Wolf at the Door

Chapter 2

Gran’s place isn’t much to look at, but it is home. A little cottage-style house that has seen better days, with chipped paint on the shutters and a front porch that creaks underfoot. She’s been sick lately, and I’ve been doing what I can to help. It isn’t much—just running errands, cooking meals—but it is better than leaving her alone to fend for herself.

As I reach the front gate, I sense someone watching me. Glancing over my shoulder, half expecting to see nothing but the empty street behind me. Instead, I see him—a big guy on a bike, parked a few houses down. He looks like trouble, with dark hair cut short, a jaw that looks like it can cut glass, and muscles that strain against the fabric of his leather jacket. Tattoos curling up his neck, and when his gaze meets mine, I feel it like a jolt straight to my spine.

I turn back to the gate, my heart beating a little faster than I’d like to admit. That’s when I hear it—a voice that makes my skin crawl.

“Bella.”

I freeze. Dylan.

He steps out from behind the bushes, a scowl plastered across his face. He has that look again, the one he got whenever I told him to back off. “You think you can just ignore me?” he snaps.

“I told you, Dylan,” I reply, keeping my voice steady. “It’s over. I’m not going to say it again.”

He takes a step closer, his face twisting with anger. “You think you’re too good for me now? Running errands for your old lady while you dress like you’re trying to catch someone else’s eye?”

I could smell the staleness of beer on his breath, the acrid scent of cigarettes clinging to his clothes. He hadn’t changed at all since I’d kicked him out of my life six months ago—same greasy hair hanging in uneven strands around his face, the same hollow eyes that were always either glazed over or twitching nervously.

His jawline, which could have been strong and handsome, was always marred by a permanent five o'clock shadow, not the kind that made a man look rugged, but the kind that made him look like he hadn’t bothered to clean himself up for days.

There had been a time when I thought he was charming, when his boyish grin and crooked smile seemed endearing, but that was before I’d seen what lurked beneath the surface. The anger issues, the jealousy—those came out early, but I was too na?ve back then to recognize them for the warning signs they were. It wasn’t long before his sweet words turned sour, before the playful teasing became biting remarks meant to cut me down.

Dylan had a mean streak that ran deep, and it didn’t take much to bring it out. The first time he called me a “stupid bitch” because I didn’t answer his texts fast enough, I brushed it off as him just having a bad day. But then it became a pattern. He would lose his temper over the smallest things—a guy looking at me for too long, me talking to a male friend, even something as simple as me wearing a dress that showed a little more skin than he thought appropriate. He was possessive, like he thought I was something he owned instead of someone he was with.

And then there were the drugs. It wasn’t just the occasional joint or a night out drinking—no, he had a taste for harder stuff, the kind that made him unpredictable, volatile. I’d wake up some mornings to find him passed out on the couch, a half-empty baggie of white powder on the coffee table. He’d make promises to clean up, to get his life together, but those promises were worth less than the air he used to say them. I’d tried to help him at first, but it didn’t take long for me to realize you can’t save someone who doesn’t want saving.

When he started pushing me around during his fits of rage, grabbing my wrist hard enough to leave bruises, I knew I couldn’t stay. I wasn’t going to be the kind of girl who made excuses for a guy like him. I wasn’t going to let him drag me down into the darkness he lived in. So, I broke it off, told him to get out of my life for good.

But here he was, showing up at my gran’s house like he had some claim on me. The nerve of him, standing there with his faded leather jacket that reeked of smoke and stale sweat, the kind of man who thought the world owed him something just because he’d had it rough. I’d seen the worst of him, and I didn’t want any part of it anymore.

Before I can answer, the rumble of a motorcycle engine interrupts us. I look up to see the biker from before, riding up slowly, his eyes locked on us. He doesn’t say a word as he parks his motorcycle, climbs off his bike and strolls over, but there is a dangerous calm about him that makes Dylan hesitate.