In Darkness: The Werewolf

By L. Diane Wolfe

Souls shrouded in darkness...

On her own in England, Vicki trains at a prestigious fencing school. Face marred by a birthmark, she’s suspicious of Nicholas’ attention. A dinner date reveals his genuine interest and they begin to connect. Nicholas is attractive and she wonders why he’s so shy and reclusive.

Then one evening she happens upon him changing into a lycan. Every werewolf legend is shattered by the gentle, fearful creature before her. Vickie accepts his secret, but Nicholas knows he’s an unpredictable beast. Can they trust love enough to overcome their physical challenges?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Dancing Lemur Press LLC
• Release date: Sep 5, 2023
• ISBN: 9781939844927

L. Diane Wolfe

L. Diane WolfeProfessional Speaker & Authorwww.spunkonastick.net www.thecircleoffriends.nethttp://www.circleoffriendsbooks.blogspot.comKnown as “Spunk On A Stick,” Wolfe is a member of the National Speakers Association. “Overcoming Obstacles With SPUNK! The Keys to Leadership & Goal-Setting”, ties all of her goal-setting and leadership seminar’s information together into one complete, enthusiastic package. She also conducts seminars on book publishing and promoting, and assists writers through her author services. Her YA series, The Circle of Friends, features morally grounded, positive stories that appeal to both teens and concerned parents. Ten years associating with a motivation training system and experience as a foster parent gave her the in-depth knowledge of relationships, personality traits and success principles. Wolfe travels extensively for media interviews and speaking engagements, maintains a dozen websites & blogs, and contributes to several other sites and newsletters.

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Table of Contents

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter One

I wonder why he’s always watching me? Vicki mumbled.

She reached for her doorknob and held up the key, her gaze on the young man tending the next cottage’s garden. He sat up straighter and flashed an awkward smile. Unnerved by the unwanted attention, she shoved the key into the lock and forced the door open with her shoulder. Bursting into her cottage, she slammed the door.

Her bag hit the floor. Vicki spread her mail across the kitchenette’s bar, scanning the letters in haste. One from her father? She ripped it open and a check spiraled to the floor. She retrieved it and peered at the total. More than enough to sustain her through the coming month.

You might not have been there when I was a child, she said, staring at his name on the check, but at least you’ve the decency to support me as an adult.

Vicki folded the check and tucked it into a pocket in her bag. I’ll visit the bank later this week. At least the exchange rate continues to be decent.

The cool water of the shower refreshed her, bringing her skin back to life. Despite the padding she wore, jabs still caused bruises. One of the drawbacks of fencing. A minor one considering her residency with England’s top coaching establishment. Admittance into the British Academy of Fencing was an honor.

She dried and brushed her hair. Vicki’s gaze strayed from the sink to the mirror. The brown streak that extended from her left cheek near her ear to under her chin commanded her attention. Such an ugly sight. Vicki cringed, the echoes of childhood torments filling her ears.

She shifted her gaze away from the offending birthmark. At least the fencing mask covered it.

Clean and dressed in sweats, she returned to the kitchen to make dinner. Vicki poured water into a pot and set the dial to boil. She pulled vegetables from the fridge and chopped them for the sauce.

Vicki returned to the stove to check the water, but no boiling bubbles appeared. She noticed the light for the burner remained dark.

What the heck? she said.

She spun the dial several times. Nothing changed. Vicki tested each of the other controls. Nothing.

I guess I’ll have something else for dinner, she said, annoyed by the situation. Disrupted plans threw off her entire schedule.

A sandwich took the place of her pasta dish, with a side of raw vegetables.

I need a working stove. I’m calling the owner.

The number rang several times. Vicki contemplated hanging up and marching over to the main house. Before she hit the button, a gentleman’s voice answered her call.

The Cottages at Breckridge, how may I help you?

Mr. Dawson? she said, holding the receiver closer. This is Vicki in cottage four. My stove isn’t working. At all.

My dear, I’m terribly sorry. We’ll be over to look at it right away.

Satisfied, Vicki grabbed her instruction book and flopped on the couch, resigned to waiting. The owner ran a tight ship though. A rap on the door came not five minutes later.

She peeked out the side window before answering. The young man tending the gardens earlier stood at her doorstep, tool bag in hand.

Why’d it have to be him? She pulled her hair forward to hide her cheek and opened the door.

Miss Martinson? the young man said, shifting the bag to his other hand. I’m here to check your cooker.

Cooker? Yes, the stove. Come in, she said, standing aside.

I’m not comfortable with him, but I want my stove fixed.

None of the burners are working, she said, pointing at the faulty unit. I didn’t check the oven.

The young man set down his bag and reached for the dial controlling the oven. He peered through the door, but the interior remained dark. When he opened the door, not even the oven light came on.

It’s probably in the main wiring, he said, closing the door.

I need a new stove, don’t I?

