Page 64 of Witch's Wolf

“Sam,” I choke on his name, tears filling my eyes.

It’s not just the hurt. It’s that he’s right. I can’t argue with him. How could I? Logically, I know this, but my heart bursts. Not into pieces, but into flames, consuming, uncontrollable. Rage burns through my veins, using my pain as fuel.

“That woman, myso claimed mother, faked her death and walked out of my life twenty-two years ago. Who the hell gave her the right to decide who I can and can’t be with?”

Sam’s eyes flash with something unreadable. When he speaks, his voice rises.

“Valid,” he says, shifting his weight, as if the conversation itself is too heavy to bear. He looks into my eyes for the first time, and I clearly see that this is tearing him apart. “But… Erica… we have to face the facts. Helena thinks Roberta might be able to be reasoned with, but I think I know you well enough to know that you’re not going to talk to her.”

A sharp, bitter laugh escapes me before I can stop it.

“Why should I? What’s the point? She lied to me! I believed her and my dad died on that plane crash. She did that. Left me with that empty hole in my world. Tore apart everything that was true and stable and for what? Even if I did talk to her and despite it all we somehow reach a truce, how the hell am I supposed to trust her?”

I won’t. I can’t.

Before Sam answers, my phone buzzes in my pocket. I rip it free, raising it between us like a shield from the anguish on his face. When I see the name on the screen, my breath catches.

Alfred Jenkins.

Great. One more damn thing that isn’t done with me yet.

“Play dumb,” Sam murmurs, moving so he’s only inches from my side.

His warmth seeps into me, but it does nothing to stop the ice creeping down my spine. I press the phone to my ear.

“Hello?”

“Ms. Connors, Alfred Jenkins here. I’ve good news,” his voice oozes slick confidence, like a salesman who already knows you’ll buy. Revulsion hits like a punch to the guts. My stomach clenches, forcing bile up my throat. “The executives at Platinum Tunes loved your demo. They e-mailed me your contract this morning. They don’t even want you to fly to L.A. You’ll need to do that after you’ve signed, of course, but that will be later. I don’t know about you, but I think this calls for a celebration. I’ve got the perfect place. It’s in Westchester, two-four-six-three Acacia Drive. Can you be there?”

My fingers tighten around the phone. Westchester. That’s too convenient, too easy. I look at Sam, fighting to not tremble in fear. This bastard, slimy vampire-wannabe-asshole makes my skin crawl. Sam puts a reassuring hand on my shoulder and nods. I force a smile, fake enthusiasm coating my words.

“Yes, sir! This is amazing! What time should we meet?”

“Nine o’clock, okay? I’ll have the contract printed out for you,” he says, warm and smarmy.

“That’s perfect,” I say, drawing all my strength from Sam’s reassuring presence.

“Perfect. Welcome to Platinum Tunes, Ms. Connors.”

The call disconnects, but the weight of it lingers. I exhale sharply, trembling as I drop my arm, holding the phone at my side.

“In all this excitement, I’d almost forgotten about that crap.”

“You know what this is, don’t you?” Sam asks.

I swallow hard as the pieces slot together like jagged glass.

“An ambush,” I whisper, seeing it clearly. “Those bastards plan to kidnap me.”

Sam’s lips curve, but it’s not amusement. It’s something much darker, something lethal.

“They can try,” he growls in a tone that is laced with quiet fury. “My pack will be ready. I swear to you, Erica, you will not be alone. Don’t worry, I won’t let them hurt you.”

My pulse pounds hard. It should be reassuring, the way he says it with such certainty. But if I’ve learned nothing else from all this shit, one thing I do know. Nothing is certain.

“What if something goes wrong?” I ask, fear curling around my ribs and squeezing with icy fingers. “What if they…?”

I can’t finish the sentence. Because the truth is, I already know what they’re capable of. And so does Sam.

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