Page 7 of Witch’s Wolf (Bound by the Howl #2)

7

ERICA

“ S am…! We missed you at dinner last night,” Monica says, her voice slicing through the quiet of the morning and my heart at the same time.

He’s here. The instant I see him my betraying heart skips a beat. All six foot three of him, every inch of that a magnetic mix of strength and control. He waltzes into Monica’s home like he belongs. His eyes sweep the living room, deliberate and slow, before shifting to the kitchen where I stand, frozen, unable to take a full breath.

“Good morning,” he says, his voice gentle but weighted enough to ripple through me. “Monica, sorry to interrupt, but can I borrow your friend for a minute?”

Sam’s gaze stays on me as Monica’s grin stretches, her eyebrows shooting up in mock surprise. She’s not even trying to hide her amusement.

“I don’t see the point,” I mutter, aiming for nonchalance but missing completely. My heart is hammering so loud I’m sure they can both hear it. “But, sure, what the hell…?”

I shuffle towards him, my shoulders tense and feeling awkward. This is somehow worse than any ‘walk of shame’ and I didn’t even get a good roll before it.

“I’ll be back in a few minutes, Monica,” I say, voice tighter than I’d like.

Her smirk follows me out the door as I step onto the porch and into the cool morning air.

“So…” I exhale, squinting at him as the door clicks shut. “You’re the last person I expected to see today, especially after your no-show last night.”

“To be honest,” he says, shoving his hands deep into the pockets of his dark jeans, “I didn’t plan on stopping by now either.” He stares off the porch towards the trees, not looking at me. He steps onto the sidewalk. “Walk with me.”

“Since we’re being honest,” I say, falling into step beside him, “I didn’t miss you at dinner.”

“I can’t blame you.” His tone is easy, but there’s an edge in his voice, a layer of self-awareness I don’t miss. “It would’ve been embarrassing… for both of us.”

“Is that why you didn’t show?” I ask, studying his profile. “To spare us the embarrassment?”

“It was a factor,” he says, his voice soft but steady. He keeps his gaze forward and I have this sense that he’s weighing his next words carefully. “Mostly, I needed to clear my head.”

I slow my pace, curiosity tangling with frustration.

“I’d pay a lot of money for a peek inside that head of yours,” I murmur, more to myself than to him. I glance back at the house, half-expecting Monica to be watching from a window, but if she is, I don’t see her. “What are you thinking, Sam? Because I’m lost when it comes to you.”

He stops walking, his boots scraping against the gravel as he turns to face me. His gaze is heavy, pinning me in place.

“You think I don’t notice you staring?” I ask, my voice gaining strength even as my chest tightens. “Over and over. Then, when I throw myself at you, you just…” my throat clenches, but I push through, “walk away. Why?”

His jaw tightens as his gaze flicks away, then back to mine.

“You wouldn’t understand,” he says finally, his voice low and raw.

“Try me,” I fire back, the words sharp with frustration. I shouldn’t say more, but I can’t stop. “Because right now, all I see is that you’re running from something. Maybe it’s me. Maybe it’s us. Maybe it’s something else, but I deserve to know what’s keeping you from?—”

I break off when he raises his hand and his fingers brush my arm so lightly it feels like a whisper. A shiver races down my spine, my skin heating where he touched.

“It’s not you,” he says, his voice rough, almost broken. “It’s what I’d lose if I let myself…” he trails off, his eyes boring into mine, searching for something, but what, I don’t know.

His unfinished thought hangs in the space between us, and for the first time, I realize it’s fear keeping Sam at arm’s length and that it isn’t just about me.

“Erica… thank you… for being so open,” he says, his tone maddeningly even, as if he’s delivering a weather report instead of cutting me to ribbons. “I’ll be blunt in return. I don’t like your kind, Erica. You humans are too unpredictable and too complex. I could say a whole lot of things about you, but I’d rather stick to that for now. But, I admit, I like your looks. Is there something wrong with admiring someone beautiful?”

The words hit like a slow-burning match. Part of me wants to throw them back in his face, to tell him how dare he reduce me to something so shallow. But another part, the part that feels raw and vulnerable, absorbs his statement like sunlight on skin.

“No, there’s not,” I snap. My pulse pounds in my ears, the conflict inside a roaring storm. “But wouldn’t it be better if you did more than just look?”

His gaze meets mine, steady and searching, like he’s weighing every word before speaking.

“That’s what I’ve been trying to tell you,” he finally says, turning slightly so the light catches the sharp line of his jaw. “I don’t know if doing more would turn out to be better.”

He pauses and then looks away, back to those damned woods. I’m sure he’s dreaming about running free through them, far from here. Far from me. Anger surges.

“What does that even mean, Sam? What am I supposed to do with that?”

It’s clear my words cut him. I see that when his jaw tenses and his fingers twitch, as if he’s fighting their urge to curl into fists. I don’t care. He owes me. More than that at least. Something.

“Helena came to me yesterday,” he says, frowning deeper. “I’ve got more reasons to be cautious around you.”

My stomach drops, but the anger floods the space it leaves behind.

