Page 21 of Legacy Wolf: Semester One (Legacy Wolf #1)

RAWLING

“Is there something you’re not telling me?

” I asked Jack, a very pregnant pause between me asking and her responding.

She squirmed and chewed her bottom lip, refusing to look me in the eye.

Eventually she shrugged, saying of course there were plenty of juicy deets she kept to herself regarding her and Atticus, which made me want to barf.

But I held it together and didn’t race to the bathroom, though my face probably gave me away.

I let it go. What it was—and there was an it—she wasn’t about to give it up.

Not now and maybe not ever. While I told myself we were as close as before, especially as Jack hovered over me sometimes when we were with other students, much as a hen did to her chicks, there was a yawning gap between us, and I hated that she couldn’t or wouldn’t share the details.

Now it was the middle of the night, and I couldn’t sleep.

Not just because of what was or wasn’t happening between Jack and me.

I was having nightmares, and I put it down to reading that fanfic in Rawlins’s notebook.

Wolves growling as moonlight filtered through the trees, saliva dripping from canines, their eyes dark pools of viciousness plunging into my subconscious.

I tossed and turned, and according to Jack, I moaned because more than once her hand on my shoulder shook me awake.

Tired as I was, I didn’t want to go back to sleep, because the image of the wolves, one in particular who reminded me of Atticus’s tattoo, was embedded in my memory. I shivered as the snarling and growling echoed in my head.

Now was not the time to read more of Rawlins’s writing, not with Jack asleep in the other bed, and why would I torture myself with more images of wild animals inches from my face, intent on tearing off pieces of me.

But those stories spoke to me. I stifled a chuckle. Not spoke to me as in a big booming voice yelling, “Rawling, you want to read about us, we know you do.” No, I had an urge to discover more about the fantasy world my godfather had created.

Creeping out of bed, and deliberately not stepping on the squeaky floorboard to the right of my closet, I retrieved the book from the suitcase.

It would be easier if I put the shifter stories in my desk drawer, but if Jack found them, what would I say?

I was a budding paranormal writer hoping to get published?

But she’d expect me to sit up all night crafting more stories and writing to publishers.

Nah, that would come unraveled as I tripped myself up on lies.

Jack flung an arm under her pillow, and I froze.

But her regular breathing assured me she was asleep as I got into bed and yanked the covers over my head.

Pulling the papers from the section at the back of the book and using the phone flashlight, I shuffled them.

But as I scanned the lines of Rawlins’s handwriting, a folded note slid from between the pages.

Peering at the rows and columns of text and numbers, it appeared to be a bank account.

And not in my godfather’s but mine. But this was one I hadn’t opened or had knowledge of.

I recalled Rawlins sitting me down and telling me about his incurable cancer.

He gave me a copy of his will, leaving me most of his assets, as well as bequeathing something to Sombertooth.

He joked that maybe they’d put his name on a garden bench or a closet.

I’d not paid attention to the money or the house he’d left me.

His impending death left me teetering on the edge of a bottomless chasm, seeing nothing other than darkness and depression in my future.

Even though I was technically an adult, having just turned eighteen, I clung to him, begging him not to leave me.

A sob escaped as the memories flooded back, and I slapped a hand over my mouth, stemming my cries but not the flow of tears.

The weeks after Rawlins’s death were a blur. I’d signed papers and organized a funeral. People came to the house after he was buried, many I’d never met, but they commiserated, shaking my hand and saying what a good man he was.

I couldn’t bear to sell the house. It was my home, and I had nowhere else to live even though it was too big for one person. While Rawlins wasn’t wealthy, the money he’d left me ensured I didn’t have to get a housemate to help pay the bills.

But this account on the newly discovered note wasn’t mine, and yet it was.

It’d been hidden amongst Rawlins’s fanfic, so was this part of his fantasy world?

It would be disconcerting seeing my name on the page with the shifter characters.

I conjured an image of me, not being chased by wild animals, but the reverse; them running away from me, terrified.

Shaking that thought away, I trailed a finger over a bank name, account number, and password, along with answers to those ridiculous questions such as “What’s the name of your first pet?” and the phone number associated with the account. Mine.

It wasn’t my bank; it was a smaller one with fewer branches dotted around the country, and I’d never heard of it. On impulse, I downloaded the app, filled in the usual information, and logged in, expecting to be rejected.

Instead, it was the opposite. There was my name and a dollar sign followed by a lot of zeros.

This couldn’t be real. I was being punked or hackers were trying to get my details so they could what?

Steal my inheritance from Rawlins? Put the house in their name?

None of that made any sense, but every day the news contained stories of more elaborate and sophisticated scams to relieve people of their money.

Was this Atticus’s doing? Mrs. Adilla had deducted points from Phoenix House, and apparently it was Atticus’s fault. People were pissed with him, and I didn’t ask questions, but I gathered he’d cheated or used AI to write an assignment. My name was mentioned, but I ignored the urge to inquire.

Phoenix House losing points didn’t factor into my life. Sure, I was a member, but what did the winning house get at the end of the year? A trophy perhaps? I was trying to survive, and getting a pat on the pack and a photo in a yearbook or on a Sombertooth wall didn’t excite me.

As for Atticus, he was an asshat and continued to be. I wished Jack could see that, though.

I turned my attention to the bank account. I must have stared at it for ages because Jack’s alarm went off. Shit! Thank gods for her setting it for thirty minutes before she had to get up. I had time to return the book and papers to my suitcase.

Jack fumbled for the phone while I leaped up and packed the things away. I didn’t have an early class as my roommate did, so I rolled over and my eyelids shut. But the wolves returned, not one or two but ten or twelve. No matter how powerful nightmare Rawling was, I couldn’t battle a pack.

And so I ran. I was in the woods behind the Sombertooth buildings, and I ducked under low-hanging branches, while getting whacked in the face by others.

My body was covered in scratches, and my mouth was awash with the metallic taste of blood.

Snarls and growls grew louder and something nipped at my heels.

Against my better judgment, I snatched a quick look over my shoulders.

But the wolves were gone, sort of. They were there, but their faces were of Atticus, with Phelan to the side.

Atticus's long hair was drenched in sweat, while Phelan was tugging at his arm. I couldn’t make out what he was saying, but I hoped he was telling the asshat to stop torturing me.

Jack appeared, but behind her was a ghostly image of a bear, his mournful expression and a paw on her shoulder giving the impression he cared about her. She lifted a hand to wave and then lowered it.

“Help me,” I yelled, but it was a dream cry for help where I mouthed the words but nothing came out. My feet stopped moving as I was surrounded by the half-human half-beast creatures.

“Rawling.”

“It’s not what you think!” I shouted as I fumbled for Rawlins’s notepad before I’d remembered I put it away.

She screwed up her face. “If you’re dreaming about a hot Sombertooth alpha, can you keep your voice down? And please, jerk off in the shower.”

Ewww! Did she think I was wanking under the covers? “I’m not an adolescent,” I huffed as I stormed into the bathroom and slammed the door, proving Jack’s point about my juvenile behavior.

Damn, I’d come in without my towel or a change of clothes. Fuck it. I’d wait until she left for class.