Chapter Four
The house is mine now. I’m so busy painting, shopping, and redecorating, an entire week passes and by the end of the week, I realize I’m only thinking about Rafe every thirty seconds instead of every five, like I did after he returned to his cabin last Saturday. If I keep this up, my life will get better. It has to.
I buy chickens from the farm store in town. I set them up in the small coop next to the house so I can listen for trouble during the night. When I used to live here, wild animals sometimes ventured in too close after the sun went down. I remember there were a few times, when I was a kid, I’d wake up to the sound of shotgun blasts while my father killed whatever predators were hungry enough to try to eat our farm animals.
His shotgun rests next to my bed, loaded, just in case. It’s the only possession of his I’ve decided to keep, other than this farm.
It’s Sunday, eight days since I’ve seen Rafe, when he knocks on my door. I’m wearing an old cotton sundress, my mom’s hand-embroidered apron, and streaks of flour in my hair when I greet him. He smiles, his eyes bright gold today, watching me, as he leans inside the doorframe.
You shouldn’t care what you look like, I remind myself. You ended whatever existed between you. Get over it.
“I’m baking,” I say, making an effort to keep my voice neutral, unfeeling.
“I see.”
I hesitate, torn between letting him in and telling him I’m too busy for company. Let him in. You can do this. You’re neighbors, after all.
“Come in and sit down?” I ask, putting on my best hostess face. “The first batch is out.”
He enters the kitchen and slides down into one of the oak spindle chairs, stretching out his long, lean, blue jean-clad legs. “What are you baking?”
“Lemon bars.” One of Mom’s famous recipes.
“Hmmm,” he groans, the sound sending tingles all throughout my body.
Focus, Corina.
I retrieve a porcelain dessert plate and serve him one, sitting down in the chair across from him. We’ll have a nice little chat, two neighbors conversing, that’s all we are.
“How was work this past week? Channing give you any trouble?”
“The usual. Though I found it hard to concentrate all week.”
“You did?” I’d hoped it was possible to shift the conversation away from us, but apparently Rafe has other plans.
“Yes, Ina. I came over here today to talk about us—”
“I bought chickens,” I blurt out.
He’s narrowing his eyes at me, but at least he’s stopped talking. I feel like a horrible person. But I can’t, can’t talk to him. Not now. Not about us. I need more time to build myself up, to prepare.
“That’s great Ina,” he says, his voice soft and tired-sounding, his gaze dropping to the lemon bar in his hand. “I know you always wanted to get things back the way they were before—”
“Before my mom died and my father became a raging alcoholic?” There’s an edge to my tone, a bitter one, one Rafe doesn’t deserve, and though I know this, I can’t seem to contain it.
He cringes and places the lemon bar back on its dainty plate.
I don’t apologize. I know he’s making an effort with an attempt at meaningful conversation, but each time I think I’m in control again, each time I think my defenses are back in place, this man knocks them all to hell again and I don’t like it.
“You don’t have to act like this with me, Ina. I’m not going to leave you, and I’m not going to turn against you like your dad did. Please stop punishing me.”
“But you did. You turned against me when you lied.”
I remember, as soon as the words are out of my mouth and I can’t take them back, that I had decided not to bring this up again, that I’d decided how stupid and sorry I truly am for leaving, for losing the years of the life I would’ve had with him if I’d stayed.
And now it’s too late.
He stands up, brushes his hands against his jeans, and leaves without another word.
****
Rafe
I’m lurking outside Corina’s window, trying not to feel ashamed for how desperate she’s made me. The lamp in her bedroom went off a while ago, and all has gone silent, save for the crickets chirping in the woods and the chickens clucking as they settle down in their coop for the night.
