Page 15 of Witch’s Wolf (Bound by the Howl #2)

15

ERICA

M orning light filters through the open blinds coaxing me from sleep. For once, I don’t wake up cursing the sun, rolling over with a groan and burying my face in the pillow. Instead, a lightness lingers in my chest, a hum like the fading echoes of a song.

I stretch; the sheets cool against my bare skin and let my gaze drift to the window. The hills rise in the distance, bathed in golden light, the forest rolling over them in a sea of green. Wisps of clouds smear the sky, but they don’t stop the sun, or the brightness filling the room. A tune stirs in my mind, soft at first, then louder, more insistent.

It’s a beautiful day.

I huff out a quiet laugh, brushing tangled hair from my face. Freddie Mercury? Really? Maybe the universe has a sense of humor after all.

My attention goes to the empty space beside me. Reaching over, the sheets are cold without any lingering warmth. No imprint of a body that should still be there. I curl my fingers into the fabric.

“You’re an amazing lover, Sammy,” I murmur to the quiet, but he’s not here to hear it.

Something unsettles in my stomach, twisting beneath the satisfaction still clinging to my limbs. Last night wasn’t just sex. It wasn’t only some reckless, heat-of-the-moment mistake. I felt it in the way he touched me, in the way his body answered mine like a long-lost piece snapping into place.

So why is he gone?

I push the thought away, swing my legs over the side of the bed, and reach for my clothes. The day is young. There are still hours to fill, and a gig waiting for me in the city. As I dress, pulling fabric over skin marked by his touch, I can’t shake the feeling that something has slipped through my fingers.

I step out of the bedroom, an itch urging me toward his workshop. The pull is instinctive. I need to see him. Need to know last night wasn’t some fleeting moment he’s already regretting. But as I walk into the kitchen a movement stops me cold.

Shit. Monica.

She leans against the counter, a red mug pressed to her lips, the other hand idly stirring the contents of a second cup. Her gaze flicks up, catching mine before I can slip away unnoticed.

“Sometimes, I wish I could forget my upbringing and try to be you for a change,” she muses, her voice casual, but there’s weight beneath it.

I blink, my brain sluggish, all tangled in thoughts of Sam.

“It’s too early for riddles, hun. Can you please be more specific?”

She smirks against the rim of her mug.

“Please?” A low chuckle escapes her. “Thanks for confirming what I’m seeing. What would you say if you saw me coming out of a man’s room, wearing that exact smile?”

Heat prickles up my neck, but I force a laugh.

“Yeah, okay. Somebody got some last night.”

“Seriously? That’s the best you’ve got? You’ve said much worse to me before,” Monica says, squinting and unimpressed.

“Fine, doc.” I grab the second mug, fingers curling around the handle, welcoming the warmth against my skin. “I’d probably tell you something like, ‘you look like you’ve been run through with something hard, and more than once.’” I smirk, but it fades quickly. “I should probably be grateful you don’t throw my own crap back at me.”

“So true,” she says, chuckling. “I’m the nice one.”

Her expression softens, but she’s not letting me off the hook. I sip my coffee, buying myself a second, maybe two. It’s bitter but grounds me and pushes the sleepy away.

“What are you doing here, anyway? Shouldn’t you be at work by now?” I ask, changing the subject.

“I took the day off,” she says, setting her mug down and studying me too closely. “Because I heard what you and Sam found in your shed.” My stomach clenches. The heat from the coffee does nothing to stop the chill crawling up my spine. Monica tilts her head. “That must have been a hell of a shock.”

I swallow, but the lump in my throat stays put. Yeah. A shock. That barely scratches the surface. I exhale slowly, gripping the mug tighter. I focus on the heat seeping into my palms. The warmth anchoring me into this moment while trying to hold the fears at bay.

“How?” I ask.

“Helena was worried about you. She told Raul.”

I nod, pursing my lips. Sipping more coffee to try and hold off facing the part of yesterday I had buried under my feelings for Sam.

“You’re right,” I murmur, the words raw and painful. “I spent most of yesterday trying to convince myself I’d imagined it. Hoping if I ignored it long enough, it would stop being real.” Which clearly didn’t work. There is no denying the horrors I found in that shed. My world is tilting, shifting, like I’m on crumbling ground and there’s nothing solid left to hold on to. “Mon, I don’t even know where to start. Should I bother trying to understand witchcraft? Should I start digging into my parents’ deaths? What the hell would you do if you were me?”

She picks up her mug, frowning. She taps her fingers against the ceramic in slow, thoughtful beats, thinking before she answers in the way that she always does. Monica is probably the smartest person I know, and she doesn’t speak without having thought through what she’s going to say, especially when giving advice.

“Take one thing at a time. Yesterday hit you hard. I know Sam… helped you through,” she says with only the slightest of smirks, “but don’t try to shoulder everything at once, Erica. You might snap.”

“Might?” A hollow laugh escapes me. “Try will .” I rub at my temple, pressure building behind my eyes. “I keep circling back to what Helena said.”

