Chapter 7 - Lucy

The night is worse than awkward. I manage to shower and get changed without interacting with Peter, but when I go to the kitchen for a snack, he’s there, going through the cupboards. I try to just make a cup of tea and leave, but the clunking and sliding noises get louder and more annoying until I crack.

“What the fuck are you doing?”

“I’m trying to find something to eat. What the hell is going on in your pantry? I’ve been homeless and living on the street and had more options.”

“What is that supposed to mean?” I snap, turning to face him and folding my arms across my chest. He sticks his head around the door so he can glare at me.

“Brown bread. Whole-grain crackers. Organic noodles. Natural, unroasted nuts. You don’t even have any salt in here.”

“You have a problem with healthy food?”

“No. I just don’t agree that this is healthy. It’s depressing.”

“Oh, well, I’m sorry,” I say mockingly. “Maybe you’d like me to bake you a cake.”

“Yeah, that would be great, actually,” he says with a genuine grin. “I haven’t had cake in a while. What kind would you make?”

“Oh my lord,” I whisper, shaking my head. “Aren’t you precious.”

“What?” he asks, looking genuinely confused.

“I was being sarcastic, for heaven’s sake. Bake your own damn cake.”

He scowls at me. “That was really mean. I’m a guest in your house—”

“An unwelcome guest!”

“You think I want to fucking be here? Does it look like I’m having fun?”

I take a breath and hold it, biting my lip.

“You owe me, you know,” he says smoothly. “You did this, so it’s only fair that you take care of me.”

I pick up my cup of tea and manage to keep my composure, even though it takes every last ounce of my strength. “I am leaving now,” I say, letting out my breath slowly. “Help yourself to anything you like. After all, it is your house, too.”

I turn and walk away, resisting the urge to stomp down the hall and slam the door. I feel good about keeping my calm for all of two seconds.

Thumps and bangs sound from the kitchen, with the odd crash. It doesn’t seem like anything is being broken, but he’s still using utensils with unnecessary force.

I take a long, slow sip of tea and try to breathe slowly and evenly. All I want to do is tear down the hall and scream at him— what the fuck are you doing? —but I won’t give him the satisfaction.

I put my headphones in and find a soothing playlist on my phone. After I finish my tea, I meditate for a bit. An hour or so later, I’m much calmer.

When I take out my earbuds, the house is quiet. Tentatively, I go to the door and push it open. I can hear the TV playing softly, but no other noise.

Being as quiet as possible, I pad down the hall in my bare feet, trying to track Peter. I can’t hear anything, so I slip past the living room and into the kitchen.

What the actual fuck? I stare at the room in total shock, my heart hammering as fury floods through me.

The sink is overflowing with pots, pans, and utensils. Dirty plates, cups, and bowls are scattered across every surface, and the counters are dirty. The place is such a wreck, I just stand and stare for several minutes, wondering how he even achieved this level of chaos in such a short time.

I step back slowly and turn towards the living room. My fists clench against my will as a low throb starts in my temples. My jaw clenches with rage.

When I enter the living room, he’s sitting on the couch in the dark, watching TV and eating a huge bag of chips. Crumbs are being scattered all over the floor with every bite, but he doesn’t seem to notice, much less care.

“Peter,” I say, barely controlling my voice.

“Hmm?” he answers, chewing.

“What the fuck did you do to the kitchen?”

He looks at me, blinking innocently. “I made some food, just as you suggested.”

“You left the place a wreck!”

“Yeah,” he says, shrugging. “I’m sure it won’t take you that long to clean up.”

“ What ?”

He grins, and it’s so devilish and annoying, I don’t know if I want to kiss him or slap him.

“Chop, chop, babe,” he says. “Get on with those wifely duties.”

“How dare you!”

He laughs, shaking his head. “You told me to cook. You didn’t say clean up.”

“Well, clean up your mess!”

“It’s your kitchen.”

“It’s our kitchen.”

“It won’t be mine until you have some decent food I like to eat. Until then, deal with the consequences.”

I’m so angry, I can’t speak. He’s not just teasing me now. There’s a hardness in his eyes telling me that if I keep going, he will really throw down.

I turn my back on him, feeling my nails bite into my palms as my fists clench even harder. Stomping my way down the hall, I make a short detour to the bathroom, only to find another crime scene.

I stand in the doorway, surveying the damage. Wet towels are all over the floor, soaking in deep, ice-cold puddles of water. Soap, shampoo, and cosmetic jars are scattered all over the counter, their sticky contents smeared across the tiles. My brush is full of thick, knotted red hair.

My eyes close, and my entire body hardens as I fight not to scream. There is an expectant silence coming from the living room, as if he’s waiting for me to shout at him.

I turn around and go back to my room. Even though I’m not doing badly at keeping my cool, I can’t help slamming the door. Immediately, I start my breathing exercises and put my ear pods back in. Stretching out across the bed, I focus on my meditation routine until my muscles relax and I finally fall asleep.

When I wake up, I’ve forgotten about last night. My barely awake brain doesn’t quite register the events of the day before. Stumbling towards the bathroom, I’m vaguely aware Peter is around, but nothing specific surfaces in my brain.

Until my feet hit the freezing, wet towels on the floor.