“Excuse me?” I say, voice rising, “Did I hear you right? You’re talking to some witch about me? And based on whatever she says you’re going to stay away?”

I cross my arms over my chest like armor trying to shield my heart.

“Not some witch,” he growls, his voice dropping to that gravelly bass that both unnerves and pulls at me. “ Our witch. Helena’s been the angel on my family’s shoulder, so yeah, we talked about you. I’m sure Monica’s told you about her powers and her orb.”

I clench my fists, struggling to keep my frustration from boiling over.

“I’ve heard,” I admit, voice low but tense. “What about it?”

“She can’t see your future,” he says, and there’s something in his voice I can’t quite place. Something between unease and fascination. “Don’t ask me for details. I don’t have any. That’s her area of expertise. All I know is that she says some spell is blocking her. And if it’s blocking her… it’s powerful.”

My breath catches and I turn away. Staring across Monica’s partially landscaped yard, I fixate on a patch of wildflowers pushing through the gravel at the edge of the road. Their fragile beauty feels like a cruel contrast to the absurdity of what he’s saying.

“That’s ridiculous,” I scoff, the words leaving a bitter taste on my tongue.

Even as I say it, unease creeps up my spine, refusing to be ignored. Why would anyone cast a spell on me? And why can’t I shake the feeling that Sam is hiding more than he’s telling? His silence presses against me, heavy and unrelenting. I glance at him and the intensity in his gaze nearly unravels me. There’s definitely something there, something deeper.

“Erica…” he starts, his voice softening just enough to make my chest ache, but he stops.

The sentence hangs in the air, unfinished and impossible to ignore. My fingers curl into the fabric of my jacket. I’m standing at the edge of something vast and unknowable, while Sam is holding a map that he refuses to share.

“It may sound ridiculous, but I’ve got no reason to doubt her,” Sam says, his tone steady and unapologetic. He shakes his head and shrugs. “I trust her, in this.”

He adds the last bit almost as an afterthought, which is so Sam. Trust, mostly. Give, in part, but not in whole.

“Well, maybe you shouldn’t!” I shout, voice rising in frustration. I glare because his calmness grates on my fraying patience. “ The closest I’ve ever come to a witch besides her was a tenth-grade magician doing card tricks. I’ve never met any other witches, wizards, or any of that crap. Why should I believe her? Why should I let her stop me from doing what my heart says could be a good thing? You hear me, Sam?”

“Loud and clear,” he says, his tone slipping into that infuriatingly lazy drawl that feels like a shrug. He leans closer, his eyes narrowing and somehow becoming more intense. “What about your folks, Erica? Did they…?”

“I know what you’re going to ask,” I cut him off. “No, they didn’t.”

“You sure?” he presses, his gaze never wavering. “Maybe you should have a word with them.”

The words punch me in the chest, harder than he could possibly realize. My throat tightens as the familiar ache of grief surges up.

“I can’t,” I say, my voice thickening, the memory rising like a wave I can’t outrun. I can’t stand looking at him, so I turn partly away. “They died in a plane crash back in nineteen-ninety-nine. I was seven , thank you very much.”

I sense his confidence faltering. His shoulders slump, just barely, and his gaze flickers like he’s debating whether to pull back or press on.

“I’m sorry,” he murmurs, his voice softer, the edge gone.

He bites his lower lip, and for a second, I let myself believe he regrets it. That maybe, despite everything, there is a warm, beating heart beneath all his gruffness and pushing me away.

“Either way,” he continues, still determined, “I think you should do some digging.” He pauses, frowning deeply, then making a sound that is almost a snort. “I can help if you like.”

The offer catches me off guard, and I hesitate, weighing his words. A part of me wants to brush it off, to tell him there’s no point. The other part, the reckless part, jumps at the chance to have him close. Impulsive, as I usually am, despite how often it gets me into trouble, I roll the dice.

“If by ‘help’ you mean driving back to New York with me tonight, fine,” I say, despite the heaviness in my chest.

The idea of him in my world, on my terms, feels like an unexpected gift. The city is my home, my territory, and for whatever it’s worth, it feels like I’ll have the homecourt advantage.

“Sure,” he agrees with a nod. The tension in him eases. “What time are you leaving?”

“Around seven.”

“I’ll be here,” he promises, his eyes studying me in a way I can’t define or decipher. “I’ll see you tonight, Ms. Connors.”

I don’t tell him, but his suggestion of “digging” feels like a joke. My parents? Into witchcraft? The idea is as laughable as it is absurd. They were devout Catholics, raised in strict traditions, with no room for spells or magic. The thought of them chanting incantations is as likely as being struck by lightning twice in the same day.

Still, as I watch him walk away, a flicker of anticipation stirs.

I’m envisioning Sam in Manhattan. In my world, my comfort zone, far from the mountains that feel like his domain. The thought of being alone with him again, and in my world where I can control the narrative, sends a thrill through me. But with that thrill comes a whisper of fear. Sam isn’t a man you can predict, no matter where you meet him. As exciting as this could be, there is no guarantee it will end well for either of us.