“—if you won’t tell me where you are, I’m going to hire a private investigator,” Mum said triumphantly into my ear. “I saw one on a TV show last night. She’d triangulate your location from your mobile phone, and then drag you back to me by your hair.”

I cradled my mobile in the crook of my shoulder as I rolled the liner and sock onto my limb, then slid it into the socket. “What show was this?”

“It’s called Jessica Jones. She is a very vulgar young woman, but she gets the job done.”

“Jessica Jones? You mean, the comic superhero?” I rubbed lotion around my knee at the top of the liner, then rolled the sleeve attached to the socket up over the liner to create a good seal. The vacuum held my prosthesis in place and stopped the socket rotating or shearing against my residual limb. “Did she also lift a car over her head?”

“She did. I was impressed with her upper body strength.”

I resisted the urge to burst out laughing. “That’s fine, Mum. You call your buddy Jessica and see if she can find me.” I hung up the phone, and tossed it onto the bed. I wondered if I’d have to throw it away, in case she really did find some non-fictional PI to track me down.

I rolled a pair of merino socks over both feet, and stretched them out in front of me. I almost couldn’t tell that one wasn’t real.

I wiggled the toes on my left foot. My right foot remained as still and dead as a rock. I sighed, and slipped on a pair of wide-legged cotton trousers. It was hot outside, but I didn’t own anything that was hemmed above my ankles. No way was I going to risk anyone noticing my prosthesis.

I stood up, and gave my hips a little shimmy. Bianca left behind a full-length mirror at the end of the bed (knowing her, I could imagine the significance of its placement), and I stood in front of it, smoothing down the matching blazer over the front of my trousers. My brown curls spilled over my shoulders. I smiled at myself as I fastened the blazer’s single button. I looked so different.

This suit had come from one of my secret shopping trips in London, just before I left. The pale green would’ve looked all wrong with my blonde hair, but now that I was a brunette, it deepened the colour of my eyes and made my skin appear to glow. The lapels were cut low, plunging down my front and drawing attention to the tiny peek of cleavage I dared to reveal. I’d never worn anything like it before, but it felt like a powerful symbol, a rite of passage. Underneath, I was sporting my first ever black bra and my brand-new tattoo.

So this is independence.

I like it.

I imagined Irvine standing behind me, his huge frame towering over me as he reached down, sliding his hands along my collarbone before slipping under my bra. An ache welled inside me. I rubbed the side of my neck, as though the heat of his lips really did burn my skin. What would it be like to stand here while he undressed me, watching my layers of clothing fall away, seeing his hands as they explored every part of me—

No.

I shook my head, and suddenly, the woman in the mirror no longer appeared as the warrior princess, ready to conquer the Crookshollow wedding scene. She was Carol Winters again, the broken girl, the poor, pathetic cripple, in a ridiculous suit.

Irvine would never want a broken girl.

I blinked, forcing back the tears that prickled at the corners of my eyes. Who cares if no one wants me? Sex isn’t that great, anyway. It’s perfectly possible to live a fulfilling life without sex. And even if I were to have sex, at some point in the distant future, it’s not going to be with a werewolf, even a devilishly sexy one.

I checked my mobile phone. Yikes. I had only seven minutes to make my way across town for my client meeting. Not only was Irvine distracting me 24/7, but he was making me late for appointments.

I checked my hair one last time, grabbed my client folder and organiser, locked up the apartment, and hobbled down the stairs. One thing I did not love about my new apartment was the fact that it was above Resurrection Ink, which meant slogging up and down a narrow flight of stairs. Stairs and prosthetics didn’t mix well.

I raced around back to the shop’s parking lot, where Bianca allowed me to park my car. Just seeing the little blue Fiat made my heart soar. I’d never owned a car before. Mum never even allowed me to learn to drive. I took a month of lessons in secret, learning how to parallel park and operate my accessible lever while Mum was at her weekly tarot reading. I purchased the Fiat the day I got my full license, threw a suitcase full of new clothes and my organiser in the backseat, and drove it out of London that very afternoon.

Ever since I arrived, I’ve been driving around Crookshollow and the surrounding Loamshire county so much that I was practically ready for Bathurst. Which was a good thing, since I had exactly five-and-a-half minutes to make it across town.

I gunned the engine, stuck the Fiat in reverse, and yanked the lever on the steering column to lay on the juice. Because I only had limited sensation from the foot of my prosthesis through to my leg, I’d had a special lever fitted to the car that allowed me to control the accelerator and brake with my hands. I backed out of the space, flipped into drive, and yanked the wheel around. The car bounced over the curb and out onto Honeysuckle Road.