Shock and fury crackle through me, waking me up more suddenly than any coffee in existence. Muttering under my breath, I throw the wet towels into the hamper, then pick up all the jars and tubes from the sink and put them back in the cupboard.

Moisturizer, I can understand. But what possible use would he have for eye cream or repairing serum?

Easy answer. He had no use for them; he just wanted to use everything to piss me off.

Great job. It worked.

After organizing some of the chaos in the bathroom, I tentatively head to the kitchen. To my surprise, Peter is awake and standing at the stove. Even more shocking, the sink is empty and last night’s mess has been cleared away.

“Morning,” he says, sounding almost cheerful.

“Good morning,” I answer, unable to keep the suspicion out of my voice. He turns from the stove and grins.

“Making a couple of omelets. There’s one for you, if you like.”

“Okay. Thanks.”

“No problem.”

I move around him, looking around as I try to figure out what the catch is. I’m starting to think he actually made an effort when I notice the dishes stacked on the drying rack. None of them are properly clean. He obviously didn’t wash them, just rinsed them and stacked them. Even though it pisses me off, I set my jaw and pour my coffee without saying a word.

“Here you go,” he announces proudly as he puts the plate down. “Hopefully, this makes up for last night.”

I cut off a small piece and taste it. The food is almost completely tasteless. I don’t know if he did that on purpose or just can’t cook.

We eat in silence. My anxiety rises as I contemplate a full day here with him in my house, dealing with his attitude. There’s no way I can open the bakery and try to work with him stuck to me like this. Only one option makes any sense.

“How about we head over to New Hope today?” I ask. “Check out your brother’s pack?”

“That’s a great idea,” he answers, smiling. “Thanks, Lucy. I’d like that.”

I examine his expression and tone, finding it genuine.

He actually thinks I’m doing something nice for him, instead of rescuing myself from a day of torture here alone with him.

“Okay,” I say. “I’ll get dressed, then we can go.”

“Cool,” he says. “I’ll clean up.”

Please don’t.

By the time I get back, he’s stacked the dishes—and, predictably, not washed them. With some effort, I manage to ignore the situation and get out of the house without losing my composure.

“I’m still wearing the same clothes from yesterday,” he says as we get in the car. “Can we do something about that?”

“They’ll have some stuff at New Hope you can have. Otherwise, we can stop somewhere and grab you some new clothes.”

“Okay,” he mutters. “I’m really pissed off about losing my trench coat.”

“I’ll buy you a new one,” I say, gritting my teeth at his tone.

“You better. It was expensive, and I needed it to keep me warm on the hills.”

“You won’t be needing anything like that for a while. I’m not planning on sleeping in the woods anytime soon.”

“I still want a new coat!”

I let out a huge sigh, trying not to react.

“You act so put out by all of this,” he says. “But it was your spell. You might want to own the responsibility here.”

“I screwed up. I made that very clear,” I answer, my voice hard. “But until I can fix it, I’m just trying to get through it with the least amount of difficulty.”

“Oh, boy,” he chuckles. “That’s just fine—for you . We’re living in your house, your town. What exactly has changed for you? Nothing. I’m the one making all the sacrifices.”

I focus on the road, keeping my lips pressed shut so I don’t engage. There’s no point arguing about this because he’s right.

I’ve never regretted a spell more in my entire life.

The ride to New Hope passes in uncomfortable silence. Peter seems satisfied that he landed the final hit and stares out the window, looking moody but satisfied. His eyes remain fixed on the far skyline of high mountains. I can almost sense the wolf in him begging to be free.

I will set you free, I promise. I didn’t mean to do this.

My little car can't make it all the way to New Hope down the dirt track, so we have to park and walk. If it wasn’t for the uncomfortable silence between us, it would be a pleasant hike. Warm sunlight filters through the leaves, and a cool breeze plays with my hair.

Peter turns to look at me and smiles in a real expression of joy. “Beautiful,” he whispers.

“What?” I ask, confused.

“I said it’s beautiful here.”

“Oh, yeah. It is.”

He looks away again, his shoulders set in a hard line. He doesn’t look back as he walks ahead, and when New Hope appears, he starts to jog.

Voices call out from the town, and as I get closer, I see people gathered around the back of the hall. It looks like one of the regular Sunday markets, where the whole town comes together to share their produce.

Rider waves, breaking away from the group to run towards his brother. They hug, slapping each other’s shoulders and greeting each other with enthusiasm. I walk up to the main group, trying to ignore Peter entirely.

Fiona hurries over to me, glancing over at the boys and then back at me. “Is everything okay, Lucy?”

“No,” I moan. “It’s torture.”

“Oh, babe, I’m so sorry.” She puts her arms around me and gives me a squeeze, stroking my back.

“He’s being such a jerk to me! I know I made a mistake and brought him here against his will, but how many times do I have to apologize for it?”

“I agree,” Fiona says, pulling back to look into my eyes. “Besides, he was looking for Rider. He may never have found him without your spell. He should be at least a bit grateful.”

“I said the same thing.”

“Come on,” Fiona says, putting an arm around me. “Come and hang out with the girls. Tell us everything.”

“Okay,” I answer miserably.

I don’t know if I’m really ready to talk about this yet, but at least it’s better than being stuck with Peter.