He was here. I know he was.
And he’ll be back.
I turn to look at Fern one last time. She’s silhouetted in the doorway with her hand on the frame and her jaw set in astubborn line. Even now, even furious with me, she’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.
“Goodnight, Fern.”
She closes the door without a word.
I stand on her porch for a long moment and stare at the painted wood and listen to the sound of locks clicking into place. Then I force myself to turn and walk away.
Chapter 15 - Fern
I’m a terrible person.
The thought circles through my head for the hundredth time as I pace my small living room. Outside, the sun has long since set, and the cottage is dark except for the single lamp I switched on an hour ago. The coffee cups from earlier are still sitting on the table. I should wash them. I should do something productive instead of wearing a path in the carpet.
But I can’t stop replaying the look on Connor’s face when I told him to leave me alone.
He was trying to help. Some rational part of my brain knows that. He came back to warn me about the scent outside my window, and I threw it in his face like he was the enemy. Like he was Robbie.
The comparison isn’t fair. I know it isn’t fair. Connor has never hit me or threatened me or made me feel small and worthless. He’s pushy and overprotective and infuriating, but he’s not cruel. Not the way Robbie was cruel.
So why did I treat him like he was?
Because it’s easier, a voice whispers in the back of my mind. It’s easier to push him away than to admit you might actually want him close.
I shake my head and make myself stop pacing. This is ridiculous. I’m a grown woman with a doctorate in psychology. I should be able to untangle my own emotional responses without spiraling into a guilt-fueled meltdown.
A crash from the kitchen makes me jump.
I freeze in the middle of the living room and strain my ears. The sound was loud. Glass breaking, maybe, or somethingheavy hitting the floor. My heart hammers against my ribs as I stare at the darkened doorway that leads to the back of the cottage.
It’s probably nothing. A dish I left too close to the edge of the counter. The wind knocking something over through an open window.
Except I didn’t leave any dishes out. And all my windows are closed.
I grab my phone from the coffee table and hold it like a weapon as I creep toward the kitchen. Every horror movie I’ve ever seen flashes through my mind. The stupid girl who investigates the strange noise instead of running. The victim who walks right into the killer’s trap.
But this is Silvercreek. This is pack territory. Nothing bad is supposed to happen here.
I reach the kitchen doorway and fumble for the light switch. The overhead fixture flickers on, and I look around the room with my heart in my throat.
The window above the sink is broken. Shards of glass litter the counter and the floor below, and cold night air rushes through the jagged opening. One of my kitchen chairs is knocked over, and the back door stands slightly ajar.
Someone was here. Someone broke in.
My hands shake so badly I almost drop my phone. I back out of the kitchen and press myself against the hallway wall as I try to remember how to breathe.
Call the police. That’s what a normal person would do. Call 911 and wait for help to arrive.
But this isn’t a normal town, and I have no idea if the local cops know anything about werewolves or stalker ex-boyfriends or mating bonds gone wrong.
I stare at my phone and scroll through my contacts until I find his name.
Connor.
I don’t want to call him. After everything I said tonight, the last thing I want is to prove him right. To admit that I can’t handle this on my own.
