Two weeks had passed since Lucas had been turned into a wolf. For the first five days, I’d been obsessed with his recovery. I’d pestered Callum and Aster with messages demanding updates. The relief when they’d replied had lasted minutes before I was itching to ask again.
I hadn’t realised how morose I’d been before nightly calls with Lucas became routine while he continued to adjust in the mountains. Louisa’s grandmother wasn’t the only person who’d commented on my smile over the last few days. It seemed more people on the island noticed when I was down than I would have thought.
Listening to Lucas’s voice for hours each evening after I shut up the shop, hearing from him that he was well and recovering, smiling at his laugh as he told me about Aster and the goats’ latest antics – had brought my smile back. I could only imagine what people would say once Lucas came home. Even with my superior healing abilities I didn’t think I’d be able to keep my cheeks from aching with the smiles I wouldn’t be able to stop.
‘Thank you.’ My back pressed into Hamish’s dragon as Louisa’s grandmother walked out the door. ‘You’re beautiful when you smile.’
She let out a laugh that was as throaty as Louisa’s and walked down the street towards her pharmacy.
I hoped Hamish hadn’t heard her compliment. One of his favourite things to tease me about was how the older ladies of the island thought I was pretty.
I shut the door and came face-to-face with his smug grin.
‘What a lovely young man you are.’ He scrunched his nose in faux appreciation of my charms. ‘Such a wonderful smile with all your teeth intact. Not a denture in sight.’
‘Yeah, yeah.’ It amazed me how he was able to sneak up on me, often when I was interacting with a customer in a way I’d rather no one witnessed and never when a queue formed or boxes of books he wasn’t interested in arrived. ‘You’ve got a lovely smile too.’
The grin avalanched off his face, replaced by his habitual scowl. ‘Fuck off.’
‘Gladly.’
I sidestepped around him, then gasped. My scarf had tightened around my neck. My heart swooped painfully as the fabric whispered across my skin.
It was caught on something.
‘No,’ I cried, jerking back towards the window display.
‘Fuck no,’ Hamish shouted.
He reached for my scarf. Having worked with him for years, I understood his concern wasn’t for me or my clothing, but for any damage I might do to his precious dragon.
Only the extensive training I’d endured with Callum and the years of practice being a werewolf stopped me from baring my fangs at Hamish and swiping with my claws.
‘Step back,’ I commanded, breathing deep through my nostrils to calm the panic desperately fighting its way free. I pressed my blunt fingers into my scarf, clutching it around my neck.
I didn’t have the innate authority Bonnie and Callum had been born with, but whether something had been imbued in me that could only be awakened in dire circumstances or if he did have some respect for his employer, Hamish dropped his arms. His expression flickered between annoyance and concern.
‘Your scarf is caught on a wingtip.’ His hooded eyes focused on a point over my left shoulder.
‘Okay.’ I flattened the soft green fabric against my throat. ‘Can you please detach it?’
Hamish nodded. Perhaps sensing something lurked under my skin, even if he didn’t know it was a panicked wolf, he carefully reached over my shoulder.
I couldn’t help the stutter to my breath as the fabric around my neck shifted at his touch. My fingers dug into my scarf, desperately keeping it in place.
‘There.’ One last tug, and a soft weight settled on my shoulder. Hamish stepped back. ‘You’re free.’
‘Thank you,’ I murmured.
I’d become adept at readjusting my scarves without removing them. I checked the front was tucked under my chin and resting across the top of my chest, then found the ends and made sure they were wound around my back and under my ears.
Hamish watched my nervous checking, his ginger eyebrows low.
‘Can you tidy the shelves over in romance?’ I asked.
Mindreading wasn’t a skill gifted to me when I became a werewolf, but I could practically hear the questions forming in Hamish’s brain. Everyone assumed my scarves were a fashion choice until they asked me if I wanted to take one off or the wind caught an end and threatened to unwrap it. Then they realised the choice wasn’t aesthetic but compulsive. Ihadto wear a scarf, and naturally they wanted to know why.
My pack knew. They had to. It was impossible not to tell them after my epic freak out when I changed. Everyone else on the island probably assumed I’d gone for a weird holiday in the mountains with Callum and had returned to the village with a penchant for neck warming. To be fair, for most of the year wearing a scarf wasn’t unusual. There were only a handful of days on the island when the weather was good enough that I wished I could bare my throat, could wear a T-shirt without feeling horribly exposed.
