4. Lewis

CHAPTER 4

LEWIS

I slam the car door and make my way through the small parking lot of the sawmill. The buzzing and constant whine of machines chewing their metal teeth through the woody flesh of the recently cut and dried lumber spills out. Do the trees of the reserve stand horrified in witness to their brethren being slaughtered, length after piney length?

Making my way around the back, I head to the cutting shed where Den makes the slabs that are used for more refined applications, like dining tables and sideboards for the cultured people of Vermont. Sawdust floats through the air, making its way from the machine to the outdoors in steady waves like rhythmic exhales.

"Den?!"

Despite his earplugs, he can hear me, unlike his human work buddies. He hits the round red stop button on the side of the long cutting machine, and it whines to an eerie halt. After letting the dust settle a little, he pushes his safety glasses into his hair, the dark blond hair coated with sawdust.

"Lewis, here to pick me up for our date tonight? You're a bit early, brother." His face lights up with a grin. Always the joker.

Lowering my brows, I step closer to the behemoth machine and run a hand over the tight grain of the freshly cut hardwood slab. I look back to Den, and his face falls. Swallowing, I turn to face him, leaning against the deck of the saw, arms tight over my chest.

"What? What happened?" Denver tilts his head, eyes narrowing.

"Something," I choke out, as if reliving the moments I stood in front of Samantha with that overwhelming feeling so deep it vibrated through the marrow in my bones. Like nothing I have ever felt before. The shock of it still renders me speechless.

He steps closer. "Lewis, are you alright? You look like you saw a ghost."

"I—"

"You what? Weren't you at school?"

I shake my head at the phrase he insists on using.

"You weren't at school?"

"No, I mean, yes, I was at work. Teaching. Then I asked one of the students to come see me after class. And she?—"

"She what?" His eyes widen.

I track my gaze past his shoulder to the forest teaming with tiny, harried heartbeats and aging wood. "My—It snapped," I breathe. He looks confused, but as my focus stays on his, confusion melts to understanding and his mouth gapes.

"With a student? Hang on . . . not that witch?"

I nod.

"No," he mutters, shaking his head. He turns around, running his hands through his hair. If my body wasn't numb from everything that happened, I would be doing the same. Instead, I stand rooted to the spot as my brother runs every likely scenario through his head.

The fact that interspecies mating is almost impossible, and absolutely forbidden.

That witches have been the sworn enemy of vampires for the last four hundred years.

Samantha is my student.

That despite our species being enemies, physically, I will start to yield to her.

Lastly, the fact that I have no fucking choice whatsoever.

"We can move on, again. Distance will make it easier for you to ignore the bond," he says without turning around.

Do I want to ignore it? I definitely don't want to move again. First, it was Anjelica constantly chasing us, now this, an unwanted, forbidden mating bond that would only see both her and me in deep trouble with the Council if we act on it. I know practically nothing about her. I pull my arms away from my chest and let them hang by my sides. "No."

Denver turns and studies my face. "Why?"

"I don't want to make a decision too soon. We worked so hard to get to this point, where we are finally not running. I am not going to give that up so easily. And nor are you."

"You don't understand, Lew, you can't stop a mating bond. It has a life of its own. You will be fighting it constantly. It will dictate your entire life."

"I won't let that happen." Schooling my face like I have more experience than the man who went through it, I clench my teeth.

He shakes his head again, scanning the shed as if what he needs to say is tucked away between the piles of timber and web-covered rafters. "Fine, but if you start acting on the bond, we reassess everything. I will not let what happened to me in New Orleans happen to you and this Sarah girl."

"Samantha. Her name is Samantha."

"Brother, let's call her Sarah for now." He grins and slaps me on the back. He doesn't want me to start getting attached. Like that's going to happen. The last thing I want to attach to is a goddamned witch.

I huff out a laugh, and we walk to the parking lot. His pickup is parked a few cars down from mine.

"There's a game on tonight; let's go and forget this little hiccup for a while, hey?" he says.

"Catch you at home," I say, sliding into the driver's seat of the Mustang. Hands gripping the wheel, I stare at the old shed that my brother calls home for ten hours a day and wonder how on earth we are going to get out of this one.

Of all the things to threaten our peaceful existence that we fought so hard to have, it's a girl. A curly blonde, brighter-than-sunshine, twenty-year-old girl, with blue eyes that could drown the ocean. I groan and let my forehead hit the wheel between my hands.

