Page 5 of Witch’s Wolf (Bound by the Howl #2)
5
ERICA
“ S am had a thing,” Monica says, casually popping a cherry tomato into her mouth like she didn’t just drop a bombshell.
Right… and I’m the queen of Spain .
The words sit heavy in the air between us, like an overly sweet dessert that I can’t stomach. A thing? What the hell does a motorcycle mechanic in Dawson have to do on a Saturday night? Go to Joe’s bar and get wasted? As far as I can tell, that’s about as exciting as it gets around here. The tiny coffee shop on the edge of town locks up at eight. Anything involving alcohol, but not Joe’s, would require driving to Shandaken, which is full of humans.
No. Shifters, especially Sam, don’t mix with humans, at least not willingly. They prefer to stick to their own kind. Circling the wagons around some unspoken line between “us” and “them.” Sam’s not in Shandaken. He’s not anywhere, not anywhere I’d find him, anyway.
“What kind of thing?” I ask, keeping my voice light, even though my stomach is twisting painfully.
My fingers curl into the fabric of my jeans beneath the table, nails biting into my palms. Monica raises a brow, clearly enjoying herself.
Why do I care? Isn’t this better than being here with him?
“You know, a thing. He didn’t elaborate. Just said he was busy and couldn’t make it tonight.”
Busy. Right. I force a smile, but the effort makes my cheeks ache.
“Right. Must be important,” I say.
“Oh, I’m sure it is.” Monica leans back in her chair, giving me a knowing look. “You’ve got to hand it to him, though. When Sam doesn’t want to do something, he doesn’t beat around the bush.”
I bark a laugh, short, bitter, and louder than I intend. Raul and his siblings glance over from the grill, but I wave them off, hoping the heat crawling up my neck isn’t as obvious as it feels.
Shifters, they can probably freaking smell it.
“Yeah,” I say, my throat tight. “He’s really good at that.”
The barbeque carries on, laughter bubbling and filling the air with the joy of others. The smoky aroma of grilling meat mingles with the crisp tang of the fresh-cut grass. Plates clink, glasses clatter, and someone turns up the stereo system that’s playing a lively country tune. Raul’s youngest brother twirls his fiancée in a clumsy, yet endearing waltz. Everything is perfect, idyllic even. For them. I, though, can’t focus on anything but the hollow ache in my chest.
Sam had a thing.
I imagine him somewhere else, maybe in that dimly lit garage of his, surrounded by grease and the comforting hum of engines. Or maybe he’s out in the woods, running under the moonlight, his wolf free and wild in a way I’ll never understand. Wherever he is, it’s not here. And I’m not sure which problem is bigger. That he’s not here or that I wish he was.
I take a long sip of wine, the sweetness failing to mask the bitterness in my mouth. Monica’s talking, something about Stacy’s new boyfriend, but her voice fades into the background, drowned out by the noise in my head.
I shouldn’t care. I shouldn’t be replaying the way Sam’s eyes narrowed when I got close last night or the gruff, husky edge in his voice when he told me to back off. But I do care, and it’s pathetic. A plate clatters onto the table in front of me, breaking through the musings. Raul’s sister, Nora, grins as she slides a heaping portion of ribs my way.
“You’ve got to try these, Erica. Raul uses a secret marinade and its killer.”
“Thanks,” I nod, forcing a grateful smile. “They smell amazing.”
She beams and turns back to her husband, but the smile slips from my face the second she isn’t looking. The ribs sit untouched, the rich, savory scent curling into the air, tempting but my stomach is too knotted to eat. I know I should. I should laugh, drink, and pretend everything’s fine, but I can’t. I tighten my grip on my wine glass as my thoughts loop back to Sam.
Why does it matter if he’s not here? Why does he have this gravitational pull that makes me feel unmoored whenever he’s gone?
“Earth to Erica.” Monica’s voice cuts through and snaps me into the moment. Her sharp green eyes narrow with suspicion. “You’re quiet. Too quiet. What’s going on up there?” she asks, tapping her temple.
“Nothing,” I say quickly. Too quickly.
“Uh-huh.” She doesn’t believe me, not for a second. Leaning closer, she lowers her voice. “Let me guess. You’re thinking about Sam.”
“Don’t be ridiculous.” I laugh, but it sounds hollow even to me. “Why would I be thinking about him?”
“Oh, I don’t know. Maybe because you’re in love with him?” Monica smirks, crossing her arms. Her words are a punch in my guts.
“I am not?—”
“Relax,” she cuts me off, waving a hand. “I’m teasing.”
I stare at her, stuck between anger and resignation because the damage is done. The truth, or some twisted version of it, lodges itself in my head, refusing to be ignored. I drain my glass then set it down with more force than necessary.
“I’m getting more wine,” I say, pushing back my chair.
Monica doesn’t say anything, but her knowing smile lingers, following me like a shadow as I retreat to the kitchen.
The kitchen is cooler than outside, the tiled floor is chilly beneath my bare feet as I pour myself another glass of wine. The deep red liquid glints in the evening light, swirling like the mess in my head.
Sam had a thing.
What kind of thing? Is he sitting alone in his garage, scowling at nothing while his wolf paces inside him? Or is he somewhere else? Doing something actually important? Something I’ll never be privy to? Something dangerous? And why do I care so damn much?
I lean against the counter, staring out the small window above the sink. The backyard is alive with guests. The hum of conversation blending with the crackle of the fire pit. Monica’s laughter rises above the rest, light and carefree.
I should be out there. Smiling. Laughing. Acting like a normal human being who hasn’t been spending her nights obsessing over a man who clearly doesn’t want her. But I can’t.
The truth is, Sam isn’t just some guy that I can write off. He’s a knot in my chest, pulling tighter every time I think I’ve unraveled him. He’s maddening, closed off, and frustratingly untouchable. And yet, he’s also magnetic. Strong. Protective. The kind of man who makes you feel safe and unsteady all at once.
I down the rest of my wine, hoping it’ll dull the sharp edges of my thoughts, and set the glass on the counter with a soft clink.
No more.
I square my shoulders, forcing my focus back to the here and now. Tonight is about friends and laughter, not the brewing storm in my head.
“Hey,” Monica says, startling me enough that I jump. I turn and see she’s leaning against the doorway. Her expression is softer, thoughtful and caring.
“Raul asked me to check on you. You’ve been gone a while.”
I shrug, trying to play it off.
“Just needed a minute. The wine’s really good, by the way.”
She doesn’t believe it, Monica sees through me like I’m made of glass. She always has.
“Listen,” she says, stepping into the room. “I didn’t mean to push earlier. You’re just… different when Sam’s involved. You get quiet. Jumpy.”
“Because he’s infuriating,” I shoot back, my voice sharper than I intend.
“And yet, he’s all you think about,” Monica says, raising an eyebrow.
I glare, but there’s no heat behind it. She’s not wrong and there’s no point in denying it.
“Come on.” She tilts her head toward the backyard. “Stacy’s about to start grilling Raul on when he’s going to propose. You don’t want to miss that.”
A reluctant smile tugs at my lips. Monica has always been good at lightening my mood. I shrug, shaking my head.
“You sure you’re ready for that?” I ask, grabbing another bottle of wine before following her outside.
“Me? Raul’s the one she’ll be interrogating, I’m here for the show,” she laughs.
Stepping through the door, the warm evening air wraps around me like a blanket. As I settle into my seat, pretending to listen to Stacy’s relentless interrogation of Raul, I can’t help but glance at the empty space across the yard. Looking. Hoping.
Sam had a thing.
No matter how hard I try, I can’t shake the feeling that I’m the thing he’s running from.