Page 37 of Witch’s Wolf (Bound by the Howl #2)

37

ERICA

“ G o. I’ll be right behind you,” Sam says, his voice steady and his eyes warm as he presses a kiss to my lips.

A promise. A reassurance. But it’s not enough.

I want him in my car. Want him riding shotgun, his presence a shield against the weight pressing down on my chest. The drive to Westchester is long and the thought of facing Jenkins alone coils tight in my stomach, but I can’t afford to be selfish.

Bringing a wolf shifter into a den of vampires? That would be a death sentence. One whiff of him and the whole thing would go to hell. They’d descend on us like a pack of starving animals. The quiet suburban street would turn into a bloodbath. Sam’s plan, no, our plan, hinges on stealth. If I screw that up, I won’t be only fighting for my life. I’ll drag him down with me.

I tighten my grip on the wheel and force myself to focus as I drive into a world that feels almost unreal. Westchester. The kind of place I used to dream about living.

The houses here are sprawling with manicured lawns that stretch out like emerald carpets. Wide driveways sit empty, waiting for luxury cars to roll in. Security looks like an afterthought. Windows left open; bicycles abandoned between SUVs. These people don’t know fear. They don’t check over their shoulders or grip their keys between their fingers when they walk to their front doors.

Jenkins’ house is different, though. His estate stands alone at the end of Acacia Drive. No neighbor across the street and no nearby prying eyes. That doesn’t make me nervous. No, not in the slightest.

I ease my car up to the curb, parking several feet behind a sleek black limousine. The house itself is all glass and concrete, modern and sterile. A fortress disguised as a luxury home. A towering brick fence surrounds the yard, shielding whatever happens inside from the outside world.

I step out of my car and there is a man waiting at the front door. He wears a crème-colored suit with his hands perfectly clasped over his stomach. Every inch of him screams he’s a professional. A gatekeeper. I swallow and then step forward.

“Hi. My name’s Erica Connors. I’m here to see Mr. Jenkins,” I say, my voice somehow steady even though my pulse hammers in my throat.

“Yes, ma’am. He’s been expecting you,” the man says in a smooth, professional voice.

His fingers curl around the circular glass doorknob, and even in the dim light, his pale skin stands out. Too pale. Cold spreads through my chest.

Vampire.

I swallow hard, keeping my expression neutral. No sudden movements. No hesitation. If I react, if I let on that I know, he might pick up on my fear. Might wonder what else I know.

The door swings wide, opening onto warm, golden light that spreads across the marble floor. Opulence drips from every surface. I walk through. On my left is a bronze statue of a boxer, frozen mid-punch. Beyond that, a massive TV dominates the wall, flanked by sleek home theater speakers. A subwoofer crouches beneath them, waiting to unleash sound that would probably rattle my bones. The living room is a shrine to wealth. Marble artifacts are scattered across the coffee table, another bronze statue, this one of Zeus, watches over the room with cold, unseeing eyes from a corner.

And then I see him. Jenkins.

He stands behind a bar, presenting himself in the role of gracious host. His suit is expensive, but he wears it with the easy comfort of a man who’s used to luxury. He could be an aging bartender in another life, casual and welcoming, except for the sharp glint in his eyes. Two empty glasses sit in front of him. In his grasp, a bottle of blue-label Johnnie Walker.

“Ms. Connors!” he cheers, lifting the bottle like it’s some grand prize. “Welcome! Welcome! What do you think of my place? Do you like it?”

“It’s nice,” I say, forcing myself to smile and doing my best to keep my voice even and polite despite the fear that fills my head. “It’s good to see you again, sir.”

His grin widens, but there’s something behind it. Something sharp.

“No, no ‘sir’ for me, my dear,” he says, waving a dismissive hand, gripping the bottle in the other. “Once you’ve signed the contract, we’re family. It’s Al to you, alright?”

“Sure, Al,” I say, keeping my smile fixed as I step to the bar. I keep my tone light, curious, but every muscle in my body is coiled tight. “You said your bosses liked my demo. Can I ask which song they liked best?”

Jenkins snorts, shrugging like it doesn’t matter. Like I don’t matter.

“Does it make any difference?” he asks with a wide grin that is too easy, too wrong. “You got the contract, sweetheart. You’re in now. That’s all that counts.”

Then there is the slow, deliberate thud of footsteps behind me. My spine stiffens.

“Sir…?” The voice is hoarse, deep, edged with something unreadable.

I don’t turn around, but I track the newcomer by his reflection in the mirror behind the liquor shelves.

Tall. Maybe six feet. Dark brown hair. Black suit. He moves with the kind of ease that says he’s used to violence. He has an air about him that says that he doesn’t need to rush. He’s come out of a door with stairs leading down. A basement.

He comes to the bar, close enough to me that I feel the chill coming off of him. He sets a slim pack of papers on the counter and slides them forward.

“Here is the contract, as you requested,” he says.

“Thanks, Billy,” he mutters, flipping the stack once before twisting it in his fingers and slamming it down in front of me.

