Night Falls on the Wicked - By Sharie Kohler Page 0,7

her. Instead, he’d been her savior on more than one occasion. Before she took on a life of isolation and had to start looking out for herself.

The tattoo of the wolf that covered her left shoulder blade served as a reminder of everything Jonah had taught her … and of the past she’d left behind. It gave her some connection to everything and everyone she’d lost. It made her feel less alone.

She bypassed the crowd and made her way quickly through the store, grabbing some milk, a fresh loaf of bread and some basil. Even walking through the aisles, she could still hear the furor outside.

The cashier, too busy staring raptly out the storefront window, hardly looked at Darby as she paid. With the recent attacks, those dead wolves were more than a pair of trophies. They symbolized justice to the townspeople. Darby shook her head, sad at just how wrong they were—and at how the innocent animals had to suffer for their mistake.

With her small bag in her arms, she sucked in a breath before emerging outside again—almost as if she were about to dive into a dense fog of poison. Anyone watching would have assumed she was bracing herself for the cold and not the mob overflowing the parking lot.

She couldn’t help eyeing the scene as she walked, fiddling with her scarf at her neck to better cover her chin and mouth, not watching where she was going and running smack into the back of someone.

It was like hitting a wall. She fell backward, her bag of groceries falling onto the ground. Elbows in the snow, she watched as a small tub of butter rolled several feet away before stopping.

Embarrassed, she hopped up and quickly began gathering her things, her boots crunching over the snow-buried ground. She didn’t look up. Not even when the man she’d run into squatted beside her and handed her the loaf of bread. She kept her eyes averted, muttering beneath her breath.

This was something she’d mastered. Never looking at people directly. When you looked them in the face, people talked to you way too long and tried to dig past the exterior. Never engage. She lived by this mantra. That’s why waitressing worked so well for her—even if the pay was barely enough to keep her clothed and fed. No one really wanted to talk to their server. People just wanted their food and to be left alone. A waitress was practically invisible—and invisible was what she’d set out to become.

Accepting the bread from the stranger, her gaze locked on his hand. All of her stilled at the sight. Even her lungs ceased to draw breath.

His hand was masculine, the wrist strong and narrow. Capable. The back of it lightly sprinkled with fair hairs and traced with faint veins. The sight was all achingly familiar. Although not in a specific way. It wasn’t a specific hand belonging to a specific man.

Her reaction was familiar. Her single-minded focus something she’d felt before. Back when she didn’t want to be invisible. When she yearned for Jonah to notice her.

She remembered what it felt like to center all her attention on a single masculine hand, hoping she would look up and find his eyes on her, seeing her. Finally, truly, seeing her. At last.

She recalled how her chest would tighten at the glimpse of his hand, the brush of tapering fingers against any part of her. She’d spend hours lost in daydreams of what it would feel like to have that hand touch her, stroke her until she arched and purred like a cat beneath his expert ministrations.

Despite the bitter cold, she suddenly felt hot, flushed with warmth. This hand sparked something deep inside her, woke a dormant piece of herself she’d only ever felt stir and come alive around Jonah. Useless as her feelings had been. Jonah had never looked at her that way, never felt that kind of attraction for her. And now his heart belonged to another.

She snatched up her bread with a muttered thanks, grateful the girl she used to be was gone. She wasn’t the same girl of three years ago, given to girlish infatuations. She didn’t become giddy and experience butterflies for a guy with nice hands. She wasn’t the type to languish after a guy. She wasn’t even the type to waste her breath talking to one anymore. There wasn’t any point after all.

“Sorry.” Stuffing the rest of her things back into the sack, she rose to her feet.