Chapter 2
Chapter
Two
Cherry
I knew I shouldn’t have gone out tonight.
I should have picked up my favorite takeout and sat down to crochet in front of the TV, like I always do after my Friday shift at the candle store.
Back in New York, I take this time to turn inward. I revel in the sights of autumn, the incredible changing colors of the trees in Central Park.
This year, after months of not getting to know anyone my age in my new town, I decided to throw caution to the wind. I’m ready to meet people and change things up.
I should have heeded my sixth sense. Instead, I whipped up a hasty protection spell. I took the trouble to do all that, and waste some precious dried rare herbs—which I now carry in a sachet in my purse—rather than just stay home.
I also had the option of staying at work, trying to muster up a conversation with our best customer, Timber Hawkins. Now there’s a guy who knows something about white magic. It’s evident by how he goes through white candles. He’s in and out of the shop so quickly, sometimes without a word.
My boss often muses after he leaves, “Why does one single man need so many white candles?”
“Maybe he’s really into protection spells,” I always say.
Timber’s cute and all. Tall and sturdy, with a dark beard and chocolate brown eyes.
Jeans, flannel shirts, hiking boots. The outdoorsy type, and exactly my vibe.
But it feels wrong to flirt with a customer.
It’s exceptionally wrong to look up his personal information in our customer database to learn more about him.
If he were to try to chat me up, though, I’d have to engage. That’s just good customer service.
Still, I promised myself I would try to meet some other single people, and the easiest way to do that is through dating apps.
I knew who Toby Cook was as soon as we’d matched. I thought it was neat that someone so influential in my new town would match with me instead of swiping left.
But that turned out to be a disaster.
And then Toby wound up dead. I think.
If I’d known what a creep he was, I never would have gone out with him.
I don’t wish him dead. At worst, my sincere hope for Toby is a hard kick in the nuts, and some deep self-reflection with the guidance of a trained professional. Perhaps a year or two of hard time in prison for near-sexual assault. But not death.
And here I am, about to die by the same teeth that brought down poor, useless Toby.
I look up into the face of my latest assailant. A freaking wild animal, of all things.
The beast’s enormous face is savage, wolf-like, his bared teeth brandishing long, deadly fangs, the snarl creating deep furrows along the canine snout and between the monstrous features.
What on earth is this rabid dog going to do with me?
It growls, it snorts, it drools all over me.
This is a sick and twisted joke, if this is how I die.
The beast seems to be toying with me, trying to decide exactly how he prefers to kill me.
The only thing I can do now is fight back.
But the animal has me locked under him. My arms are pinned to the ground above my head.
My full-on panic after seeing the monster tear into Toby made me miss a few things that I notice now that we’re up close.
This creature wears a sweater and jeans, both torn to shreds.
As if he went full Incredible Hulk mode and ripped through his seams. But instead of turning green, the guy went another direction.
I don’t dare think about it. Because it’s not real.
The eyes make the word come into sharper focus.
But no. My mind rejects the idea.
Because I’m a witch, I’m aware that Birchdale is home to all sorts of creatures. Vampires, demons, and other creatures that lurk and bite and do mischief and mayhem. But not this. Not…werewolves.
It’s just so…Monster of the Week.
But even more terrifying.
What is he waiting for?
And why am I not screaming?
And then I get the strange feeling that even if I weren’t pinned down, I wouldn’t run away.
I don’t want to run away.
Wait. Why don’t I want to run away?
My mind goes back to the protection spell I did before my date. And then the incantation I tried at the last second when Toby wouldn’t back off. I must have screwed up the magic somehow. I must have done something that backfired, making me a simpering fool instead.
I speak softly. “It’s okay,” I say. “I’m not going to fight you. I know you won’t hurt me.”
I say it even though my logical brain doesn’t believe it.
But I guess a part of me is hoping that the humanity I see in his eyes will give me a chance to escape.
Instead, the half wolf/half man leans down and sniffs my throat.
The touch of that wet nose against my skin sends wild sparks of inexplicable pleasure down to my middle.
And then, he licks me.
Not a little tiny kitten lick.
Not quite a dog lick either.
His tongue darts out, and he slowly swipes a wide, wet, flat tongue over the side of my neck. Right over the part where if he bit down, he’d sink his fangs right into my carotid artery. No, that’s not frightening at all.
The one long, slow lick warms me to my toes. It creates all sorts of sensations in me that I don’t understand.
Everything about this creature is lethally dangerous, and yet now I don’t feel scared at all.
His eyes. I know him. But how?
I can’t believe I’m focusing on why the monster’s eyes look so familiar when I could be in danger of being eaten alive.
It’s that human connection—and the fact that I adore dogs, obviously—that makes me say, “May I have my hands back, please?”
Understanding flashes in his eyes.
Slowly, the beast releases his grip on my wrists. I bring them to my chest, rubbing one and then the other.
He sniffs my arms, like he’s checking me for injuries.
“I’m okay,” I whisper, my mind screaming out a warning as my hands close the distance between us, rubbing the scruff of hair at his neck. It’s shockingly soft and as thick as a husky’s winter coat, and I lose my fingers in its black depths.
The monster is silently watching me as I do this.
My hands travel up to the back of the terrifying head and gently scratch behind the ears.
The werewolf lets out a low, satisfied sigh, and I don’t know if it’s the human side or the wolf side.
I don’t know why this creature did what he did to Toby, yet left me alone, but I’m not about to remind him that I could be his second course.
