Page 85 of Witch's Wolf

“Yeah. And look where all her wits got her.”

“Look, forget about all this. It’s over. It almost cost Helena her life, but she did it. She won. You should focus on your personal life now.”

“I thought I already was,” I say, arching an eyebrow.

“How?” Raul snorts, amused. “You going to drive to and from New York every other day? You both need something more, Sammy. Take a week off. Go to the city, take her wherever you want, but stop this back-and-forth bullshit. It’s exhausting, and you know it.”

I grunt, hating that he’s not wrong.

“I do,” I admit finally. I stare into the flickering flames as they consume the witch’s body. “Rot in hell, Roberta.”

Heat brushes my skin and relief spreads like the fire consuming her body. This is the final chapter of a short, bloody story. The epilogue to a drama filled with hate, malice, and treachery.

Roberta Connors’ remains will never leave Dawson. The wind itself will carry them across the land she despised because of my pack, our witch, and me.

48

ERICA

“I’ve got a week off from work. Let’s go to Jamaica, Cuba, wherever in the tropics you want.”

Sam doesn’t waste time. Not even hours after Helena’s battle with Roberta, he’s already thinking about an escape. Under different circumstances, it would’ve been a no-brainer. I love the Caribbean. I’ve only been there once, but I’ve missed it ever since. Warm weather, pristine beaches, food so good it lingers in your memory. Who wouldn’t want that?

This past week has been the most turbulent of my life. It’s left me reeling, trying to process everything. Roberta’s madness, the lengths she went to destroy everything I love. She took my father. She took a boyfriend from me. Tried to take Sam.

The idea of jetting off somewhere beautiful feels… wrong. Too soon. But there is one place I do want to go. Back to New York City. The thought crystallizes in the dead of night, when the past refuses to let me sleep. The solution isn’t to run away to paradise. It’s to go home.

I have more than a few reasons. Not the least of which is I’ve barely lived in my new house. With all the back and forth to the mountains, I haven’t had time to settle, to make it mine. And then there’s the Hudson River. Specifically, the piers. I used to spend hours there, letting the breeze wash over me, losing myself in the view. Alone. With friends. It didn’t matter. It was my place.

When I tell Sam, he’s confused. Which, I get it, I talked about the tropics, about Bolivia, about everywhere but here. When I insist, he puts aside his personal feelings. And, like he always does, decides to indulge me.

Pier 46 buzzes with life on this cool, late-May evening. The benches are packed, people pressed shoulder to shoulder. Joggers weave through the crowds, headphones in, lost in their own worlds. Kids shriek and chase each other while exhausted parents struggle to keep up.

Sam looks… bewildered. His sharp eyes scan the chaos, his body too tense, like he’s ready to bolt. The only familiar thing around him is the sparse scattering of trees.

“You look like a fish out of water,” I tease, nudging him with my elbow.

“And here I thought shifters were loud,” he says, eyes on a man shouting at his son.

Sam winces. “Two minutes of this, and my eardrums are going to burst.”

“Well… I’ve been in your comfort zone for a while now. Thought it was time for you to see mine. Do you like it?”

He doesn’t answer right away. Instead, his gaze settles on the river, watching the water ripple beneath the dimming sky.

“I like that,” he admits. “It’s a lot wider than any river I’ve seen.” He looks up and his lips twitch. “And them. He gestures at two seagulls swooping past a nearby fishing boat. “We don’t have seagulls.”

A breeze lifts my hair, cool against my skin. I breathe in and let it fill me.

“I can’t get enough of this,” I murmur. “I almost feel sorry for you. Thirty years old, and this is your first time here? I don’t know if I could live without coming to the pier every once in a while.”

Sam’s fingers tighten around mine, his thumb tracing slow circles over my knuckles.

“I had other things you didn’t have growing up,” he says, his voice quieter now. “I’m not bragging or anything. I’m just…”

“Pointing out what’s important,” I finish for him. “What was it like, Sammy? Growing up with a mom and dad?”

He exhales, his gaze drifting toward the water.

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