Page 1 of Witch’s Wolf (Bound by the Howl #2)

1

SAM

T he human world? Bah, no thanks, not for me.

I’ve seen what it does to my kind. What it did to my brother, Raul. The memory is raw and fresh, no matter how hard I try to shove it aside. The fear in his eyes is burned into my mind, the kind that strips you down to nothing, paralyzing you until there’s no fight left. He was teetering on the edge of the abyss, one misstep away from falling.

No matter what my family, Nora, Ray, and I tried to do to pull him back. In the end there’s no saving someone from themselves. Raul was all in on the human doctor and when she abandoned him, the curse kicked in.

That’s the trouble with loving a human. It’s a gamble. A reckless, stupid bet with the odds stacked against you. And when you lose? You don’t just lose love. You lose yourself, everything, including your life.

It’s not like that with other shifters. We understand that love is a bond in which you put your trust, not something that we ever take lightly. It’s a thread spun from respect, strength, and the promise of forever. Between shifters it’s mutual, solid. If the worst happens and you lose them, there’s purpose in the pain.

Your children carry on, your bloodline endures, and that knowledge is enough to anchor you. But humans? Their world is built on fragility. They don’t understand permanence. They don’t understand us.

Raul’s ordeal didn’t last long, at least not by human standards. A few days of torment. A blip in time. But those days stretched into eternity for him, and I was there, at his side for every excruciating second of it.

He gambled his life for her. A woman who couldn’t even begin to understand what he was, what he’d risked for her. Monica, as smart, stubborn, and insufferable as she is, was completely incapable of seeing the truth. At least not easily.

In the end, she did figure it out and she saved him. I’m grateful for it, but it sealed my distrust. Both of her and humans in general. Not that I trusted them much before. Any shred of faith I might have had in humans disintegrated.

If someone like Monica, a doctor, a woman who swore an oath to protect life, could be so blind, so dangerous, then what hope was there for the rest of them? Raul could have his human. I couldn’t stop him if I tried. He’s my brother, my blood, and my alpha, and I know him well enough to know he’s going to do whatever the hell he wants. That doesn’t mean I will follow his example. Fuck. That.

It’s been two months since our fight with the vampire clan led by Damian. Dawson, our quiet small town, is almost back to normal. Almost. Except for one, highly annoying and distracting change. The new humans.

Raul only recently took over as Alpha of the pack, which is great. Except, since he’s mated with Monica, he’s welcomed more humans into Dawson. It makes the hairs on the back of my neck stand on end and a low growl form in my throat. Humans with their petulance, their noise, their insistent need to be the center of attention. They haven’t come here in droves, thank God, but it’s still enough to be annoying.

Every other weekend, Monica brings her two friends, Erica Connors and Stacy Melvin. Obstinately, they come for dinner, but that’s not the reality. They actually come for the spectacle. The novelty of spending hours among shifters, sipping wine and laughing like they belong. Six or seven hours of their chatter, their human quirks, and their endless curiosity. It’s pure torture.

Ray, snarky as ever, nicknamed them “the sarcastic blonde and the squirrelly redhead.” I don’t usually agree with my brother, but he nailed this one. I especially have no patience for Monica’s sharp tongue, no matter how clever she thinks she is.

And Stacy? She’s a child in an adult’s body, giggling at every noise she makes, like she’s auditioning for a cartoon. My siblings love it. I don’t.

Raul knows I hate it. He’s not stupid and constantly rides my ass that I’m not “warming up” to his little experiment. Which I’m sure is what led to his current bright idea.

“Come on, drive with me to New York,” he says, again.

“And, I’ll repeat myself, why in the name of all that’s holy would I want to go to that shithole?” I ask.

“I want to see Erica perform. She’s a singer and a pianist. And hey it’s getting warmer so, if we like her, that’ll make the weekend dinners more fun. I’ll get a piano and she can perform for us in the summer.”

The entire idea irritates me, but even so it is intriguing as well. Music, live music, is rare in Dawson. We shifters love it, crave it even. Our naturally heightened senses make good music transport us, but despite that, none of us play an instrument and most of us couldn’t sing our way out of a paper bag. I can’t remember the last time I heard it outside of a stereo.