I’ve decided to keep an eye on her, whether she likes it or not. If I do my job well, she’ll never know I’ve kept watch over her every night since she moved back in. Because of my shifter nature, I’m semi-nocturnal and don’t sleep much. I patrol, in my coyote form, around the perimeter of the farm, the house, and through the fields. Nothing should threaten her here, but I can’t get through each day without doing this at night. Knowing she’s safe keeps me going, and sometimes I think it may be the only thing keeping me going.
I miss her.
She’s killing me. If only she’d spend some time with me, give me the opportunity to show her once again, how much I love her, I know I can change her mind. Especially now, since I’ve given up convincing her of what I am, convincing her I didn’t lie to her, persuading her to give me another chance is my last and only choice.
I pace and pace, dragging my clawed feet through the dewy grass, swishing my tail through headless dandelions stems. I wish shifting would change my heart and my mind as well as my body.
I wish shifting would make me forget her.
My feet take me further away from the house. I’m lost in my thoughts.
And then I realize how far I’ve gone, that my prowling has taken me near the chicken coop.
They sense me, immediately. The damn chickens know I’m here. They start squawking and flapping their wings, creating an uproar so loud, I know Corina can hear it from her bedroom.
I start to move away from the coop, away from the damn birds and their screeching, which only seems to be growing in intensity.
I’m not fast enough.
Corina’s walking, quickly, toward me. There’s enough moonlight that I can see her face, grim and determined, her dark hair flying behind her, hear her rubber barn boots clomping with each racing step.
Shit.
She’s holding a shotgun, and by the way she’s swinging it toward me, she means business. I know what she sees. She sees a wild animal, a coyote, stalking around her chicken coop.
Shit. Shit. Shit.
This is it. Like it or not, I’m going to have to shift in front of her, or she’s going to kill me. God, I don’t want to. She left me for simply telling her what I am. What will she do when she sees what I am?
Do it. Get it over with.
I will myself to transform. I can feel my muscles starting to contract, preparing for the change, but it’s taking too long. I think a part of me is holding back, reluctant after so long, resisting the urge to transform in front of her. I raise my head, turning toward her.
Now. Shift now.
I can do this. I know I can do this. Maybe this will fix everything. Maybe she’ll finally believe me, finally stop hating me for a lie that wasn’t ever a lie at all. I open my eyes, confidently waiting for my body to cooperate.
But then I see Corina, shotgun raised high, right in front of me, the barrel pointing directly at my chest, and I know it’s already too late.
I try to dodge it, lowering myself to the ground.
Too slow.
I’m in mid-shift when it hits.
The bullet rips through me, an explosion of force and fire that knocks me flat onto my back. I can feel gravel and dirt underneath me, grating into my bare skin.
I’m human. Finally. But too late.
She shot me. I can’t believe she shot me.
“Rafe!”
I hear her call my name, but I when I try to speak, nothing comes out. A hot, searing pain rushes through me and then—sweet, merciful numbness chases the burn.
I lurch a little onto my side so I can get up, so I can show her I’m okay.
But when I move, I realize I can’t breathe. I lift my hands to my chest. Warm stickiness oozes between my fingers. The numbness fades and my body is on fire again.
Dark-gray smoke unfurls at the edges of my vision, filling my eyes until all I see is a pinprick of color in the center—Corina’s heaven-blue eyes, swimming with tears, looking down at me. I know I’m losing the fight to stay awake. I keep blinking, trying to make the darkness go away, but it’s getting worse. I draw in a breath, suddenly possessed by the urge to speak to her. If this is the last chance I get, it’s going to fucking count.
“D-don’t.” Ah, God. It hurts to talk. I swear I can hear my heartbeat, thumping out an audible, slowing rhythm. Hurry, it beats. hurry, hurry. “Don’t cry, Ina,” I manage, catching my breath again as I savor this small victory. “I need to tell you something. I—”
A tidal wave of agony abruptly crashes over me, stealing my breath and robbing me of the last of my sight.
“Rafe, I’m getting help. Look at me. Stay awake.”
Tell her! The fading voice inside my head is desperate.