This is going to be harder than I thought.

T he halftime whistle blows and the crowd shuffles around, half heading for concessions, half for the restrooms. Den and I sit in our seats, three rows behind Samantha and her friend who appeared in my doorway yesterday, the one with the familiar scent I couldn't place. They sit, laughing and chatting, watching the players as they take a break, hydrating themselves even in the crisp, cool air that the night dragged in.

Moments later, the crowd files back in, fresh snacks in hand, bladders drained and anticipation high for the Spartans to take this home game to the win. They have been on a great streak, finishing out last year with a hefty score gap. They had won three-quarters of their games, both home and away. The green Spartan mascot is painted across the center of the football field. Green-and-white oversized foam fingers wave around.

The crowd roars as the players run back onto the field in a long line. The whistle blows and the roar ebbs to a cheer. I home in on the two girls three rows ahead of me. Samantha is leaning into her friend, saying something louder than one normally would. She points to one of the players, and her friend's face splits with a grin.

"—he is a freshman, god above he is hot ." Samantha fans her face, like she is some southern belle needing vapors after the sight of a man. My body tenses at the sight of her looking at the muscle-bound jocks on the field below the grandstands.

"A much better choice than that moody professor of yours, Sammie." Her friend laughs.

What the. . .

Samantha shifts in her seat and pulls her gaze from her friend. Her heartbeat turns rapid. What the hell was that?

Apparently, I am not the only one affected by this bond. She didn't seem affected back in the lecture hall. Denver's hand slaps my shoulder. I turn to face him, now acutely aware I've been staring.

"Lewis." His face is screwed up with concern.

"You catch that?"

"Yup." He glances between Samantha and me, his mouth pulling into a thin line. "This is going to be harder than we thought. You want to go home?"

"No, we should stay for the rest of the game."

He grunts but turns his attention back to the players, and we follow along as the Spartans close in on another touchdown.

After the final whistle blows, we make our way to the parking lot. I try to avoid any of my students. Denver's cell rings and he picks up. After a few short words, he taps the screen and shoves the phone into his jeans. "Mike. A small fire at the mill, I gotta go. I'll see you at home."

He takes off at a jog down the street in the direction of the mill. I know he'll run as soon as he is out of sight. It will only take him a matter of minutes to get there. The crowd filters out, cars pulling out full of players and families riding the high of the latest win.

I open the car door and slide into the seat, sinking the keys into the ignition before turning over the engine. I let her rumble at an idle while I search the radio for something halfway decent. After finding something more contemporary than my usual jazz or old-style rock, I shift the stick into gear and roll past the stadium gates.

Bouncing blonde curls walking along the sidewalk alone into the darkness catch my attention. Tensing against my will, I pull over and wait, hoping for the feeling to pass. The further she walks away from me, the harder the feeling burns.

Ignoring the sensation, I shove the car into gear and drive down the street. She shrinks in the rearview mirror. What kind of friend lets her walk home alone in the dark? Three guys leave the stadium gates, turning in her direction on the footpath. One wolf whistles. I slow the car to a crawl, and she ducks her head and quickens her pace.

None of my business.

I train my eyes on the road in front of me.

"Look at that ass," one scoffs.

"I'm more interested in the front," another growls.

I check the rearview mirror.

"Quiet, you idiots, before someone hears. Then we all miss out." The third smacks the guy beside him up the back of the head. They pick up the pace, like lions stalking prey.

None of my business.

My insides twist with rage and blood thunders through my veins. I push the car faster, the distance between me and her growing. The twisting intensifies, and I slam a hand on the wheel. "Sweet Jesus of all saints."

I slam on the brakes and fling the wheel around. The low rumble of the Mustang turns to a roar. The three guys stop, standing in awe of the car. I fly past them, catching up to Samantha. Planting my foot on the brake, I bring the car to a screeching halt alongside the sidewalk. Startling, she stops and turns to face the noise beside her. Her bag bumps at her side, her hoodie dropped over her arms in front of her.

I roll the window down. "Get in."

My voice is harsher than I intend, and she looks around as if searching for another option before landing on the three guys behind her. Her face scrunches, and she chews on her lip.

I tighten my grip on the steering wheel.

"I don't bite," I growl, nodding my head toward the guys. "But those three do." I make a mental note to sort them out later. Besides, there is no way I am letting her walk home in the dark with Anjelica's scouts hanging around like unwelcome vermin.

