Page 21 of Witch’s Wolf (Bound by the Howl #2)

21

SAM

5 1st Street presses in all around. The close built buildings, cracked sidewalks, and the stink of rotting trash piled beside overflowing dumpsters making the air thick and sour. The city hums with restless energy, but here, in front of Erica’s house, everything feels still. Too still.

I kill the jeep’s engine and sit for a moment, fingers flexing against the wheel. If she’s home, this could go sideways fast. She could slam the door in my face. Tell me to leave. Pretend like I don’t exist. Maybe that would be easier. Maybe I should start the Jeep, back out, and let this go.

No. I shouldn’t have gotten involved, I knew better, but I did and it can’t end like this.

I slide out of the Jeep, careful to close the door without a sound. The cold air is nothing compared to the tension curling inside me, tight and unrelenting. There’s no sign of her BMW and no glow from the windows. The house is a silent, dark shell. Empty.

Senses on edge, I move closer with exaggerated caution, my boots barely making a sound. The side window is covered in dust, streaked with old fingerprints. A lifetime ago, I might’ve walked up like I belonged here, but not anymore.

I knock on the door, feigning that I’m not on edge and ready for anything. Nothing. Not even a hint of her scent. I look around, considering. Breaking in isn’t an option. Too many eyes in a neighborhood like this. The last thing I need is some nosy neighbor calling the cops before I get the answers I came for. My gaze drifts to the shed. Small. Isolated. Tucked in the shadows of the house.

That’ll do.

The handle is cold and grimy beneath my fingers, rust flaking against my palm. I test it. Locked. Figures. With a sharp breath, I brace my shoulder against the wood and shove. The hinges groan in protest before something snaps and metal clatters to the floor in a sharp burst of noise. I freeze, heart hammering, but no lights flick on. No angry shouts, only silence.

Stepping inside the air is stale and thick with dust. Moonlight filters through a grimy window, casting weak silver slashes across the floor. I’d kind of half-planned to wait here until she comes home. Confront her and get my damn answers. But one of the multiples of boxes catches my attention. Going to it I pull it out of the corner and inspect it. A name is written on the top.

Michael

Who the hell is Michael? An involuntary growl slips. Is this who she left me for?

My fingers curl into jealous fists. Rational explanations exist. A brother. A cousin. A friend. But my gut twists, instincts screaming that it’s not that simple. If it was, why would it be shoved out here, collecting dust? My hand hovers over the lid. I shouldn’t do this.

Fuck it. She left me and I deserve answers.

I lift the lid. The first thing I see inside is the corner of a silver picture frame. I pull it out of the box and blow dust off, revealing a beautiful picture. Erica in a bright-red bikini, arms around a tall man’s neck, her side to the camera. He had to be six feet tall or even more. His build is similar to mine, a hint of a beard and short, black hair. Turning the frame over there’s a white label.

7-2-2016

Me and Michael in Catalina, California

I set the frame to one side and pull the next thing out of the box. A yellowed newspaper article but it’s written in Spanish. I speak Spanish but I’m rusty at it. I stare at the headline.

“Americano muerto en el camino de la muerte.”

I mutter the words, sounding them out in an attempt to try and work the rust off my language skills.

“American dies on death road…?”

I read the rest of the article, decoding it on the fly. It describes that a Land Rover rolled off a cliff, on what was considered the most dangerous road in the whole world. Located in Bolivia, it had earned its notoriety by claiming hundreds of lives each year. The name in that article connects the dots. Michael Stockton.

I read it again, slower this time, trying to piece it together. Catalina. A vacation. The way she clung to him in that picture. He wasn’t just someone in her life. He was everything.

And he’s gone.

I exhale sharply. This isn’t what I expected. I came here for answers, to rip away the bullshit, to demand to know why she ran like I was some goddamn mistake. Instead, I find this grief packed away in a dusty box, hidden where no one would find it. Except I did.

I scratch my chin, trying to force my pulse to slow. She never told me. Never gave a hint. But I recognized that kind of pain. I’ve seen it before. Hell, I’ve lived with it. The pieces click together, and suddenly, everything about Erica makes a brutal kind of sense.