“I love you, Ina.”
I did it. I did it.
More pressure on my chest. Her voice, distant and incoherent. A squeezing of my hand.
And then, nothing at all.
****
Corina
I’m in handcuffs, sitting on a hard, scarred, wooden bench inside a jail cell. The police arrived at the farm along with the ambulance, about fifteen minutes after I called.
I told them I shot Rafe. I told them it was an accident. My mind was so consumed with the idea that I had killed him, what may happen to me because of my confession was the furthest thing from my mind.
All I could think was, he’s not dead. He’s not dead.
What’s killing me right now is sitting here, just sitting here, not knowing a single thing about what’s going on with him. I keep seeing his face, turning gray as he struggled for air.
He can’t—he can’t die. His voice keeps playing, over and over within my mind, on a repetitive loop. “I love you, Ina. I love you, Ina.”
I think I’m going to vomit.
When I pulled the trigger, I thought I was shooting a coyote.
I thought I was protecting my chickens.
But then, I swear to God, I saw the coyote grow, lose its fur, and become a man.
My man. My Rafe.
It’s not like I can tell the police what I actually saw.
The truth—what Rafe once tried to give me, what now seems like a lifetime ago. The truth, all along, a gift of trust I threw in his face and abandoned him for.
A surge of nausea crashes over me and I lower my head between my knees.
What have I done?
“Corina Joy?”
I raise my head, carefully, as the room spins around me. There’s a uniformed policeman standing at the door of my cell, holding it open for me. “Yes?” I ask, not recognizing the hoarse, grating whisper as my own.
“Please come with me.”
I stand, bracing myself against the wall. The officer leads me into another room, where I sign papers and wait, my existence becoming no more than a blurry haze.
And then, they let me go.
I’m free. All charges dropped. And there’s someone waiting for me, they tell me, there’s someone here to pick me up.
The handcuffs are removed. I’m ushered outside. Dawn is breaking on the horizon, dazzling me with red-gold light, the exact color of Rafe’s eyes.
There’s a pickup truck parked at the curb and someone standing next to the passenger door, holding it open for me. He looks like Rafe. My breath punches out of me and I stumble, catching myself before I fall. My vision clears and he approaches me, reaching out to help me.
Not Rafe. Channing.
“Is he—” The hard knot in my throat makes speaking almost impossible. I try again. “Is he dead?”
“No. He’s not dead.”
His grip on my arm tightens as he helps me climb inside the truck. He shuts the door and silence surrounds me. The seat is smooth, cool leather and I lean my head back against the headrest until the world stills.
No. He’s not dead.
I can breathe again.
Channing slides behind the steering wheel. “You know damn well,” he says, his deep voice rumbling in the cab’s interior, “Rafe is way too fucking irritating to die.”
I stare at him, trying to assess his tone, his attempt at humor. His lips are turned up at the corners, but his face is pale and there are purple shadows underneath his eyes.
“Tell me, honestly.” I take a fortifying breath. “How is he?”
“Honestly, he’s fine. Well, he’s recovering, anyway.”
My body sinks further into the seat as my muscles finally release hours of rigid tension. I’m literally dizzy with relief. Dark spots dance in front of my eyes.
Channing puts the truck in gear and pulls out onto the street. “He had surgery to remove the bullet, but he’s awake and talking, at least he was when I left. He told the police he was sleepwalking and you shot him because you thought he was an intruder. You’ll probably have to talk to them again, but he’s going to cover for you, Corina.”
Now I’m crying. There’s no stopping it. Big, fat tears slide down my face, dripping down my jaw. Guilt. Shame. Disbelief. It all sits heavy and ugly in the center of my chest.
“I’m sorry,” I whisper.
“Me and Weylin and Rafe, we all know it was an accident. He told us everything.”
His gaze narrows and slides from the road, to me, and then back again. “We’re headed to see him now. You need to talk to him, Corina. Enough of this bullshit.”
