Page 8 of Witch’s Wolf (Bound by the Howl #2)

8

SAM

“ N ew York, here we come!” Erica is practically singing as she smiles broadly.

Her eyes are alight with a spark I haven’t seen before. Every part of her radiates excitement as if she can’t wait to reach the city. Her happiness feels like a noontime sun, warm, but too bright. Part of me wants to bask in it and hope it thaws the cold knot of worry firmly lodged in my chest. I can’t, though, because the problem isn’t the city.

New York doesn’t bother me the way it does a lot of other shifters. Sure, it’s loud, chaotic, and reeks of humans and their filth, but that’s not what’s weighing me down. It’s her. Her and what we might learn once we’re there.

Helena’s warning circles in my thoughts like a predator stalking its prey. The witch doesn’t spook easily, but her inability to see into Erica’s future, has her on edge. And when a witch like Helena gets uneasy, anyone with half a brain damn well pays attention.

I watch Erica, laughing softly at something she said that I didn’t catch. She’s clueless and certain that there’s nothing to find. I wish I felt the same, but I can’t shake the feeling that something, or someone, has kept her in the dark. That, more than anything else, scares the hell out of me.

We agree that I’ll follow her in my truck, and we head for the city without further doings. My thoughts are spinning in the same circles for the entire drive. Everything about this feels wrong.

Three hours later, I follow her sleek BMW onto a quiet street lined with cookie-cutter homes. It’s the kind of neighborhood that looks nice enough on the surface, but the devil is in the details.

The house she pulls up to appears no different than any of the others. Two stories, a small driveway, and a crumbling charm that it’s trying too hard to hold onto. One wall bears faded graffiti scrawled in uneven black letters that once read FREEDOM . I wonder who or what they’re trying to free.

The stench of rot and garbage from a nearby dumpster makes my nose wrinkle, and my wolf stirs uneasily. This is her world, her territory. It sure has hell couldn’t be farther from mine. I climb out of my truck, my boots hitting the pavement. Erica’s already at the door, her keys jingling in her hand.

“I just moved in here last week,” she says over her shoulder, her voice tinged with pride. “I know it needs a work, but it’s a hell of a lot better than my old apartment.”

Her tone is casual as she fiddles with her keys and unlocks the door while avoiding eye contact. She’s putting on a brave face, like this house is more than just a place to live. I’m not sure if it’s a statement or a way of proving something.

My gaze drifts to the shed on the side of the house. It’s smaller than the cabin I call home, with a beige door that looks newer than the rest of the property. Something about it feels… off. The door is too new, too clean, like it doesn’t belong with the rest of the property, but it’s not only the door. My wolf senses a wrongness, a faint trace of something unfamiliar.

“That shed over there,” I say, tipping my head toward it. “What do you keep in there? If you don’t mind me asking.”

She pauses, turning to look at the shed like she’s seeing it for the first time. Her brows furrow slightly, and I swear the light in her eyes dims, just for a second. Whatever’s in that shed, it’s already casting shadows.

“Actually, that shed is the main reason I rented this place,” Erica says, keys jingling like a nervous tic. Her voice carries a casual note, but there’s something brittle underneath it. “It’s full of my parents’ stuff. I didn’t have enough room to keep it in my old apartment and had to rent a storage space. Storage doesn’t come cheap in the city. That shed offset the extra expense of the house.”

Her words land heavier than she probably realizes. Parents’ stuff. A whole shed full of it, locked up and untouched. I stare at it, trying to decide if it’s a shrine or a grave.

“Have you gone through any of it?” I ask, keeping my tone neutral.

She steps closer, clutching the keys tighter. Her hesitation speaks louder than her answer.

“Not all of it,” she admits, her voice softer now. “I haven’t been able to… it hurts too much.” She drops her eyes to the ground. For a moment I think she’s somewhere else entirely. “When I moved in the other day, I grabbed a couple of pictures of them and locked the shed back up. I haven’t been inside since.”

