Page 47 of Witch’s Wolf (Bound by the Howl #2)

47

SAM

“ Y ou could’ve waited until tomorrow.”

Raul’s complaint isn’t unfair. It’s late. We’re both exhausted. More than that, the sounds of the cheers still carry, reaching us even at Brad’s mansion.

“Maybe,” I shrug, setting Roberta’s legs down on a thick bale of hay. “But I wanted to get this over with. I don’t want her body polluting the air we breathe.”

Raul bends down, his broad frame blocking my view.

“What’s that?” He reaches toward the ground, then straightens, holding up a small piece of paper. A smear of blood stains the top left corner. “It fell out of her pocket.”

I take it from him, unfolding it carefully. The handwriting is sharp, deliberate. My stomach tightens as I read:

Ballard’s clan is a bunch of unreliable morons. He can’t keep them in check. The only good thing her dog has done is smell that bloodthirsty son of a bitch and take care of him.

Dexter’s shifters are wild, also. When he told them they’d be taking over Dawson without shedding a drop of blood, they acted like a group of chimpanzees. I thought I was deep in the jungle.

They both bought my promise to hand over Dawson once I’m done with Sam Crawford. I’d love to see their faces when they run into each other in that accursed little town. They’ll realize the scam, but by then, it’ll be too late. They’ll have served my purpose. They can go ahead and rip each other apart for all I care.

A slow, burning rage unfurls in my chest.

“She was playing them all,” I murmur, gripping the paper tighter. “Setting them up to slaughter each other.”

“Seems like her kind of play,” Raul says.

I don’t respond. I can’t. Because beneath the fury and the satisfaction of knowing she failed, there’s something else. A bitter aftertaste. A reminder that this was her mother. And she didn’t give a damn about anything but herself.

Not even Erica.

“She was smart,” Raul says, watching the flames. “That plan of hers was pretty elaborate.”

“Yeah. And look where all her wits got her.”

“Look, forget about all this. It’s over. It almost cost Helena her life, but she did it. She won. You should focus on your personal life now.”

“I thought I already was,” I say, arching an eyebrow.

“How?” Raul snorts, amused. “You going to drive to and from New York every other day? You both need something more, Sammy. Take a week off. Go to the city, take her wherever you want, but stop this back-and-forth bullshit. It’s exhausting, and you know it.”

I grunt, hating that he’s not wrong.

“I do,” I admit finally. I stare into the flickering flames as they consume the witch’s body. “Rot in hell, Roberta.”

Heat brushes my skin and relief spreads like the fire consuming her body. This is the final chapter of a short, bloody story. The epilogue to a drama filled with hate, malice, and treachery.

Roberta Connors’ remains will never leave Dawson. The wind itself will carry them across the land she despised because of my pack, our witch, and me.