Page 31 of Howl for Me
She throws her hands up. “What is so wrong with just being nice? Grow up.”
That hits a nerve. I push back from the stool and stand so fast it screeches across the tile.
“I’m not the pack type, alright?” I yell, heat rising under my skin. “Never have been. That’s why I left home in the first place. I refuse to live by some pack mentality bullshit. I don’t need anyone.”
My voice echoes in the quiet kitchen. Her expression doesn’t change, still calm, still level, but her eyes… yeah, those flicker with something.
“I’m a lone wolf,” I spit like it explains everything. And maybe it does. Or maybe it just makes me sound like the sad, bitter fuck I am. Cassidy stares at me like I’ve just grown another head. Then she scoffs under her breath.
“A lone wolf,” she repeats,. “Really, Johnny? Come on. What does that even mean?”
I drag a hand through my hair, teeth grinding. I didn’t want to talk about this. Didn’t plan on opening that vault. But fuck it, she wants to know.
“It means,” I start, pacing away from the bar, “I didn’t just run from some job or some bad press. I ran from everything.”
I stop at the edge of the counter, fingers curling around it.
“I was part of a pack. My dad was the alpha. Big, strong, all that pride and honor bullshit. I was supposed to take his place.” I snort, shaking my head. “But I didn’t want it. Any of it. I hated having to meet their expectations. I didn’t want to be in charge of anyone. I didn’t want to live out in the goddamn woods like an animal, breathing down someone’s neck to keep them in line.”
I look up at her. She’s not smirking or rolling her eyes this time. She’s watching me; quiet and listening to my every word.
“Yeah, I’m an animal,” I say, my voice low. “But the human part of me? He wanted more. I wanted out. Wanted lights, chaos, city air, and noise in my head that didn’t come from pack duty or legacy. I wanted to choose my own goddamn life.”
I pause, swallowing thickly. “Do you have any idea how hard it is to be the disappointment? To see it in your father’s eyes every time you breathe? To not meet the expectations laid out for you the day you were fucking born? It’s like your life isn’t even yours. It’s a prophecy written in someone else’s hand.”
Something shifts in her face, it softens her entire expression. She nods slowly. “Yeah,” she says quietly. “I do, actually.”
And that hits me harder than I expected.
I blink. “You do?”
Chapter Fourteen
Cassidy
His voice is quiet, cautious, and it rattles me. Because yeah, I do understand where he’s coming from. God, I do. For a second, I say nothing. I just look at him, this man who never shuts up, never listens, never cares what anyone thinks. And yet here he is, raw and half-broken, asking me that like it means something. Like I mean something.
I clear my throat, forcing myself to meet his eyes. “Yes. That’s why I’m here.”
His brows pull together like he doesn’t quite understand what I’m saying.. I press my palms flat against the counter.
My voice is steady, but my chest feels tight. “I wasn’t supposed to have a career. My mom, she wanted me to get married and settle down. Be someone’s wife; a homemaker. That was a jobshe could understand. That was something she could be proud of.”
The words sting more coming out than they do in my head but I keep going.
“She didn’t understand film, or LA, or me. She didn’t understand why I’d want anything outside of our hometown. Why I’d leave everything safe and small for something uncertain and mine.”
I shake my head. “But that was the point. She couldn’t control me from this far away. She couldn’t mold me into the version of her she wanted me to be.”
I pause, taking a breath I didn’t realize I needed.
“So when I left, they didn’t throw a going-away party. Didn’t wish me good luck. They just sat back, thinking I’d fall on my face. That I’d come crawling home with nothing to show for it except regret and a few broken dreams.”
I look at him then, really look. He’s watching me like he wants to move towards me, like maybe this whole time I wasn’t just some uptight babysitter he was forced to deal with.
“It’s hard,” I say softly, “to live a life that was written by someone else. Especially when you never got to hold the pen.”
The silence is heavy and thick. Not awkward, just full. He doesn’t speak. He doesn’t even smirk. He just listens, and that alone makes me feel more seen than I have in years.