The way she throws herself into every situation. Reckless, determined, like she’s trying to outrun something. The way she pushed at me, kept coming back even when I shoved her away. And the way she looked at me that night in the hospital, like I’d cracked something open inside her she wasn’t ready to face. Because I remind her of him.

The thought twists through me, sharp and jagged. Is that what I am? A replacement? A second chance at something she lost? I don’t know what’s worse, the idea that she left because she couldn’t handle it… or that she never really wanted me at all.

“Freeze, asshole!” a loud female voice shouts from behind me. The unmistakable cocking of a gun is the next sound I hear. “Turn around! Slowly!”

My spine locks up, every muscle going tight. The air in the shed shifts, thick with something electric, dangerous. But that scent. I should have picked up on it long before she ever got close, that sweet tang of cinnamon. Erica.

I lift my hands, my pulse hammering, not from fear, but from something primal. I should’ve walked away before this got messy, but I didn’t.

“Turn around! Slowly!” she commands again, her voice firm, but there’s a tremor underneath it.

I obey, rotating just enough to see her out of the corner of my eye. Moonlight spills through the shed window, illuminating the gun she’s holding, both hands wrapped around the grip, her knuckles white.

“It’s me Erica,” I say, keeping my voice calm.

“Sam?” She gasps, her hands shaking. “Jesus Christ…” She huffs, lowering her gun. “You scared the shit out of me. What the hell are you doing here?”

“Looking for answers.” I say. “I think I’ve found one”

I add, tossing the piece of paper on the table. Her eyes dart to the paper, something passing over her face that I can’t read. Is she jealous? Hurting? The gun slowly lowers, and she lets out a shaky breath.

“Oh no…” her voice is barely a whisper, her gaze locking onto the article like it might burn through the table. “This is a blatant violation of privacy, Crawford. I could have you arrested for this.”

I let out a sharp breath, jaw tight.

“A week ago, you were chasing me like a dog after a bone,” I say, my voice low, struggling to keep the edge out of it. “You pushed and pushed, made a move on me, then fell apart when you realized something about yourself. You said it was because you thought you’d never get to have me.” My chest tightens, frustration clawing up my throat. “Now, you’re calling me by my last name and threatening to put me behind bars. Which is it, Erica? Do you want me?” I step closer, closing the space between us. “Or do you hate me?”

My heart slams against my ribs, breath shallow, waiting, needing, to hear her answer. Maybe she’ll yell, maybe she’ll slap me, maybe she’ll run. It doesn’t matter. I need something, anything, other than this silence stretching between us like a goddamn widening chasm.

Nothing. No words. No anger.

Erica just… wilts. Her shoulders curl inward, her head dipping as a shaky breath rattles out of her. She takes a step back, then another, until her back is against the doorframe. The gun slips from her fingers, clattering to the floor, bouncing once before spinning away. Then, she breaks.

A choked sob tears from her throat as she sinks down, burying her face in her hands. Her whole body trembles, shoulders hitching with each gasping breath.

“I’m sorry…” the words barely make it past her lips, raw and broken. “I’m so sorry.”

Something in my chest tightens, hard and unforgiving. Sorry for what? For pushing me away? For pulling me in? For whatever the hell is in that box?

“For what?” I ask, my voice rough like it’s being scraped over gravel. “I’m going crazy, Erica. Explain it to me.”

“For mistreating you,” she croaks, her breath stuttering. “I didn’t want to. I just… I had to.”

Had to? The words dig under my skin, sharp and jagged.

I exhale hard crouching in front of her.

“Let’s take it from the top,” my voice is steadier than I feel. “Michael. You and him were together.” A beat of silence. “What happened in Bolivia, Erica?”

Her breath hitches at the word. Her gaze lifts, glossy with unshed tears.