No, I can fix it. He raised his gaze to her, his dark eyes half hidden behind wavy hair. I need to shut off the breaker first though.

He took a hesitant step forward. Vicki realized he needed to pass. She moved out of his way, her offending cheek turned away.

I hope he doesn’t stare at me while he fixes the stove.

The breaker off, the young man pulled out the stove and got to work. Vicki returned to the main room and positioned herself so she could watch him. She continued to go over the instruction book, glancing up on occasion to check his progress. Not once did she catch him looking her direction.

Good, just fix the stove.

Intent on her book, Vicki jumped when the young man appeared in the archway. She slammed it shut and bolted upright.

Sorry to startle you, Miss Martinson, he said, shifting his weight to his other foot. Your cooker is working now.

You fixed it? she said, rising from the chair.

Yes. As I suspected, faulty wiring.

He stepped aside as she approached. Vicki reached the stove, now residing in its former position. Doubtful, she twisted the first dial and held her hand over the element. Within seconds, the heat warmed her skin. She turned it off and straightened her shoulders.

Thank you, she said.

You’re welcome.

She gave him a sideways glance. The young man stood at the edge of the breakfast bar. His eager expression and intense scrutiny caused her cheeks to burn. Years of taunts and torments bubbled to the surface. Turning away, she crossed her arms.

Stop staring at me! she said.

I’m—I’m sorry, he stammered. Miss Martinson, forgive me. It’s just you’re very beautiful. I can’t help myself.

Vicki’s head jerked around. Beautiful? He can’t mean that. Not with the mark across my cheek. She met his gaze, anxiety twisting her gut. To her surprise, his face contorted to a similar anxious expression.

I’m sorry, Miss Martinson, he said, dropping his gaze. He rubbed his fingers on his palms. I didn’t intend to make you uncomfortable. I see you every day and wish I had the courage to speak to you…

His words failed. Shaking his head, he retrieved the tool bag from the counter and bolted for the door.

He thinks I’m beautiful?

Snapping into action, Vicki followed. She caught him at the door and grabbed his arm. Wait!

He froze, one hand on the door knob. His chin dipped to his chest and his entire body sagged. Vicki released his arm, stunned by her own boldness, and stepped back.

Please wait. What’s your name?

His fingers dropped from the door knob. Nicholas Dawson.

You’re related to the owner?

Yes, he’s my father.

Nicholas remained motionless. Vicki’s turn to scrutinize him.

Everything about you screams insecure, from your posture to your words. But why? You’re attractive. You should be in high demand with the ladies.

Nicholas, she began, annoyed with her paranoid behavior. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to yell at you. I’m uncomfortable with people staring at me. Most don’t find me attractive.

He licked his lips and shot her a wary glance. You are though. Miss Martinson, you caught my eye the first day you arrived.

Warmth spread across her face. Thank you.

They stared at each other for a moment. Nicholas offered a faint smile and nodded.

Good night, Miss Martinson.

He opened the door and stepped outside. Vicki leapt to the threshold, her fingers grasping the doorframe.

Nicholas?

The light from the cottage shone on his face as he turned around. She offered him a smile.

It’s Vicki. And thank you for fixing my stove.

He offered a bow. You’re welcome, Vicki.

Vicki closed the door and leaned against the heavy frame.

I dreaded letting him in. But he thinks I’m beautiful? Wow!

She clasped her hands over her chest and smiled. I hope I see him again tomorrow.

* * *

She looked for Nicholas the next afternoon. Disappointed not to find him tending the grounds, Vicki trudged up the path to her cottage. It annoyed her that the young man continued to occupy her thoughts.

I can’t help it. No one’s ever called me beautiful before.

After dinner, Vicki hit upon an idea. Two days remained in the month but paying her rent early couldn’t hurt. She might see Nicholas.

Stop it, she chided as she slid on her shoes. Don’t get your hopes up. He thinks you’re pretty, that’s it. Besides, what if he’s weird and creepy?

As she approached the main house, her anxiety grew. What if I find out he’s really a nice guy? What do I say to him if he’s there? This was a bad idea. I shouldn’t have decided to pay the rent early.

Standing at the base of the stairs, Vicki resolved to complete her task. The office light shone bright through the window and she ascended the staircase. She knocked on the side door, the one designated for cottage occupants. The heavy knocker struck the surface with force. The sound pounded at her chest. Clutching her check, she squared her shoulders.

A metallic clattering on the other side preceded a creak as the door opened. Ms. Martinson, good evening. Please come in, Mr. Dawson said.

Thank you, sir.

Vicki opened the screen door and entered the house. An office now occupied an old entryway, although not the primary one. An ornate desk filled one side, and an antique roll desk sat opposite. The walls were lined with boxes, some with files and papers stacked even higher. Mr. Dawson’s desk remained clear and uncluttered though.

Her gaze strayed