There’s another huge downside to his plan, though. If Erica’s as good as Raul says, she’ll draw a crowd. A crowd of shifters will invade our home. My private space will become her stage. My sanctuary invaded by dozens of my kind. All hungry for a taste of her magic. And I know the pack. Know how they act and what they do. They won’t ask permission, they’ll just come on in. Make themselves at home and leave a god awful mess in their wake.

“Come on,” Raul urges.

“Is this an order, alpha ?” I ask.

“No,” he says, looking genuinely hurt. “It’s not, but come on Sam. Lighten up. You might like it, worst case we get out of town for a night.”

I agree, not because I want to see her and definitely not because I care about her talent. I couldn’t possibly care less about any of that. I agree because I know that if I don’t, Raul will never let it go. He’ll harass me until I finally do what he wants. Better to get it over with sooner than later. Only then will I get any peace.

Who knows, maybe I can say something to Erica that will stop her endless parade of sarcastic quips and squeaky laughs. I can always hope, can’t I? I contemplate things to say on the entire drive into the city. It gives me something to think about besides Raul’s incessant droning on about how good Erica is supposed to be and pointing out how she’s a good looking woman.

“Do you ever shut up?” I ask, turning up the radio, hoping that Tom Petty will drown him out.

“You know better,” Raul laughs, but then he sings along with the song and we make the rest of the trip in relative quiet. Though I have to wonder if I didn’t come out of this trade-off on the losing end. His voice is terrible.

The truck rumbles as I steer into a neighborhood that seems just as alive as Manhattan itself, even at this late hour. They say that New York City never sleeps, apparently they mean the outskirts too. The air buzzes with energy. Honking horns, the occasional burst of laughter, and the hum of streetlights is loud in my sensitive ears. Ahead is a bright-green neon sign, blinking its invitation like a firefly in the dark.

Michelle’s Blues & Piano Bar

“It looks smaller than I expected,” I say, glancing at Raul and trying to gauge his reaction. He has an air of self-satisfaction. Smug bastard. “You and Monica keep saying how good Erica is. The way you all made it out, I expected some huge venue. Carnegie Hall or something.”

“It’s big, alright,” Raul says, an infuriating glint in his eye. “Just not the big you’re thinking of.”

I turn into the parking lot, trying to figure out his cryptic tone and decide if there is some double entendre there that I’m missing. The place looks small to me, but there are row after row of cars stretching into the distance filling the parking lot. Frustrated, I sigh and continue searching for an open space. My truck’s headlights sweeping over the sea of glossy paint jobs on the tightly packed vehicles. Having my usual round of no luck, I finally find a place to park all the way at the far edge of the lot, practically kissing the concrete wall.

“Typical,” I growl as we walk towards the building.

As we reach the bar’s entrance, something unexpected happens. The noise I anticipate from a bar, a cacophony of laughter, clinking glasses, maybe even the piano drifting through the air isn’t there. Instead, all I hear is hushed murmurs that filter through the doors.

“I can’t wait to see her.” “She was amazing last time.”

Raul’s grin widens.

“I think they’re talking about Erica.”

“You hope they’re talking about Erica,” I mutter, my tone sharper than I intend.

The tuxedoed man at the door greets us with an almost reverent smile, like we’re not just customers but part of some exclusive club. He doesn’t blink or hesitate, motioning for us to walk right in as if he recognizes us.

“Good evening, gentlemen. Your table is waiting. Enjoy the night.”

“Our table?” I look at Raul in surprise.

“Yeah,” he says, breezing past my rising irritation. “Erica’s been expecting us.”

I bite back my annoyance and follow him through the door. Inside, the soft glow of candlelight pulls me in despite myself. The place is cavernous, with rows upon rows of tables, each crowned with a single, flickering flame. The light dances across the walls, casting everything in warm, golden hues. Despite the large open space, it somehow feels intimate. Too intimate for my own comfort.

“Gentlemen, if you’ll follow me,” a waiter greets us.

I glare at Raul, but his smile is smug and self-assured. I want to punch him. Right in his mouth, but I’m not going to start a fight tonight. Not here at least.

The waiter leads us through the tables, expertly weaving through them with the easy practice of familiarity. Then I realize where he’s taking us. Right to the front and almost dead center. Our table is practically touching the stage.

