Page 12 of Barely Breathing

“I don’t?” He gives a small laugh.

“You do?”

His grin widens. “I was curious after I heard what happened between the two of you. I might have looked him up.”

“Thank you. Yes.” I run my fingers into my hair, and they tangle. “I should take a shower.”

“What about Peter? Want me to set up a date—I mean, meeting?”

“Yes, please. I need to see if he knows anything about who took Paul and why.” I don’t want to get my hopes up. Peter isn’t exactly in the top echelon of his werewolf pack, but he’s the only werewolf I’ve met who doesn’t scare the shit out of me. He’s my only lead in this supernatural mess and possibly my only chance to find answers about Paul’s disappearance.

“On it, Tam-tam.” Anthony gives a slight bow as he steps backward down the hall. “You can count on me.”

I retreat to my bedroom, the frustration of drifting for the last week still clings to my thoughts. I lock the door and lean against it, slowly exhaling. It’s daylight. Costin won’t show up until after dark—if he is going to show. He didn’t stop me from leaving.

Stay here.

I hear his voice whispering in my head as if, even now, he’s influencing my thoughts.

Costin is hiding something. I feel it. He’s always been secretive and too controlled. He says the right things, but what’s behind those words?

My hand drifts to my neck, where the amuletfeels like both a curse and a blessing. Its protection has come at a tremendous personal cost. Part of me wants to take it off and smash it again, but I worry that will cause Draakmar to wake up. I can’t go through all of that again.

I take a deep breath and begin to undress. I’ve chosen Costin—or so I keep telling myself—but why can’t I shake the feeling that Paul isn’t exactly a thing of the past?

Chapter

Three

Peter’s retro coffee shop choice is so unremarkably normal that it feels strange that we’d be talking werewolf kidnappings amongst a sea of writers absorbed in their projects. The clack of keyboards underlies the indie rock pumped through old speakers and the sound of grinders. The smell of espresso is so intense that I feel jittery just breathing it in like my body will absorb the caffeine-filled air through my lungs and skin.

The golden sunlight of evening streams through large windows, casting hazy rectangles across the wooden tables. Anthony sits beside me, radiating protective older brother energy. He refused to let me come alone, even though I don’t think there is anything to fear from Peter. I’ve known the werewolfforever, at least from the peripheral of his friendship with my brother.

Anthony stirs a third packet of sugar into his coffee as he tries to appear casual, but I notice how his eyes track every movement in the café. I can well imagine the magic humming beneath his skin, ready for an attack.

“Relax,” I whisper. “We’re only meeting Peter.”

“I am relaxed.” He takes a sip and grimaces. “This isn’t nearly as good as the candy chef’s.”

“You just like watching our mother get riled.”

Anthony grins. “Guilty.”

Seeing several people on their phones, I feel compelled to check mine. There are no messages from Costin. I’m not sure if I’m relieved or disappointed.

Then again, he’s not one for texting. He usually just appears out of the shadows.

I recheck the sunlight, seeing the subtle shift in color as the evening approaches. Where is Peter? I had hoped this meeting would be over before sunset.

The bell above the door chimes, drawing my attention. Peter is exactly as I remember him. He’s lanky and tall with messy brown hair that falls into his eyes. The years haven’t changed him physically, but there’s now a wariness that wasn’t there when we were younger. I suppose age does that to us all. Ittakes away our innocence and replaces it with a more cynical shell.

His smile, however, is the same goofy boyish grin. “Tamara!” Peter’s voice carries more than he probably realizes. Or maybe he doesn’t care. He spreads his arms wide, like entering the coffee shop is part of a performance and he’s the star. “Darling, you look as beautiful as ever.” He glances at Anthony and laughs. “Can’t say the same for you, old chap.”

Several patrons glance our way and then quickly return to their devices.

To look at Peter, you wouldn’t think werewolf. It’s a stereotype, but I always picture big, beefy shoulders and hairy lumberjacks.

I stand to hug him, and he squeezes me so tight my ribs protest. The scent of pine needles and earth is faint under a layer of cologne. I don’t know where he’d run through pine trees in the city. The familiar scent brings back memories of childhood games in the forest behind the estate.

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