I didn’t need directions to find the place. Even though I’d only been in Crookshollow for a few weeks, I relied on Raynard Hall as an important landmark. The enormous manor towered over Holly Avenue, and was the home of reclusive artist Ryan Raynard and his fiancée Alex Kline.

Elinor and Bianca were friends with Ryan and Alex, and they must’ve said something nice about me, because Alex had called a couple of weeks ago, wanting me to plan her upcoming wedding. The couple would be my first celebrity clients in Loamshire, which was not something I’d expected to happen when I’d chosen the tiny village by jabbing my finger blindly at a map. Back in London, I regularly organised secret weddings for movie stars and raucous engagement parties for Top 40 musicians. I’d even done a royal wedding once.

That should’ve been the shining moment of my career, but the whole event was tainted by the fact that the royal in question – who was a bit of a “black sheep” – chose me because I was Helen Winters’ daughter. The bride couldn’t even remember my name; she kept calling me “peg-leg.” She forced me to wear a knee-length dress to the event so all her friends could see my prosthesis. I cried all the way through the reception, and that was when I’d vowed to myself that I had to leave London.

Luckily, Alex seemed not to know anything about me beyond what her friends had told her, and she’d never once called me peg-leg or even glanced down at my foot during the one meeting we’d had at a local cafe called Bewitching Bites. Alex was also friends with the couple who owned it – a quiet Chinese lady named Belinda and her raven-haired partner Cole – and they’d made some amazing food for Bianca’s party, so I knew they were a good choice for the catering. Alex’s vision of her dream wedding day was very different from Bianca’s, and with 400 high-profile guests coming from all corners of the world, this wedding had to be absolutely majestic.

Majestic I could handle.

Since that meeting, I’d been so busy with Bianca’s crazy party and Elinor’s elegant gothic affair, not to mention the recent distraction of Irvine, I hadn’t had much chance to think about the scale of what Alex was asking me to do. As Raynard Hall’s wrought iron gates swung open to admit me, it all came flooding at me. I had to pull this off. This was Willow Summers’ chance to make a name for herself, completely devoid of my mother’s notoriety, with an entirely new customer base in the art world who didn’t know me from trash TV and tabloid newspapers.

No pressure or anything.

Oak trees bent over the drive as I rolled toward the house, and I had the unsettling feeling I was driving into a gothic horror film. I was also late. Only by seven minutes, but still, that would not do wonders for my reputation. The tires squealed as I shoved the lever forward to brake, avoiding the edge of the stone steps by mere inches.

The bald butler standing at the open door regarded me with a disapproving expression. Don’t blame me, Jeeves. I’ve only had my license for a month. I’m still getting used to driving.

“Carol—I mean, Willow Summers,” I huffed as I hobbled up the stairs, carrying my sample folder under my arm. “I’m here to see Alex.”

He nodded, and beckoned for me to follow him inside. I didn’t have time to pause and admire the ornate entrance hall nor the stodgy dark hallways with the walls covered in gilt portraits of grumpy-looking people. Just keeping up with the butler as he wound his way through the labyrinthine halls took serious effort. For an old guy, he was surprisingly fast. How does he remember where everyone is?

The butler dropped me into an elegant drawing room, decorated in shades of cream and furnished in a modern Scandinavian style. The room stood in stark contrast to the dark furniture and dusty portraits in the hall. Alex sat on the couch, wearing a cream-coloured dress accentuating her long, bare legs. Both the dress and her legs were splattered with paint. She rose to greet me with a kiss on each cheek.

“I’m so sorry I’m late,” I puffed as I sank into the chair opposite her. A stab of jealousy hit me in the chest as I regarded her bouncing blonde hair and perfect figure, complete with two working and very shapely legs. Alex had everything – the burgeoning career in the art world, the beautiful figure, the perfect husband, the insane mansion. And soon, thanks to me, the perfect wedding. If she wasn’t so nice, I’d probably hate her.

Alex reached over and poured me some tea. “It’s fine. I didn’t even notice. Here, you must be thirsty after trying to keep up with Simon.”

“Thanks. I love this room,” I said, taking the cup from her. I glanced around the room and took in the thoughtful details. Along one wall, floor-to-ceiling bookshelves housed colourful art books and bright ceramics. Floor-to-ceiling windows lined the other wall. Free of the heavy drapes that usually accompanied a house like this, they gave a full view of the wild back garden and allowed light to stream through the room. A stack of bean bags were stacked in a corner. Paintings of galavanting foxes hung over the fireplace. Even though the room was enormous, it seemed cosy and intimate.

