Page 9 of Witch's Wolf

“Sam had a thing,” Monica says, casually popping a cherry tomato into her mouth like she didn’t just drop a bombshell.

Right… and I’m the queen of Spain.

The words sit heavy in the air between us, like an overly sweet dessert that I can’t stomach. A thing? What the hell does a motorcycle mechanic in Dawson have to do on a Saturday night? Go to Joe’s bar and get wasted? As far as I can tell, that’s about as exciting as it gets around here. The tiny coffee shop on the edge of town locks up at eight. Anything involving alcohol, but not Joe’s, would require driving to Shandaken, which is full of humans.

No. Shifters, especially Sam, don’t mix with humans, at least not willingly. They prefer to stick to their own kind. Circling the wagons around some unspoken line between “us” and “them.” Sam’s not in Shandaken. He’s not anywhere, not anywhere I’d find him, anyway.

“What kind of thing?” I ask, keeping my voice light, even though my stomach is twisting painfully.

My fingers curl into the fabric of my jeans beneath the table, nails biting into my palms. Monica raises a brow, clearly enjoying herself.

Why do I care? Isn’t this better than being here with him?

“You know, a thing. He didn’t elaborate. Just said he was busy and couldn’t make it tonight.”

Busy. Right. I force a smile, but the effort makes my cheeks ache.

“Right. Must be important,” I say.

“Oh, I’m sure it is.” Monica leans back in her chair, giving me a knowing look. “You’ve got to hand it to him, though. When Sam doesn’t want to do something, he doesn’t beat around the bush.”

I bark a laugh, short, bitter, and louder than I intend. Raul and his siblings glance over from the grill, but I wave them off, hoping the heat crawling up my neck isn’t as obvious as it feels.

Shifters, they can probably freaking smell it.

“Yeah,” I say, my throat tight. “He’s really good at that.”

The barbeque carries on, laughter bubbling and filling the air with the joy of others. The smoky aroma of grilling meat mingles with the crisp tang of the fresh-cut grass. Plates clink, glasses clatter, and someone turns up the stereo system that’s playing a lively country tune. Raul’s youngest brother twirls his fiancée in a clumsy, yet endearing waltz. Everything is perfect, idyllic even. For them. I, though, can’t focus on anything but the hollow ache in my chest.

Sam had a thing.

I imagine him somewhere else, maybe in that dimly lit garage of his, surrounded by grease and the comforting hum of engines. Or maybe he’s out in the woods, running under the moonlight, his wolf free and wild in a way I’ll never understand. Wherever he is, it’s not here. And I’m not sure which problem is bigger. That he’s not here or that I wish he was.

I take a long sip of wine, the sweetness failing to mask the bitterness in my mouth. Monica’s talking, something about Stacy’s new boyfriend, but her voice fades into the background, drowned out by the noise in my head.

I shouldn’t care. I shouldn’t be replaying the way Sam’s eyes narrowed when I got close last night or the gruff, husky edge in his voice when he told me to back off. But I do care, and it’s pathetic. A plate clatters onto the table in front of me, breaking through the musings. Raul’s sister, Nora, grins as she slides a heaping portion of ribs my way.

“You’ve got to try these, Erica. Raul uses a secret marinade and its killer.”

“Thanks,” I nod, forcing a grateful smile. “They smell amazing.”

She beams and turns back to her husband, but the smile slips from my face the second she isn’t looking. The ribs sit untouched, the rich, savory scent curling into the air, tempting but my stomach is too knotted to eat. I know I should. I should laugh, drink, and pretend everything’s fine, but I can’t. I tighten my grip on my wine glass as my thoughts loop back to Sam.

Why does it matter if he’s not here? Why does he have this gravitational pull that makes me feel unmoored whenever he’s gone?

“Earth to Erica.” Monica’s voice cuts through and snaps me into the moment. Her sharp green eyes narrow with suspicion. “You’re quiet. Too quiet. What’s going on up there?” she asks, tapping her temple.

“Nothing,” I say quickly. Too quickly.

“Uh-huh.” She doesn’t believe me, not for a second. Leaning closer, she lowers her voice. “Let me guess. You’re thinking about Sam.”

“Don’t be ridiculous.” I laugh, but it sounds hollow even to me. “Why would I be thinking about him?”

“Oh, I don’t know. Maybe because you’re in love with him?” Monica smirks, crossing her arms. Her words are a punch in my guts.

“I am not?—”

“Relax,” she cuts me off, waving a hand. “I’m teasing.”

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