Page 67 of Witch's Wolf

“Fine send her to the city,” Ray says. “Not our fucking problem.”

“God damn yo?—”

“Stop,” Raul says. “Ray, I mean you. You think that through and tell me you mean it. And I don’t want your flash, I’m right, motherfucker, answer. Think about it. You want me to treat you like that when you fall for someone?”

Ray opens his mouth halfway through Raul’s speech, but Nora reaches over and puts her hand over his mouth, shaking her head. He glares at her, me, then finally at Raul. He does pause and then lets out a breath as the tension bleeds from his shoulders. He closes his eyes and his shoulders slump.

“Right,” he says, muffled by Nora’s hand. She pulls it away. “Sorry, Sam.”

“Fine,” I say, feeling pent up and trapped. I need space. Need to get away from him and all the angry emotions swirling in my head. “Sit tight. I’ll get the potions from Helena.”

I keep my steps slow and controlled, as if I have everything under wraps. As if my mind isn’t churning with a single, gut-twisting image. Thirty vampires packed into that house, their cold, dead eyes locked onto Erica. Her trapped, outnumbered, and helpless.

In that case, all our careful planning would mean shit.There’d be no secrecy. No containment. We won’t even fit in that house, let alone fight. A muscle jumps in my jaw. I shove the thought down, locking it away where it can’t unravel me. I can’t afford to imagine failure. I have one job. Protect Erica. I won’t do that by picturing worst-case scenarios. I’ll do it by winning.

I will keep you safe Erica. Somehow, I will protect you.

37

ERICA

“Go. I’ll be right behind you,” Sam says, his voice steady and his eyes warm as he presses a kiss to my lips.

A promise. A reassurance. But it’s not enough.

I want him in my car. Want him riding shotgun, his presence a shield against the weight pressing down on my chest. The drive to Westchester is long and the thought of facing Jenkins alone coils tight in my stomach, but I can’t afford to be selfish.

Bringing a wolf shifter into a den of vampires? That would be a death sentence. One whiff of him and the whole thing would go to hell. They’d descend on us like a pack of starving animals. The quiet suburban street would turn into a bloodbath. Sam’s plan, no, our plan, hinges on stealth. If I screw that up, I won’t be only fighting for my life. I’ll drag him down with me.

I tighten my grip on the wheel and force myself to focus as I drive into a world that feels almost unreal. Westchester. The kind of place I used to dream about living.

The houses here are sprawling with manicured lawns that stretch out like emerald carpets. Wide driveways sit empty,waiting for luxury cars to roll in. Security looks like an afterthought. Windows left open; bicycles abandoned between SUVs. These people don’t know fear. They don’t check over their shoulders or grip their keys between their fingers when they walk to their front doors.

Jenkins’ house is different, though. His estate stands alone at the end of Acacia Drive. No neighbor across the street and no nearby prying eyes. That doesn’t make me nervous. No, not in the slightest.

I ease my car up to the curb, parking several feet behind a sleek black limousine. The house itself is all glass and concrete, modern and sterile. A fortress disguised as a luxury home. A towering brick fence surrounds the yard, shielding whatever happens inside from the outside world.

I step out of my car and there is a man waiting at the front door. He wears a crème-colored suit with his hands perfectly clasped over his stomach. Every inch of him screams he’s a professional. A gatekeeper. I swallow and then step forward.

“Hi. My name’s Erica Connors. I’m here to see Mr. Jenkins,” I say, my voice somehow steady even though my pulse hammers in my throat.

“Yes, ma’am. He’s been expecting you,” the man says in a smooth, professional voice.

His fingers curl around the circular glass doorknob, and even in the dim light, his pale skin stands out. Too pale. Cold spreads through my chest.

Vampire.

I swallow hard, keeping my expression neutral. No sudden movements. No hesitation. If I react, if I let on that I know, he might pick up on my fear. Might wonder what else I know.

The door swings wide, opening onto warm, golden light that spreads across the marble floor. Opulence drips from every surface. I walk through. On my left is a bronze statue of a boxer, frozen mid-punch. Beyond that, a massive TV dominates the wall, flanked by sleek home theater speakers. A subwoofer crouches beneath them, waiting to unleash sound that would probably rattle my bones. The living room is a shrine to wealth. Marble artifacts are scattered across the coffee table, another bronze statue, this one of Zeus, watches over the room with cold, unseeing eyes from a corner.

And then I see him. Jenkins.

He stands behind a bar, presenting himself in the role of gracious host. His suit is expensive, but he wears it with the easy comfort of a man who’s used to luxury. He could be an aging bartender in another life, casual and welcoming, except for the sharp glint in his eyes. Two empty glasses sit in front of him. In his grasp, a bottle of blue-label Johnnie Walker.

“Ms. Connors!” he cheers, lifting the bottle like it’s some grand prize. “Welcome! Welcome! What do you think of my place? Do you like it?”

“It’s nice,” I say, forcing myself to smile and doing my best to keep my voice even and polite despite the fear that fills my head. “It’s good to see you again, sir.”

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