The Modern Witch's Guide to Faking It With a Werewolf

Max
I stared at the text, the words burning into my retinas like they might suddenly change if I glared at them long enough.

"Something came up."

That was it.

No explanation. No apology. Just a vague excuse and radio silence.

I scoffed, shoving my phone into my pocket before I did something stupid, like call her.

What the fuck was that, Dallas?

I'd spent all day thinking about seeing her. Anticipating it. She had to know that, right? She had to fucking know that whatever had been happening between us—this thing we hadn't put words to yet—meant that standing me up wasn't just blowing off plans.

It was blowing me off.

I slammed the truck door harder than I meant to, the sound echoing through the quiet street. It didn't do a damn thing to cool the frustration burning under my skin.

Was she with someone else?

Is that what this was?

I gritted my teeth, pacing beside my truck, trying to talk myself down before the thoughts took root and became something ugly.

Dallas didn't pull shit like this. She wasn't a flake. She wasn't careless. And she sure as hell wasn't the type to ghost me.

Unless...

Unless she was trying to put distance between us.

The realization hit like a gut punch.

This is what she does, isn't it? Runs when things start feeling like too much. Like they might actually mean something.

I scrubbed a hand down my face, exhaling hard.

I could let this go. Just call it what it was—a misstep, a bad night, an overreaction on my part. Let her have her space, pretend it didn't fucking gut me to know that she didn't even bother to come up with a good excuse.

But that wasn't me.

I wasn't the guy who sat back and let things happen. And I sure as hell wasn't the guy she got to run from.

Then my phone buzzed in the cupholder.

I snatched it up before I could stop myself, hope flickering in my chest for half a second before I saw the name on the screen.

Nate.

Not her.

I exhaled through my nose, letting the call go to voicemail, my eyes drifting back up to her apartment window.

Dark. Empty.

Where the hell was she?

My stomach tightened, a flicker of something colder slipping beneath the frustration.

She wasn't answering. Wasn't home.

That wasn't like her.

And just like that, my irritation took a backseat to something worse.

A feeling.

Something was wrong.

I clenched my hands around the steering wheel, knuckles turning white as the decision settled in my bones.

If she wasn't going to tell me what was going on, I'd find out myself.

And if she thought this was the end of the conversation?

She was dead wrong.