On the stage, a sleek black piano gleams under a dim spotlight. We take our seats. Uncomfortable, I dart a quick glance around, feeling conspicuous and underdressed. We’re getting a lot of looks and more than a few whispers that I’m sure are wondering what the hicks are doing front and center.

It’s awkward, so I put my attention on the table, waiting for the show to start when I spot a note, neatly folded and sitting in the center of the table. It has mine and Raul’s names in a flowing script staring back at me. I pick it up and open it.

Welcome to my playground, puppies. I hope you enjoy the show.

“Puppies?” I hiss under my breath, my jaw tightening.

“It’s a joke,” Raul says, waving it off like it’s nothing. “Relax.”

Relax. Right. Like that’s possible when everything about this night is feeling more and more like I’m being set up. Set up for what, I don’t know. Does he really think this is going to change my mind about her?

The faint click of heels on hardwood pulls me out of my thoughts. All around us heads turn as the sound grows louder, each step is measured and deliberate. Then she appears. Stepping out from behind a white curtain with the kind of presence that makes the air feel heavier and alive at the same time.

Erica.

Her cinnamon scent hits me hard. A warm, spicy sweetness that weaves its way through the cloying perfumes in the room. My wolf stirs, unbidden, its attention locking onto her.

She’s stunning, of course she is. Fuck. She’s wearing a light-blue dress that clings to her figure, highlighting every curve in a way that is clearly calculated. She pauses beside the piano, tilts her head in a graceful bow, and offers her audience a smile that’s equal parts charm and challenge. I hate how my pulse reacts.

“Thank you,” she says, her voice low and smoky through the mic. “It’s good to see you again. I thought I’d kick things off with one of my favorite tunes. Here’s Heart’s ‘ Alone .’”

The room erupts in applause, and I’m left staring as she takes her seat at the piano, her fingers hovering over the keys like they’re an extension of her body. When she starts to play, I feel an ache in my chest that I can’t put a name too. Her voice pours into the room, rich and layered, hitting notes that shouldn’t be possible.

She’s good. Better than good. Every note, every movement feels alive, like she’s baring her soul in the music. And I hate how much I notice. Noticing means I care and the one thing I don’t want to do is care.

“Thank you,” she says, her voice smooth yet laced with something I can’t quite place. Her hazel eyes catch the flickering candlelight, turning them molten. “Just so you know, I’ve got two special reasons to give it my all tonight. Don’t ask who, but they’re here, and that’s all I’ll say.”

Raul nudges me, his grin smug and infuriating.

“Think she’s talking about us?” he teases.

I growl, shaking my head, and refusing to take his bait. For two hours, she commands the stage like she was born on it, weaving through classic ballads and modern hits with a passion that’s impossible to fake. I sit there, silent and still. Fighting the instinct to lean forward and drink her in.

As the set ends the crowd erupts. They’re on their feet roaring with approval and shouts for more. I’m grappling with a truth I don’t want to face. She’s more than the sarcastic, infuriating woman who’s made a hobby out of getting under my skin. She’s extraordinary, talented, and fascinating. Which terrifies me.

She bows twice then exits through the same curtain she entered. She belongs on stage. Every movement, every note felt like an extension of her soul. She undeniably owned this room and every ounce of attention in it. Her little note about this being her playground wasn’t arrogance. It was fact.

I stare at the shadow of the exit, hating that she’s good. That she’s more than good. Hating the way she’s left me feeling. Her scent lingers in my nose, intoxicating, inviting me to do something stupid. All of it complicates things.

“You mind waiting in the truck?” I ask Raul gruffly.

He quirks a brow but nods, tossing a fifty onto the table.

“Sure,” he says, standing up. “Go ahead, but hey, don’t scare her off, yeah?”

I grunt and turn away, leaving him smirking as I head for the curtain she disappeared through. The scent of cinnamon lingers in the air like a taunt, growing stronger as I step into the narrow corridor. Overhead, a single buzzing light casts long shadows, and two doors stand at the end of the hall. The first reads Staff Only, but it’s the second one, marked Singer, that draws me forward.

My fingers hesitate on the knob. Her scent is everywhere, summoning me, but even so, it’s unwelcome. It pulls at instincts I’ve spent years suppressing. Reluctantly, I push the door open.

