“Knock it off,” he’d grumbled, eyeing Sammy’s restless movement with annoyance. “Sit down, or I’ll tie your ass to the banister. You’re making me fucking twitchy.”
After several more attempts to distract himself—cleaning, watching a movie, texting his friends back in Hunters Hollow—he finally made his way to the kitchen, drawn by the promise of simple, repetitive motions and familiar scents.
Thierry had stocked the pantry well—a small mercy—so he gathered what he needed for apple strudel muffins. Boone helped him find the mixing bowls and utensils, and together they hunted down the muffin tin, still brand new and wrapped in its paper label.
As he set up his workstation and preheated the oven, the sound of smooth jazz began drifting from the speakers mounted near the ceiling. The notes echoed through the space and bounced off the tiles, seeming to amplify his disquiet.
Rather than soothing, the repetitive beat felt intrusive, hammering at his already frayed nerves.
When Boone asked if he liked it, though, he smiled and nodded.
From that point on, he moved on autopilot, relying on experience and muscle memory, but finding no joy in his work. Every tap of the measuring cup felt clinical, every swirl of the spoon mechanical.
But he kept going, afraid his entire world would shatter if he stopped.
“They’ll be hungry when they get back,” Sammy commented as he scooped batter into paper liners.
Whether he was reassuring Boone or himself, he couldn’t tell.
“Starving,” Boone agreed, sliding off the barstool and rounding the center island to join him. “But Thierry will probably have a stroke when he sees the state of this kitchen.”
Sammy glanced around, wincing when he realized how much of a mess he’d made. Flour, sugar, and bits of apple littered the granite countertop. Bowls and spoons filled the sink. Bags sat open or toppled on their sides, and he had somehow managed to drip the batter onto the floor.
“Come on.” Boone grunted and rolled up his sleeves. “Let’s make it right.”
They worked together, moving in harmony, Sammy washing the dishes, Boone putting everything back where it belonged. They wiped down countertops, mopped the floor, and Sammy scrubbed the sink until he could see his reflection in the bottom.
“Thank you,” he said when they finished.
For the help, but also for the distraction. Boone’s intention had been obvious, but Sammy appreciated it all the same.
Instead of feigning ignorance or purposely misunderstanding, the wolf dipped his head as he resumed his seat at the island.
The oven timer sounded then, puncturing the silence with a long, electronic beep. Sammy hurried to pull the muffins, thankful for something else to do. He had just finished transferring them to a cooling rack when Boone suddenly jumped to his feet.
“They’re back.”
Sammy didn’t stop to ask questions.
Abandoning his task, he hurried out of the kitchen and careened around the corner, bouncing off the walls of the corridor as he sprinted toward the foyer. Nothing could have prepared him for the sight that greeted him.
Dominic stood alone at the base of the stairs, looking like something straight out of a horror movie.
His black shirt hung in tattered strips off his shoulders, and large gashes in various states of healing littered his skin. Well, what little of it Sammy could see through the copious amounts of blood.
“Oh, my gods,” he whispered, stumbling to a stop a few feet away.
“It looks worse than it is,” Dominic told him, his voice rough and quieter than usual.
“What?” It looked pretty damn bad.
“They wouldn’t stop coming.”
“What?” he repeated, his brain buffering.
“The bloodsuckers,” Dominic clarified. His expression hardened, and a muscle in his jaw ticked. “They just kept crawling out of the woodwork like fucking cockroaches.”
Shaking his head, he huffed out a humorless laugh.