“Bolivia…” the way she says it, like it’s something sacred and ruined all at once, sends a chill through me. “It was supposed to be our big adventure. Two months backpacking across the country. No plans, no schedules. The road, the stars, and each other.” A bitter smile ghosts across her lips, disappearing as fast as it comes. “Then Michael decided to rent a car. He wanted to go to La Paz. The locals warned him the road was dangerous, but he wouldn’t listen.”

I don’t move. I don’t breathe.

“We were close, Sam.” Her voice is barely there, thin and frayed. “So close. Just two miles from the city, and then… a bus. The road was too narrow. He tried to maneuver around it.” A shudder racks her frame. “I jumped at the last second.”

Her eyes find mine, and for the first time, I see what she’s been carrying, the weight of it pressing down on every breath she takes.

“That drop was massive.” Her voice cracks. “Three hundred, maybe four hundred feet. He never stood a chance.”

The silence that follows is deafening.

“I’m sorry, but…” I trail off, brushing away a stray tear tracking down her cheek. Her skin is warm, damp beneath my touch. “What does any of this have to do with me?”

Her breath shudders. Then, suddenly?—

“Sam, I saw you fall off that cliff!” The words rip from her like a wound torn open. Her chin lifts, fire flashing in her eyes. “For a second, it was Bolivia all over again. That same helplessness. That same drop. But this time, you survived.” Her throat bobs as she swallows hard. “Michael didn’t.”

The fight drains from her. Her head thuds back against the door, her lips pressing together like she’s trying to keep something else from spilling out.

“And?” I push, my voice lower now, edged with something raw.

Her hands tighten in her lap.

“Seeing it happen to you made everything so damn clear,” she whispers. “I infect people, Sam.” Her breath hitches, her fingers curling into the fabric of her jeans. “Michael was the man I loved, and look what happened to him.” Her eyes flick to mine, shining with something close to desperation. “I don’t want you to have the same fate.”

Realization slams into me, heavy and hard.

“That’s why you pushed me away.” The words are bitter on my tongue. “That’s why you left me in that hospital room.” My jaw clenches, my pulse pounding. “You were scared. Scared I’d end up like him.”

She flinches but doesn’t deny it. I drag in a breath, steadying the storm inside me.

“It’s a hell of a coincidence, I’ll give you that. You fall for two men, and both have the same kind of accident. What are the odds?” I exhale slowly, searching her face, searching for something to hold onto. “But we can’t let that coincidence ruin what we have.”

Something shifts in her expression. Something sharp and cutting. Her shoulders square, her eyes darken, her voice steadier than before.

“What do we have, Sam?” she challenges, her chin lifting. “A long-distance relationship?”

“Chemistry,” I say without thinking. My throat constricts. “Connection. You’re right about the long-distance thing. It won’t be easy, but I don’t care, Erica. What we have is real. Don’t take that from me. I’m just starting to like it.”

She flinches like I struck her. Her gaze shifts, sliding away from me, her shoulders curling inward.

“Leave, Sam,” she whispers. “Please, go. Leave now, while you can.”

A slow, sharp ache spreads through my guts, twisting deeper with every second she refuses to look at me.

“Fine, I will,” I growl, shoving to my feet.

The air is thick, suffocating. I need to move. Need to breathe. Need to get the hell out of here before I do something stupid. Something I know I’ll regret. I hesitate for half a second longer and let out a humorless laugh and shake my head.

“Here’s a tip, Erica. Next time you want someone, don’t let him know. The poor bastard will feel like a fool when you throw him away.” I exhale sharply, my fists clenching at my sides. “I know I feel like one now.”

The last thing I do before walking out is slam my fist against the door. The impact rattles through my arm, but it’s nothing compared to the frustration in my head. I storm out of her space. Away from the mess she’s made of me. She played me. Led me on, strung me along, then cut me off like I was nothing.

I could understand trauma. I could even understand fear. But that doesn’t excuse this. The two accidents are similar, so what? Accidents happen all the time. A miscalculation, a slick road, a second of bad luck, and that’s all it takes. It doesn’t mean she’s cursed. It doesn’t mean I’m doomed. But it does mean she was never really mine.

If I needed another reason not to trust humans, she just handed it to me on a silver platter.