“Thanks.” Alex beamed, although the smile didn’t quite reach her eyes. “I decorated it myself. Ryan and I are slowly redoing all the rooms in Raynard Hall, trying to drag it kicking and screaming into the 21st century.”

“Well, you’re doing a remarkable job. I see you haven’t quite got to the hallway yet.”

Alex rolled her eyes. “This house must have twelve miles of hallway. Quite frankly, taking on that job terrifies me. Here, Simon’s made some scones.” Alex gestured to the plate beside us. I picked up a scone covered in jam and clotted cream, noting a delicate ring of gold around the saucer’s rim. Alex’s fingers gripped her teacup so tight, the tension ran all the way up her arm.

Something’s wrong. I studied her eyes, noting a mix of nerves and … something else. Sadness? What did Alex Kline possibly have to be sad about?

No, I definitely wasn’t imagining it. I knew someone trying to put a brave face on when I saw it, mostly because it’s something I did most days of my life.

What do I do? Should I ask her if she’s okay?

No. Alex was a client, not a friend. Whatever was bothering her was none of my business. If she wanted to pretend she was fine, then I’d do her the decency of going along with it.

I bit into my scone as delicately as I could, trying not to get cream on my face. Alex crossed one elegant leg over the other, and continued to stare at the teacup clutched in her hand without drinking. “What do you have to show me?”

“Er … right, yes.” I set down my saucer and rolled out the vision board on the coffee table. My face flushed as I started to talk about the ideas, so I kept my eyes focused on the bright colours and photographs so Alex wouldn’t see. “I’ve taken all the elements you discussed and created an overall theme for the day. I’m thinking a lot of natural tones and textures, creating a kind of whimsical forest grotto. We’ll set up the marquee right at the back of the grounds, on the edge of the forest. We’ll use potted plants and miniature trees to extend the forest around the marquee, creating this idea that the guests are entering an enchanted garden. There’ll be strings of Chinese lanterns, and I have this supplier in London who does chandeliers that project shapes like tree branches. The ceremony will be outdoors, under an arch made of fallen logs, like this—” I tapped the photograph I’d cut from a magazine, and glanced up to check Alex’s reaction.

She whipped her head away, but not before I noticed the fat tears rolling down her cheeks. Shit. Okay, something’s really wrong. Clients sometimes hated my ideas, but they usually just yelled at me instead of crying about it.

I opened my mouth to say something, but Alex beat me to it.

“That all looks lovely,” she croaked, her usually musical voice hoarse. “What are the next steps?”

“Um …” Okay, so we’re ignoring the tears. Gotcha. “… yes, so I’ll need to order all this stuff, which means I’ll need to charge you for the deposits …” My stomach churned. I shouldn’t say anything. She clearly just wants me to pretend everything is normal.

“Yes, that’s fine.” Her voice shook.

“And … um, I’ll arrange a meeting for you with the couture designer we discussed at the last meeting. Her studio is in Crooks Crossing, and I think she’ll be perfect—” Alex’s hand shook violently, and droplets of tea stained her dress. “Alex … um, I’m sorry, but are you … are you okay?”

“I’m fine,” Alex sniffed, wiping furiously at her eyes with the back of her hand. “I just had some bad news, is all.”

“Do you want me to come back later?”

“No, no, I’m sorry. Just give me a moment.” She slid the cup onto the table and gripped the edge of her chair as if it were the only thing holding her upright. A river of tears spilled down her cheeks. Thinking quickly, I grabbed my purse and dug out the packet of tissues I kept in there. I handed it to Alex. She tore out one of the tissues and dabbed at her eyes.

“This is ridiculous,” she sniffed. “I’m planning my wedding. I should be so happy.”

“What’s wrong? Are you nervous about marrying Ryan?” I’d had a couple of brides who weren’t sure they were making the right decision. They usually sorted themselves out before the big day, and they had some of the happiest marriages, at least according to the tabloids. I mentally dragged up the speech I usually gave to nervous brides, and prepared to launch into it, when Alex laughed – a sweet tinkling sound, like water flowing down a stream.

“No, no.” She wiped her eyes again. “Ryan is amazing. I’m so happy to have him in my life. I’m really so lucky. It’s just that we decided we were going to have a baby before we got married. We’ve been trying for the last 18 months, but so far … nothing. We’ve been to the fancy doctors and I’m taking these giant horse pills and we’ve been following the calendar and I really thought this time, you know … but I got my period today. Again.”