She hovers, shifting from foot to foot for a moment. "Fine," she says, walking to the passenger side. I lean over and open the door for her. She grabs the top of the door and opens it, sliding onto the seat. Her scent hits me instantly.

I use every muscle in my body to temper my instinctual reaction to her. The fire that uncoils in my core sends heat through my veins. Close proximity to her after the snap of the bond is like a special kind of torture, knowing I can't act on it.

I can't touch her.

I can't complete the bond.

Her heart rate is too fast. Its thumping right beside me sends a need so visceral through my body that, if I didn't know better, I'd think it could literally kill a man.

Samantha stares out the window.

"Where do you want to be dropped off?" I manage to rasp.

She glances at me, heat flushing her neck and face, before staring at her hands. "16 Willow-Lane Avenue. Three blocks from here, north of Main Street."

"Right."

I shift the stick into drive and let the car float down the street at a steady pace. Samantha keeps her focus outside the car. We make a right onto University Drive, and I turn the music up a little. The corner of her mouth peaks.

She glances at the dash, not me, and clears her throat. The action tenses the muscles in her neck. The creamy flesh moving over her thundering veins sends the blood from my head to my core.

Not one for small talk, then. At least not since our last encounter. I decide silence is a better option and head right onto Main Street. We pass the pizza joint, and she looks into the establishment, as if trying to see who is inside. I take the next left, the only street north of Main Street, and back off the gas. The rumble slows a few miles per hour, and I search the curb for the sign for her Willow-Lane Avenue.

"Next right," she says.

I spin the wheel, and we roll into a cul-de-sac with six houses. Sixteen is the last on the left, and I pull over and shift the stick, letting her idle. We sit in silence for a moment. Samantha opens the car door. The breeze tosses her scent at me again, and I grip the wheel harder.

Samantha steps out of the car and grabs her things. Hovering for a moment, she shoves her backpack over one shoulder and holds the hoodie in one hand. I keep my eyes straight ahead, not trusting this stupid bond not to rouse more unwanted instinct.

She leans down, her curls falling over her shoulders and framing her face. Those ocean-blue eyes meet mine. Her thundering heart sets my veins alight. It's nothing like my normal thirst; this need is something deeper, more colossal. Entirely too devastating, should I act on it.

"Thanks for the lift, Mr. Sullivan." A smile tugs up on her lips, and something flashes through her eyes.

The breath in my lungs disappears. I stare past the windscreen at nothing, and she shuts the door. Pulling away from the curb, I turn the wheel sharply, sending the Mustang around the cul-de-sac. I keep my attention on Samantha, rolling past as she walks toward her front door.

I roll down my window. Another scent so wrong, so familiar, finds me in a heartbeat, and I hit the brakes. Samantha looks back at me, her face tight.

Three hooded figures step out of the shadows from behind the trees by her house. Her face slackens. Her heart thunders at a rapid pace. Standing frozen, she lets her hoodie fall to the ground, palms open by her sides.

Shit.

This girl is a goddamn trouble magnet. I push the door open and appear at her side in the space of one heartbeat. Her eyes wide, she stares as if gauging the distance from where we stand to my car on the other side of her street.

The three hooded figures hesitate before closing in on us both. Samantha turns her head, shock etched over her face. I keep my focus on the three men in robes. The same uniform as the last two Denver and I encountered. Shadow scouts. Low-level witches doing someone's bidding.

"Stay out of this, Lewis," one of the scouts growls.

He knows who I am.

That is not good.

They stop short of where we stand, two of them moving to flank us.

"I will do no such thing." I stand rigid, waiting for one of them to make their last move.

Samantha's head swivels on her shoulders. Looking from the three scouts to me and back around again, confusion etched in every feature.

Every muscle in my body tenses, ready for what comes next. They make a move for her, they're dead. They won't even have time to realize their hearts have been ripped from their chests on the way to face-planting into the grass.

A cackle spills from the shadows as another hooded figure steps into the dimness of the waning moon's light.

This robe is red.

Fuck.

Holy Christ.

"How entertaining. Lewis and his latest prey." Her words are like snakes up my spine.

Hands curling to fists, I move closer to Samantha. Behind one of the old oaks, another figure stands, also hooded, female. It's as if she is simply observing...

Snapping my gaze back to the red robe closing in, I push Samantha behind me.

"Hello, Anjelica."