsense. People live with that pain every day.”

Her answer carries a weight I didn’t expect. Maybe she understands, but doubt makes me study her carefully.

“You sound like you speak from experience.”

“Yep. Bitter experience. And I’m not talking about it. Especially not with you,” she says, her eyes darkening as she purses her lips.

“Why not?”

She doesn’t answer, not with words. Instead, she steps toward me, slow and deliberate, her eyes on mine. Her scent, cinnamon laced with something deeper, sharper, hits me like a wave. I feel it in every nerve as every instinct screams. It’s not perfume, it’s pheromones. Her. Damn her.

“Don’t,” I growl, backing up until my hand finds the door behind me. My head is spinning, the pheromones igniting my most primal instincts. “Is this why you wanted me back here?”

Her voice softens, almost pleading.

“All I wanted was for you to hear me sing. You’re the one who came to my dressing room.”

No. I can’t do this.

“Whatever,” I snap, turning the knob. My wolf surges, wanting something completely different. “For the record, this was a mistake. Goodnight, Ms. Connors.”

“Sam—”

I don’t wait for her to finish. The door clicks behind me with a sound that is sharp and final, like a gavel sealing my own judgment. My boots echo in the narrow hall, each one deliberate, each one heavier than the last. My pulse thunders in my ears,drowning out everything but the war raging inside my chest and head. Desire clashing with restraint, fear battling the pull of her.

She’s a beautiful woman. Too beautiful. With her long blonde hair, French nose, and those lips. Damn, those lips. She could make a saint stumble. But I can’t. I won’t.

Because beauty like hers doesn’t just tempt. It destroys.

2

ERICA

Did that really happen?

The question loops in my head, over and over, as I linger in my empty dressing room. Sam’s musky earth and pine scent clings to the air, mixing with the sharper tang of vodka. A reminder of what didn’t happen. My cheeks burn with the sting of rejection while my heart wars between humiliation and stubborn defiance.

I’ve never had trouble knowing when someone’s attracted to me. It’s always been obvious. Their eyes tell the story. Add in the way they tilt their body closer without realizing it. But Sam? He’s maddeningly unreadable. His body is stoic, as if its carved from stone, rigid and unyielding. Physically, he gives nothing away, except for his eyes. Those sky-blue eyes betray him every time.

Every visit to Dawson, they’ve given him away. The way he glances at my legs when he thinks I’m not looking. How they flicker to my chest before darting away, like he’s punishing himself for even noticing. And once, God help him, I caught his reflection in the mirror stealing a quick glance at my ass while I was chatting with Nora.

None of those signs sound like a man who’s not interested. Not in the slightest. And yet tonight, when I put myself on offer, he ran. He didn’t just leave. He bolted. Like being in a room with me was unbearable. Making me the problem.

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