I nod, but I don’t need Channing to tell me what I already know.
****
Weylin blocks the door when I try to enter Rafe’s hospital room. “Please let me in,” I beg. You have to let me see him.”
Weylin’s face is grave. Creases line his eyes. My heartbeat falters.
“What? What is it?”
He shakes his head. “The bullet passed through his rib cage and tore through muscles and tissue. The worst of it is a punctured lung. He’s damn lucky.”
But I must see for myself. “So let me through. I won’t wake him. Please.”
Weylin doesn’t look happy about it, but he stands aside. “He’ll be okay, Corina. But don’t push him. Don’t upset him.”
I nod, and open the door, careful to move soundlessly.
Rafe looks wrong, all hooked up to wires and tubes and covered up to his chest in a sterile white sheet. My steps make no noise at all on the laminate tiles, but when I’m within reach of him, his eyes open. They’re brown today, and sort of glassy, but they immediately fix on me.
“Ina.”
I smile at him, but the muscles in my face are twitching, my lips trembling. I’m in danger of crying again, I realize, and I blink and clear my throat, trying to shake it off. Suddenly I’m shy, timid, uncomfortable. I feel like I don’t belong here.
After all, this is all my fault.
“I didn’t mean to wake you.” I force myself to look at anything other than Rafe’s ashen, tired face. A plastic cup of water with a straw sits on the table next to the machines and IV bags surrounding him. “Can I get you water or something?”
Small talk. Safe, boring, small talk.
“No, Ina.” The tremor in his voice snaps my attention back to his face. His gaze has sharpened and hints of gold flare in his irises. It pierces right through me and there’s no breaking it. How could I have thought him human, with eyes like that?
“Sit with me.”
I pull up a chair, slowly, not wanting to make any noise. I still feel like I’m disturbing him. You demanded to see him, I remind myself. Don’t be such a coward.
“Closer.”
I comply.
“So you—” I scramble to arrange my thoughts. Say something. “You’re going to be okay, right? That’s what Channing said.”
“Yeah.” I watch in barely contained horror as he places his hands down flat on each side of his body, pushing himself higher up against the pillows. “My genetic makeup strengthens me, speeds up the healing process. Another couple days and I’m out of here.”
Thank God. But then, a thought passes through my mind, sending an icy spike of terror through my chest. “What about your blood? This is a hospital. Aren’t they going to find out about you? About your secret?”
He shakes his head. “My mom worked here as a nurse before she retired. She knows people here who are—who are also like me and my family. They’ll take care of it.”
Oh God. There are others. I’m glad I’m sitting down for this. Weylin. Channing. Mr. and Mrs. Ulric.
“So it runs in the family, then?”
He nods.
That’s it, then. The love of my life, and his entire family, are magical creatures.
“Are you—” The tremor in his voice is back. “Are you—okay with me? With what I am?”
Am I? I mean, is ‘okay’ remotely close to the correct word for it?
“Honestly, it will take me some time to get used to the idea.”
“Do you—do you still—care for me?”
Yes. “Knowing your secret, believing your secret, doesn’t change the way I feel about you, Rafe.” This I know.
His brows furrow. I want to rub those creases away. I rise from my chair and place a hand on his forehead, kneading his skin. He sighs, leaning into my touch.
“I’m so, so sorry, Rafe. I’m sorry I didn’t believe you about—” I can’t bring myself to say it aloud. I’m sorry I didn’t believe you when you told me you can turn into a coyote. Even in my head, it sounds insane.
“I know,” he whispers.
“I’m sorry I left you.”
“Me too.” His voice is a low murmur.
“I’m sorry I shot you.”
He laughs. “I forgive you.”
Really? “Just like that.”
“Just like that.”
“Why?”
“Because I love you, Ina. I always have.”
I lower my lips to his head and press a kiss to his temple. “I love you, too, Rafe. Always have, always will.”