Page 54 of Freed By the Witchbone Knife

I sighed, going to the bedroom. His master bath had a huge clawfoot tub. I decided a bath was in order. While I soaked, I called Elle.

“So you are alive,” she greeted on the first ring. “Tell me you’re not calling from a jail cell.”

“Ha. No, just a bathtub.”

“Oh? His bathtub. As in, your new wolfish roommate?”

“His bathtub,” I confirmed. I sank deeper into the water, relishing in the way the heat melted away the tension in my muscles. I hadn’t found any bubble bath to pour in, but there was some epsom salts under the sink.

“Fancy,” Elle hummed. “And how’s the great werewolf cohabitation experiment going?”

We’d exchanged a few texts over the past few days. The same with my siblings. Just so they knew what was going on with Ambrose and that I was safe. Elle, as usual, read way too deeply into the situation. Which meant she was going to love this.

“Well. He kissed me.”

“What?!” she whisper-hissed. “Oh, my God. Yes! Was it good?”

“Elle,” I groaned. “Everything is such a mess now.”

“Oh, no. It wasn’t good? Damn. I figured, werewolf and all. You let him down gently, though, right? Didn’t hurt his male pride?”

“Ugh. That’s not at all what happened.”

My pride was the one hurting in the end.

“Okay, spill!”

I gave her every detail. The brownies. Me tackling him. Him kissing me. I told her exactly how it felt kissing a burly werewolf, and how he’d reacted afterward. The tension between us during the remainder of my hike. The awkwardness that followed over the next twenty four hours.

“Now he’s trying to get back into my good graces,” I explained.

“And you don’t think home made pizza qualifies?”

I made a grumbling sound. “It’s not that. It’s this hot and cold routine. It’s giving me whiplash.”

She was silent for a while. “Sounds like he’s struggling, Becca.”

“What do you mean?”

“He’s a werewolf. Wolves don’t run off into the wilderness and hide—go into exile—unless something is wrong.”

“That’s the problem. He won’t tell me. Every time I’ve tried to get things out of him, he closes himself off.”

“Typical male.”

“Typical male,” I agreed.

“You don’t believe what he said, do you? That it was just biology for him?”

“I don’t know,” I admitted. “He sounded pretty convincing.”

“Becca, what does your heart tell you?”

I lifted my foot from the water, wiggling my toes to study them. They were due for a pedi soon. Maybe I’d hit up the cute little place right off Main Street.

“My heart’s telling me that it meant something. For both of us.”

“Which means there’s more to it than he’s letting on.”