It should’ve terrified the bejesus out of me that a fuckingwolf, potentially a supernatural wolf, was cuddling with me, and it definitely would have—had it been any other wolf.
But this wolf ... I couldn’t explain it, but he feltsafe. Even when he was growling and baring his teeth at Dr. Danvers and Chase, I wasn’t scared he would hurt me but rather scared he would hurtthem.
And it wasn’t just because he was injured and incapable of hurting me, I realized now as I nuzzled closer to his fur. Obviously, he was feeling better if he got off the sofa to cuddle with me on the floor, meaning he could’ve easily torn my head off if he’d so wanted. No, it was something else, without logic. Something more intrinsic. Like a gut feeling, but deeper, more definite.
I simplyknewhe wouldn’t harm me.
That understanding made me feel a sudden burst of affection toward the creature. Whether he was an actual wolf, a werewolf, or something else,more, I liked him. I liked him so much, in fact, that in my mind, he was worth every dollar I spent on the vet visit—and for someone as stingy as I was, that meant something.
I let him go a little to raise my head and look at his sharp, wolfish face. As if feeling my gaze, he opened his own beautifully brilliant eyes and tilted his head down, staring back at me. There was something in his expression, a glint of emotion. I was sure of it.
Perhaps he liked me too.
My heart skipped a beat at the thought. When was the last time I thought someone—or in this case, something—actuallylikedme?
A very long time ago,a little, sad voice replied.
A sudden buzzing noise made me jolt and the wolf tense. But both of us relaxed when I realized it was my phone ringing, still on the couch. Reluctantly, I caressed the wolf’s fur and whispered, “I have to get it,” before I pulled away from his fuzzy heat and stood up.
When I grabbed my phone and saw who the caller was, however, any warmth I had felt fled my body in a cold rush. Taking a deep breath, I glanced at the wolf, who was staring at me with unblinking eyes, and looked away, answering the call with a soft “Hey, Mom.”
“Drew,” my mother’s voice whispered in my ear, ever timid. “It’s ... good to hear your voice.”
The hesitance in her voice was not lost on me. “Yeah,” I said, feeling as though a bone had gotten lodged in my throat. Grimacing, I walked to the kitchen, too agitated to sit down. “How are you and Dad?” I asked as I brewed myself a cup of coffee.
“We are all right,” she said quietly. “Preparing for ... the charity fair.”
I would’ve laughed if I didn’t have the ominous feeling this call was going to take a turn for the worse. “That’s nice,” I said curtly, not knowing what else to say.
Silence stretched over the line. Much like me, Mom didn’t know what to say either.
But I couldn’t take it any longer, so I cleared my voice and asked, “Did something happen?” Because for what other reason would she call me?
I heard her intake of breath before she replied. “Do you remember my friend Karen?”
Of course I remembered Karen. She and Mom had been friends since before I was born. They’d tried to make me and Karen’s daughter, Emilia, who was one year older, become friends. Unfortunately for them—but fortunately for me—they failed.
“Yes, Mom,” I said, irritated now. “Why would you think I’d forget Karen?” Did she really think so badly of me?
That was a stupid question. Yes, she did.
“No, that’s not ...” Mom sighed, then perked up. “Anyway, Karen’s husband, Jerome, is looking for a content w-writer ...”
Her hopeful voice trailed off, and I could see her face in my mind. Big brown eyes that I’d inherited sparkling with wishful thinking, clapping her hands together as though in a prayer.
Anger bubbled inside me, my hands fisting over the kitchen counter. “I have a job,” I said.
“So?” She sounded genuinely confused, and for her, itwasconfusing—writing for an obscure magazine wasn’t a job befitting a Colter.
“Mom,” I gritted out, my voice rising. “Despite what you and Dad think,The Hallowing Houris alegitmagazine, and I write aboutrealthings.”
“Drew.” Her voice turned irritated, and I could practically hear her rolling her eyes. “Just consider the possibilities—”
“I’m not considering anything,” I snapped, “so don’t call me about this shit ever again!”
I hung up and would’ve thrown the phone against the wall if it didn’t ring again. Knowing that ignoring the problem wouldn’t make it disappear, I answered with a snippy “What?”
“You will consider the job offer this time.” Dad’s voice came through, low and livid. “It’s not up for negotiation.”