The way she says it, like it’s final, like the mere thought of opening that door could undo her, tugs at something deep in me. I know what it’s like to carry that kind of pain, to bury it so deep it feels like it’s part of your DNA.

“I’d like to take a look at it,” I say, keeping my voice light, almost casual, though my wolf stirs restlessly.

“No,” she snaps, her eyes narrowing. “Sorry, but that’s not okay. I can’t go through that stuff, Sam. It’s too painful”

“I get it,” I say holding up a hand in a peace offering. “You won’t have to. I’ll do it myself. You don’t even have to set foot inside. Let me look and if there’s anything important, I’ll let you know.”

She tenses, her shoulders hunching, and I watch the conflict on her face. She’s fighting with emotions, not because she doesn’t trust me, but because she doesn’t trust herself. The idea of someone else wading into that sea of grief she’s kept at bay must feel like a betrayal of everything she’s worked so hard to bury. She lets out a frustrated huff, tossing me the keys with more force than necessary.

“Fine,” she snaps, crossing her arms tightly over her chest. “Fair warning, though. There are probably cockroaches in there. I saw a huge, disgusting one the other day. Brown and shiny. Ugh.”

“Thanks for the heads-up. I’ll keep an eye out for the little bastards.”

The deflection is obvious, but I don’t call her on it. Her glare softens, but she doesn’t move, staying in her defensive stance. I turn toward the shed, the keys cold and heavy in my hand.

I feel her watching, like she’s torn between wanting me to find something and praying I don’t. The shed is a Pandora’s box of memories she’s too afraid to face. And here I am, about to open it, knowing full well that whatever I find inside might be more than either of us is ready for.

“Are you making fun of me?” she asks, her voice sharp.

“No,” I reply quickly, too quickly. “God forbid, no.”

She doesn’t say anything more as I approach the shed. She opens the front door, and it shuts softly, leaving me to my exploration.

I shouldn’t be here, invading her space like this, but curiosity gnaws at me. I can’t shake the feeling that what’s inside the shed will tell me more about Erica than she ever willingly would. Maybe more than she even knows.

She said it’s her parents’ stuff, but she’s left it untouched and forgotten. How do you forget the people who made you? I think of my parents, the ache of their loss as familiar as the steady rhythm of my heartbeat. I’ve buried my grief, but I’ve never locked it away, never pretended it didn’t exist. Erica’s choice to leave these pieces of her past sealed up, unseen and unexplored, feels alien to me. It’s as if she’s hiding something, not just from herself, but from the world.

The beige door gleams under the moonlight, incongruous against the weathered wood surrounding it. I pause, my fingers curling around the cold, metal key.

My wolf stirs restlessly. The unease I’ve been trying to ignore coils tighter in my chest. The wrongness of this place crawls over my skin with icy fingers. It feels like a predator’s den that’s been disguised as a sanctuary. I push the thought away and jam the key into the lock. It turns with a soft click, the sound impossibly loud in the quiet.

Stepping inside, the air is stale, thick with the smell of old wood and time left standing still. I use my phone light and find a light switch next to the door. When I click it on, dust motes dance in the faint beam of light from a single bulb overhead, casting faint, shifting patterns on the walls. The interior is smaller than I imagined. There are haphazardly stacked boxes lining the walls, their edges worn but sturdy.

In the center of the room sits a wide counter like an altar to the past. Objects are arranged with a care that feels at odds with the rest of the space. A jumble of picture frames, a faded restaurant receipt, and an ancient bouquet of roses. The flowers are dry and brittle, their original color long gone, leaving only the ghost of what they once were. At the center of it all is a wooden plaque, its surface dulled with age, but the carved names still visible.

Roberta it sees her as mine to guard. But the man in me knows better. She’s human, and getting involved with her is courting disaster. My grip tightens on the book, a futile attempt to hold myself back from instincts screaming for one thing.

Protect her, no matter the cost.