I glance down. It’s not a contract, but brilliant white paper with two words written in bold all capital script.

“YOU’RE MINE!”

I let out a slow, deliberate exhale then lift my gaze to Jenkins, meeting his light-brown eyes, and let my lips curl into something almost amused.

“What the fuck is this?” I murmur, tilting my head slightly.

I watch him, watch both of them. Waiting for the first move.

“It’s not a fuck, not yet at least,” Jenkins smirks, stepping around the bar. He moves slow and assured, sure that he’s already won. “It will be when you take your clothes off. That’s my terms, darling. You want that contract? Prove it. Bend over.”

Disgust coils in my stomach. Fury ignites in my chest, hot and seething. My breath sharpens, my body locking up. I meet his gaze, a firestorm behind my eyes, ready to unleash hell?—

*crash!*

The wall of windows behind me shatters as a body hurtles through them. It slams into the bronze boxer statue before crashing onto the floor with a thud. Jenkins flinches and then, chaos erupts.

“Bend over…” Sam’s growl cuts through the air like a blade, his voice low, rough, and most of all dangerous. His eyes gleam red, burning with rage. “You’d better run, you fucking asshole!”

Jenkins’s breath stutters. Fear flashes across his face. Billy rushes forward, moving to intercept, but he’s too slow.

A wall of fur and muscle bursts into the room. Four massive wolves, shifting in an instant, their bodies tearing free from human skin. Dark brown. Lighter brown. Stark white. Amber.

Sam’s wolf lunges, a blur of rage, chasing Jenkins down the staircase. Ray and Nora’s beasts pounce on the fallen vampire from outside, snarling. He thrashes beneath them.

Raul squares off against Billy, their collision a brutal symphony of claws and fangs. The snap of jaws echoes through the space, missing Bill’s throat by inches. The sheer force of their impact rattles the walls, sending shivers down my spine.

Jenkins’s strangled cries rise from the stairwell, a sound of pure, unfiltered terror. I stumble back, breath shuddering, my boots scuffing the blue-tiled floor. I can’t watch this.

The wall meets my back, solid and unyielding, and I slide down, my limbs trembling. I should have known. I did know.

This was always a lie. The contract, the opportunity, the dream was only meant to lure me in. Meant to break me down and serve me up to monsters. No one had believed in me, the singer. No record label wanted me. I would always be Erica Connors, the artist with a loyal but small audience. And I would always have to fight to survive.

I hide from the savage symphony of the monsters’ violence behind my hands; from the sounds of the wet, sickening rip of teeth through cold, dead flesh. Billy’s body skids across the floor, coming to a stop a couple of feet from me, facedown.

Ray and Nora have already finished with their foe. His severed arm lies inches from his torso, his mangled head barely recognizable. Blood soaks the tiles beneath him, pooling like ink on a page. All three siblings race down the stairs after Jenkins, their heavy bodies thudding on the stairs.

A sting burns behind my eyes. My throat tightens. I drop my head into my hands, fingers pressing against damp cheeks.

So much hate.

So much malice directed at me. For what? For trying to rise above anonymity? For daring to chase a dream? I have never intentionally hurt a soul. And yet, tonight, I stand mere feet from the butchering of monsters who sought to steal my freedom, my life.

A gentle nudge at my forearm breaks through my spiraling thoughts. I part my fingers just enough to see Sam’s wolf. He’s finished what he set out to do.

The fur around his muzzle is no longer white. Dark crimson drips from his jowls, thick and glistening. His chest bears the evidence of battle. A massive red stain, thin lines of blood connecting one patch to another.

I don’t think or hesitate. I fling my arms around his head, burying my face against his bloody fur. I don’t care about the gore. Don’t care that Jenkins’s blood is smearing across my skin. All I care about is anchoring myself to him. Something that hasn’t been a lie. Someone who is here.

“Let’s do it!”

A sharp voice from across the room wrenches me back.

Two more shifters come in, each carrying fuel canisters. They split off, one rushing toward the bar, the other joining Ray and Nora.

“We’ve got a couple of cars waiting for you,” the shifter behind the counter calls, flipping open the canister and drenching the wood in gasoline. “Clothes you asked for are in there. Let’s move!”

One of the pack helps me to my feet and I watch as the wolves of Dawson pad back to the smashed entrance. I sidestep shards of glass, picking my way through. The smell of gasoline gains in intensity.

Sam and the pack have accomplished their mission. Soon, the house will be torched, going up in flames, just like my dreams of becoming famous.

I’m grateful to them. I am, but I can’t get rid of this nasty feeling either. Disappointment. This feeling that the dream which I thought was in my grasp turned out to be nothing more than smoke. Fading away like morning fog before the rising sun.

I hope it won’t linger too long, but right now? Right now, it hurts so much. All I want to do is cry, but I hold it all in. Push it down and lock it away, burying it under the gratitude of having ended up in the hands of the monsters who tried to kidnap me.