“What exactly did she say Erica?” Monica asks. “I’ve only got a piece, that you had really bad news and would need support.”

“Apparently there’s a spell on my future keeping her from seeing it, which is great, I guess?” I shrug, unsure what to really think about that. Do I need a witch looking at my future?

“And?” Monica prods, knowing that I didn’t say it all.

“That my parents are… alive.” The words don’t fit in my mouth. Like I’m telling the biggest lie I’ve ever said, but the unease twisting inside is real. I stare at the floor, unable to meet her eyes. “I’m stuck in this impossible place. Part of me wants to believe it. My parents alive, it should be a good thing, right? But the other part, the louder part, knows that’s bullshit. No one survived that crash. And even if by some miracle they did, why would they have abandoned me?”

Monica sighs, setting her mug down with a quiet clink.

“No matter what you believe, you need answers. And the only way to get them is to dig.” She hesitates and the silence stretches. I force myself to meet her eyes. She’s chewing her lip, debating. “It’s going to be brutal, Erica, but I don’t see any other path forward. You’ll have to exhume their bodies.”

My stomach clenches. The air in my lungs turns solid. Exhume. Like they’re not just ghosts in my past but something tangible, something that can still be uncovered, still be touched. Monica keeps going, her voice steady.

“DNA testing will take time, but at least it’ll give you something concrete. Unless you want to go through the NTSB.”

I shake my head automatically, remembering how long those investigations drag on.

“That could take years. And they’d never reopen the case for me, not without cause.”

“No, they wouldn’t,” she agrees, leaning forward and putting her elbows on the counter. “It would take more than one person pushing for them to revisit something that happened twenty-two years ago.”

She pauses, taking a breath. The look on her face leaves no room for doubt about what she’s thinking but is hesitating to say.

“Go ahead, we’re totally off the rails anyway,” I say.

“Look, I won’t lie to you. This is going to hurt like hell. But?—”

“I know.” I swallow past the lump in my throat, my decision settling into place. “I’ll do it. I’ll make the call first thing tomorrow morning.”

Monica’s shoulders ease, relief flickering across her face. I set my mug down with a quiet thud.

“But first,” I murmur, glancing toward the door, toward the direction of his workshop, “I have something more important to do.”

“Yeah. You can help me with the groceries,” Monica remarks, taking another sip from her coffee. “I haven’t been to the supermarket in a week.”

Groceries are not how I pictured my morning. I had a much different plan. Sam, me, tangled sheets, the slow, and lazy heat of his body against mine. But I can’t just brush Monica off. She needs a hand, and I owe her more than selfish indulgence. Besides, Sam is already at work. I can’t exactly barge into his workshop and drag him upstairs like some possessive lunatic.

Or… maybe I can.

The thought sparks something wild inside, something reckless and defiant. A small, wicked smirk tugs at my lips. I quickly help Monica with the groceries and then she drives me over to the shop.

I’m drawn to the deep, metallic hum that comes from inside. The sounds of power drills and the harsh crackle of a welder spill into the open air, a symphony of industry and masculinity. As I push through the wide doors, a burst of orange sparks dances across the concrete floor, landing just inches from my feet. The smells of hot metal and motor oil cling to the space, thick and heavy. My gaze sweeps the room, locking onto Sam like a heat seeking missile.

He's bent over a counter welding, muscles taut as he works on what looks like a busted exhaust. Sweat glistens at his temples around the band of the protective glasses. The sheer focus in his expression makes something low in my stomach tighten. He stops what he’s doing and looks up and turns unerringly towards me.

“Good morning,” he says in his deep rumbling voice that cuts through the noise, rough and familiar.

I don’t answer. I move. Closing the distance in three quick strides, I curl my index finger into the collar of his shirt and tug. Hard.

“Oh!” his brother Ray exclaims from across the shop.

Sam stumbles forward, surprise flashing in his eyes as I rise onto my toes and crash my mouth into his. His taste, warm, smoky, and electric, fills me. I feel the moment he melts into me. His fingers flex around the welder, his free hand ghosting toward my waist, but I don’t give him time to react. I pull back just as fast, lips tingling, pulse thrumming.

“That’s how you say good morning!” I declare, loud enough for his brothers to hear.

Silence meets my exclamation, all the usual sounds of the workshop halting. Then, a burst of laughter comes from somewhere in the shop followed by clapping.

Sam blinks, his lips still parted slightly, his eyes dark and unreadable. I don’t wait to see what he’ll do next. Instead, I turn on my heel and stroll out, satisfaction filling my head. Outside, Monica is near Raul’s cabin, arms crossed, a knowing smirk playing at her lips. I don’t say a word. I don’t need to. She saw everything.

As I walk towards the car, I suppress a grin, knowing full well that while it wasn’t the steamy morning I originally envisioned, I’ve left Sam with something to think about. Something to remember.

And that? That was enough. For now.