I should be halfway to Grandma’s house by now if I’d simply started running instead of watching that attack.
Then again, I might be a dumbass. I thought I had an adequate protection spell, but that didn’t do anything to protect me from Toby tonight.
I scramble up to sitting, resting my back against a tree.
Amazingly, the creature crawls to me on all fours, resembling the way a household German shepherd might track its owner’s every movement. He’s like a big herding animal, his nose and ears and eyes tracking my every movement.
“I won’t run,” I promise. “Just please don’t eat me.”
As I say this, I hear how ridiculous that is.
He says something, too low and too raspy for me to make out.
“What’s that, boy?”
The beast doesn’t answer, but is sniffing my ankles and feet. I realize for the first time that they’re scratched and bleeding from the insane run through the woods.
“No, leave it alone. It’s not that serious. Ew, gross,” I say, wincing as the creature’s tongue darts out and licks the bloody wounds dry and clean, one by one. The licking tickles at first. And then the beast is licking up my legs, then nudging me around.
I think it’s safest to just let him move me where he wants me, and before long, my wounded feet are resting on his upturned belly while he sort of curls around my body in a protective arc.
The creature is sharing his warmth with me.
Before long, panic subsides.
We sit like this for hours, maybe.
Eventually, I fall asleep from the exhaustion and the crash following the wildest surge of adrenaline I’ve ever experienced in my life.
Not surprisingly, I have fitful dreams of being chased. Not by a dog, but by Toby Cook.
But every time I jolt in panic, something warm washes over my face. Warm fur surrounds me. I am lulled back to sleep, again and again.
I wake with a start, blinded by the bright light of morning, to find myself wrapped in layers of fur, lying in a strange bed.
Sitting up, I notice the rustic but pleasant room is bathed in candlelight.
Everywhere on every surface, there are jars and candlesticks and pedestals of white candles.
On the counters, on the sills, on the mantle, on the nightstand.
Votives, pillars, tapers everywhere. There’s even a log-shaped candleholder flickering in the fireplace.
This place is a firetrap.
I strain to think. What happened last night? Did I go home with a hot guy who decided to be over-the-top romantic?
The wolf. I met a fucking wolf man.
Holy shit. Werewolves are real.
And one chased me through the woods.
I turn in the bed, fully expecting to see the beast again. But the wolf is gone. Instead of being cradled in fur, I’m lying next to a man.
His sleeping face is peaceful in the light streaming in through the window, and I realize I know him.
It’s Timber Hawkins.
I know these candles.
These are the white unscented beeswax ones from the store where I work. To confirm, I pick up one jarred candle on the nightstand and inspect the label. Sure enough.
There’s only one person I know who comes in at least once a week and buys a white unscented candle. Sometimes every day.
My mind flashes back to the conversation I had with my boss.
“Why does one single man need so many white candles?”
“Maybe he’s really into protection spells.”
The man next to me stirs.
Trying not to hyperventilate as my mind replays what happened last night, I grip the soft blanket close around my shoulders.
Slowly, I begin to move off the bed, placing one leg on the floor.
Timber’s eyes fly open instantly at the slight creak of the bed.
No escaping without a confrontation now. Lucky me.
I swallow back my fear.
“Timber Hawkins, you’re a fucking werewolf.”
“And you’re a witch.”
Panic wins out. When I fly out of bed, taking the blanket with me, I thank my lucky stars that he’s wearing pajama bottoms.
The veiny, muscled arm reaches out, but I move too quickly for him to snatch me.
“Let me explain…”
My voice is high-pitched in fright. “There’s nothing to explain. You murdered my date.”
“He’s going to be fine. I didn’t bite that deep.”
“There was so much blood.”
“I’m sorry you had to see that.”
“Really? Are you also sorry you chased me through the woods and let me get all scratched up and bruised?”
Timber throws his legs over the side of the bed, and I scurry backwards away from him. His eyes go to my feet, and I follow his gaze.
There, I find my feet are covered in bandages.
“Sit down and let me tend to your wounds,” he says.
“I think I’m gonna go,” I say, handing him his blanket and being extra grateful that my dress isn’t ruined.
He nods. “I’ll drive you, but let me look at your feet.”
“No thanks.”
Timber cocks his head, and his dark eyes look amused. “You seemed fine with me last night. Would you feel more comfortable if I shifted back into werewolf form so I could lick them?”
“Gross! I let the monster do what he did because animals follow natural instincts. They don’t know right from wrong.”
“So you have compassion for the wolf.”
“I didn’t say that.”
“And for me?”
“That remains to be seen. How could there be werewolves here?”
He holds up his hands. “I know. It’s a lot to absorb. But you need to trust me.”
I narrow my eyes at him. “Were you watching me on my date last night?”
He sighs and scrubs a hand over his face. “Look. I didn’t want you to find out this way, but yes, I was watching you. Have been watching you. For a while.”
“You…what?” I look around the room. “The candles. Damn, I thought you were a fellow loner witch. But you’ve been stalking me this whole time?”
He doesn’t try to deny it. “Lurking. Stalking. Call it what you want. But I’ve been protecting my…my…you.” Timber gestures at me awkwardly, then rubs a hand through his dark beard.
“I’m not your anything, Timber.”
He doesn’t argue or agree; he focuses on my legs, ankles, and feet.
“Would you feel more comfortable if I called you an Uber?”
“Yeah, I’d kind of feel better if you didn’t know where I live.”
He stares at me.
My stomach drops. “Oh shit. You already know where I live, don’t you?”