She’s leaning against the edge of a dresser, one hand braced on its wooden surface, In the other hand, she cradles a glass of something clear over ice. Vodka, probably. She tilts her head back as she takes a slow sip, and for a moment, she looks vulnerable.

“Great performance,” I say, stepping inside, carefully keeping my voice even, not too appreciative, but not unappreciative either.

“Reverend Crawford,” she greets me with that maddening smile, her eyes dancing.

She gestures with the half-empty glass. I snort, the corner of my mouth twitching despite myself.

“Another nickname?” I ask. “Is it the beard? Something wrong with having a beard?”

“Nothing at all,” she says, setting her glass down. Her hazel eyes look tired but still sharp as they meet mine. “You enjoyed the show?”

Enjoyed? Not nearly strong enough a word, but fuck all if I’m going to say that. This is thin ice.

“You’re good,” I agree, trying to keep it noncommittal.

“Remember I said there were two reasons I wanted to give my best tonight?”

“Yeah. Why?” I nod, wary of where this is going.

“You’re one of them,” she says. Her voice is calm, matter-of-fact, like she’s commenting on nothing more important than the weather. “The other, bigger reason, is your brother. He’s a good guy. You? Not so much.”

“Thanks for the glowing review.”

I raise an eyebrow, crossing my arms over my chest. She chuckles. The sound is soft but laced with something sharper.

“Don’t take it personally. You make it easy to figure out another nickname for you, though. Want to hear it?”

“Not particularly.”

“How about ‘grumpy old man’,” she laughs with a mischievous gleam in her eye. “How old are you, anyway?”

“I’ll be thirty in June,” I say flatly.

“See? That’s not even old, but you’ve got this sixty-year-old vibe going on. One of those guys who yells at kids ‘to get off my lawn’,” she says, mimicking my voice by deepening hers in an exaggerated way.

“You know, excessive sarcasm is boring,” I say, narrowing my eyes and keeping my voice even. “It’s an art, knowing when to use it and when to let it go. You should really work on that.”

“Noted,” she says with a playful salute before raising her glass and sipping. “Drink?”

“No,” I say, shaking my head. “I came here to ask you something.”

“Oh?” she asks, raising one eyebrow, her glass hovering near her lips.

“A broken heart,” I begin, the words heavy in my mouth. “What does it do to a human?”

Her response is immediate and sharp. She sets the glass down with a soft clink. She stares into my eyes intensely.

“It doesn’t kill us, if that’s what you’re asking,” she says, pausing and looking thoughtful. “It hurts like hell, but it doesn’t kill. All those songs about not being able to live without someone? Romantic nonsense. People live with that pain every day.”

Her answer carries a weight I didn’t expect. Maybe she understands, but doubt makes me study her carefully.

“You sound like you speak from experience.”

“Yep. Bitter experience. And I’m not talking about it. Especially not with you,” she says, her eyes darkening as she purses her lips.

“Why not?”

She doesn’t answer, not with words. Instead, she steps toward me, slow and deliberate, her eyes on mine. Her scent, cinnamon laced with something deeper, sharper, hits me like a wave. I feel it in every nerve as every instinct screams. It’s not perfume, it’s pheromones. Her. Damn her.

“Don’t,” I growl, backing up until my hand finds the door behind me. My head is spinning, the pheromones igniting my most primal instincts. “Is this why you wanted me back here?”

Her voice softens, almost pleading.

“All I wanted was for you to hear me sing. You’re the one who came to my dressing room.”

No. I can’t do this.

“Whatever,” I snap, turning the knob. My wolf surges, wanting something completely different. “For the record, this was a mistake. Goodnight, Ms. Connors.”

“Sam—”

I don’t wait for her to finish. The door clicks behind me with a sound that is sharp and final, like a gavel sealing my own judgment. My boots echo in the narrow hall, each one deliberate, each one heavier than the last. My pulse thunders in my ears, drowning out everything but the war raging inside my chest and head. Desire clashing with restraint, fear battling the pull of her.

She’s a beautiful woman. Too beautiful. With her long blonde hair, French nose, and those lips. Damn, those lips. She could make a saint stumble. But I can’t. I won’t.

Because beauty like hers doesn’t just tempt. It destroys.