Chp 16
1902 Words
Dael POV
The morning is too loud.
Not with sound…no with thoughts.
Unwanted ones. One's I can’t shut down no matter how many times I tell myself she’s nothing, a mistake the universe should have erased before she took her first breath.
Silver.
A color that should never exist. A curse on legs. A wolf I should have torn apart the moment I recognized the scent of mercury threaded through her last night. A scent my ancestors hunted. A scent my blood boils for. So why the hell am I walking toward the coffee shop she works in?
Why didn’t I take the other street, the one I always take?Why do my feet turn in this direction as if they’ve been commandeered by something feral inside me?
I don’t know.
And I hate not knowing. It’s drizzling when I approach the shop. Wet asphalt, muted light, the hiss of passing cars. Normal things. But my pulse thundered like I’m going to battle.
The bell over the door jingles when I push it open, and I immediately want to rip it off the frame just for being irritating.
Then I see her. And the rest of the world just… fades.
She’s behind the counter, bent slightly as she wipes the espresso machine. Her hair, black now, ink-dark and shiny pulled into a high ponytail. Two strands fall rebelliously down each side of her face, framing her cheeks like they’re meant to draw attention.
They do.
My attention.
Too much of it.
My jaw ticks once, Twice because the uniform green skirt, green shirt fits her wrong. Too small. Too short. Too tight in places that make the heat pool low in my spine in a way I don’t want to analyze.
She straightens just as I approach, and her eyes meet mine.
Fear hits her first. Then annoyance.
Then that stubborn, stupid resolve she weaponizes better than any wolf I’ve ever met. It stabs something sharp and unwelcome through my chest.
I walk up to her without looking at anything else. Not the line of pastries. Not the seating area. Not the other workers. Not the people staring at me because they always do.
No.
I look at her. Only her.
She smells like coffee grounds, rainwater, and something cold and metallic underneath, her lineage, her curse. A scent that should trigger violence in me.
And it does. But there’s something else layered inside it now. Something that drags my gaze over her again and again, cataloging every detail, every breath, every tremble in her fingers that she tries to hide when she sees me.
She’s scared.
Good.
She should be.
But the anger I expect, the familiar thrill of predator over prey doesn’t come the way it should. Instead, something far worse coils in my gut.
Possessiveness.
A deep, instinctive, violent claim I have no right to feel. My eyes drag lower. Her legs are bare from mid-thigh down. Her skirt rides up when she shifts her weight. Anyone could see. Anyone could look.
My teeth grind together hard enough I hear the crack in my ears. I don’t want anyone looking. I don’t want anyone seeing anything they shouldn’t.
She catches the direction of my gaze and stiffens, tugging the skirt down a little. That tiny gesture, small, embarrassed, defensive splits something open inside me. Something dangerous.
She finally forces herself to speak.
Her voice is steady, but I hear the break hiding underneath.
“What do you want?”
A thousand answers flash through my mind. None of them are appropriate. None of them sane.
But instead of speaking, I pull my hood down so she can see exactly who’s standing in front of her. What is standing in front of her. Her pulse jumps visibly in her throat.
The wolf in me notices, likes it.
Thrives on it.
I hate that.
I scan her again. slower this time. Intentionally slower. Why the hell is she dressed like this?.Why is she standing behind a counter like prey on display?
Who made this uniform?Who approved it?Who gets to stand on this side of the counter and stare at her all morning?
She asks again, quieter, “Why are you here?”
I should say nothing.
I should walk away.
I should let my instincts handle this, let them erase the problem she represents. But instead, I hear myself say:
“You shouldn’t be wearing that.”
Her eyes narrow. “It’s the uniform.”
“Change it.”
“No.”
The refusal hits me like a slap.
My wolf surges forward, irritated, offended, intrigued.
No one says no to me.
Not like that.
Not with those eyes that look like she’s daring me to try something.
She turns slightly to grab a notepad, and my gaze fixes on the hem of her skirt again. My stomach flips, slow, hot, acidic. Someone else could see her like this. Someone else already has. An uncomfortable burn slides beneath my skin. It feels like jealousy, but that’s impossible.
I don’t get jealous.
Not over anyone.
Especially not over a cursed silver wolf who should’ve been wiped out generations ago.
“Are you going to order?” she asks, annoyance thick in her tone. I like the way she tries to pretend she isn’t scared. I like it too much.
“I’ll decide in a minute,” I say.
Her brows knit. “There’s a line.”
I don’t move. The customers behind me shuffle awkwardly.
I still don’t move. She exhales, frustrated.
Good.
Frustration means I get under her skin. It means she feels this weird gravity between us too, even if she can’t name it.
“What time do you finish?” I ask.
She freezes.
“Why?”
I meet her eyes again, those silver-flecked irises she tries to hide behind dyed hair.
Because something is wrong with me.
Because I can’t stop thinking about you.
Because you smell like a threat and a promise in the same breath.
Because last night I should’ve killed you, and instead I walked away like a coward.
I don’t say any of that.
I only say:
“Just answer.”
“No.”
Another refusal. Another spark of challenge.
My jaw tightens. “You don’t walk home alone.”
“Who said I walk home?”
“Someone like you doesn’t get rides.”
She flinches faintly.
I know I hit a wound there.
I should stop.
I don’t.
The truth is simple:
I came here this morning because something in me wanted to see her again. To confirm she existed outside the darkness of last night. To confirm she wasn’t just a glitch in the universe.
And now that I’m here, I feel worse.
Because I want more.
Because the way her breath hitches when I step closer makes my blood heat in a twisted way.
Because the idea of anyone else hearing that same hitch makes my vision blur with fury.
The door behind me opens again, but I don’t turn.
I only turn when I want to.
And I want to keep looking at her.
Her coworker calls her name. Mia.
She waves Zyra over for a second.
Zyra moves.
Her skirt shifts.
Her legs..
A muscle in my cheek spasms.
I’m losing patience. I force myself to step back before I do something reckless. Before I say something that exposes how wrong all of this is.
“Forget it,” I mutter, turning away.
She exhales softly, relief.
But not too loudly. She doesn’t want me to hear.
Too late.
I step outside, letting the drizzle hit my hood. The cold water slicks down the fabric, cooling my skin, but not enough. Never enough.
I should leave.
I don’t.
I stay.
I stand under the awning, a few feet from the window, pretending I’m checking something on my phone.
But really, I’m watching her.
She moves quickly, efficiently, like she’s trying to outrun her own thoughts. Her ponytail swings when she turns. Her hands shake a little when she takes another order. She bites her lip when she concentrates.
All small things.
All things I shouldn’t notice.
But I do.
Something worse happens next.
The manager, older, greasy, wearing a fake-friendly smile, walks behind her. Too close. Way too close. His eyes dipped to her skirt. