Page 72 of The Lone Wolf Café
I hadn’t miscounted. It was more than what we’d agreed on for my hourly rate.
A lot more.
A pained sob caught in my throat, and a pair of newly formed tears fell from my eyes, staining one of the bills with two tiny, damp circles.
A lot of emotions hit me at that moment. But the strongest one was regret.
I regretted that my last words to Rowena were an apology.
Instead, I should’ve thanked her. For everything.
Chapter Sixteen
Itold myself I would leave the cottage shortly before midnight, when the sky was thick with the cover of darkness and I could slip out undetected. It was the safest option, as no stray witches would spot me shifting into my wolf form and running away so late into the night.
But the real reason for lingering was because I couldn’t bring myself to leave.
Even as I lay there, curled up with my blanket and pillow re-reading one of my favorite Wiccan mythology books, I couldn’t believe this was the last time I would see this cottage. In between chapters, I’d glance around in the low blue-tinged light, studying all the details of the place I’d lived in for two weeks. It still needed a lot of work to be fully livable, but it looked better than when I’d first arrived.
Much of that was thanks to Aria. Her air magic kept the floors and windows spotless and free of dust and dirt. I patted her cool, breezy head as she slept next to me, curled up atop her doll bed. I planned on leaving most of the goods I’d acquired behind, but I promised Aria we could bring her bed. It would fit perfectly into my satchel.
It had been a while since I left the café, and it was now pitch-black outside. My body’s internal clock wasn’t very accurate, as us wolves didn’t live in terms of hours and minutes. But I assumed it was around seven or eight, which meant I still had several hours until it was time to leave.
I was painfully aware of every passing second, anxiety mounting in my throat as the minutes ticked closer to my departure time.
I still didn’t know where I was going to go. I figured for that night, I’d just get as far away from Wisteria Grove – and theneighboring werewolf territory – as possible and hunker down in some secluded part of the woods.
Maybe I’d leave Mount Desert Island and travel up to Bangor. Maybe in a few days, I’d leave the state of Maine entirely.
Or maybe I’d just scurry back to Hollenboro, defeated and guilt-ridden, and let my father decide my fate.
The loud slam of a screen door made me jolt. My head shot up from my book, toward the still cracked-open window on the opposite side of the room.
Up until now, Rowena’s cottage had been silent. I hadn’t even seen her silhouette through the heavy curtains like usual. But now, the screen door slamming was followed by voices.
Two of them.
I rose from against the wall, letting my ears focus.
It was Rowena. And that middle-aged man from the night before.
He was back.
Except this time, their voices weren’t hushed and secretive. Rowena was yelling. The man alternated between trying to calm her and sharply rebutting her shouts, occasionally descending into yelling himself.
I gingerly placed my book on the floor, tossed my blanket off my lap, and crept over to the window.
Rowena was standing by the back door, just like she’d been the night before. Except this time, she was bracing herself in the doorframe, leering menacingly toward the man. She was angry.
But why?
The man stood in the garden next to the blueberry bushes, dressed in a different flannel shirt and a pair of well-worn jeans. There was an old baseball cap on his head, hiding his thinning hair, and on his feet were heavy-duty work boots.
I narrowed my eyes.
Who the hell is this man?
Ever since I’d found the crate and muzzle in Rowena’s cottage, I assumed he was a fellow werewolf hunter. Or at least some sort of accomplice. But now, the fear on Rowena’s face had me doubting that assumption. She was scared.