Oh jeez. Alex broke down again, burying her face in her hands. I’ve had sobbing brides before, but usually it was because their manicurist split a nail or the caterer couldn’t make a vegan lemon meringue pie. Something panged in my gut. I knew what it felt like to desperately want something and know you’d probably never have it. I felt guilty for envying her, and my heart ached for her.

“It’s okay,” I said, then instantly regretted it. I had no idea what I should say. “Some people have to wait a long time. Maybe it will be next month?”

“I had such a good feeling about this month.” She grabbed her tea and gulped at it as if it was a pitcher of wine. “What’s wrong with me?”

“Nothing. You’re young. You have so much time. I’m sure it will happen. I’m sorry, I’m probably making things worse.”

Alex sniffed. “No, you’re not. I’m sorry for unloading this on you. You just came to talk about colour samples, and I’m a big mess.”

“It’s fine, really.”

“This isn’t like me. I’m usually so … go with the flow. I know that sometimes it takes a while, and there are … other factors that might be having an impact. Maybe Ryan and I aren’t as compatible as I thought.”

“Don’t say that,” I cooed. I moved across to sit beside her on the sofa, and placed my arm around her shoulders. It felt odd to be treating a client like this, and my stomach flipped with nerves that I might be overstepping a line, but if I’d been in Alex’s position, I’d want someone to comfort me.

Not that I’d ever be in Alex’s position. No one would ever want to have a baby with someone as broken as me.

“I just want a baby so badly,” she sniffed. I dug a pack of tissues out of my purse and handed one to her. “I can see what the rest of our lives look like, and I just want to make it happen. I’ve bought all these little baby clothes and now they’re just sitting in a box mocking me. All this waiting makes me feel as though I’m standing still. The others are all pregnant – Anna and Rosa and Belinda – and I bet it will be bloody Bianca next. If they can have babies, then why not me? Where’s my baby?”

“Hey, hey, hey … “ My own hands shook as I rubbed Alex’s shoulder, not knowing what else I could do. My heart ached for her. “Plenty of couples have gone through what you’re going through. My aunt tried for three years with four different guys to get pregnant, she wanted a baby so bad. There are so many things you can try – not the four-guys thing, unless Ryan is into that – you’ve got plenty of options left. And you’re so young, I’m sure you’ll get your baby.”

“Thanks, Willow.” Alex screwed up the tissue into a tiny ball. “I’m so sorry to dump all this on you.”

I shrugged. “It’s all part of the service.”

“Honestly, the only thing that’s keeping me together is this wedding. I just need something to focus on that doesn’t remind me that I’m a failure as a mate.”

Mate. At the word, a jolt of shock ran through me. It was such an odd choice of words. It was almost … animalistic.

The kind of word a werewolf might use.

Her using that word made me wonder if Ryan was a shifter. He was friends with Irvine and Robbie, so it made sense. But that wasn’t possible. I’d met Ryan at our coffee meeting, and I was 100% certain he wasn’t a werewolf. He didn’t have that smell of wolf about him.

You’re just reading too much into it because you have werewolves on the brain. Alex is a perfectly normal person, and she’s not marrying a werewolf. You’re fine. You can do this.

But as I walked Alex through some of the other details about her wedding and she flipped through books of colour samples, a nagging sensation crept into my head. What if I’m wrong? I didn’t know why I could smell werewolves, but maybe it didn’t work all the time. Maybe there were really hundreds more of them hiding all around me, and I didn’t even know.

And even if that wasn’t true, there was definitely something weird going on in Crookshollow. Apart from my father, who I was too young to remember, I’d only ever smelt five werewolves in my entire life – three I passed randomly in the street on separate occasions, one who came to our house to yell at my mother (we hid in the utility cupboard until he went away), and one in the audience of my college graduation. I’d only been in Crookshollow a month, and already I’d watched Bianca fake-marry a werewolf. Add Irvine and his friend Caleb to the mix and that was three wolves just in this one tiny village. It couldn’t be a coincidence. Why were there so many shifters in Crookshollow, and why did they all seem to know each other?

A sliver of fear crept through my stomach. Why would so many shifters appear around me as soon as I left the safety of my mother’s house?

I touched my hair. What if they’d seen through my disguise? What if they’d figured out I was Helen Winters’ daughter, and they were closing in on me in order to get to her?

Had I just walked into a trap?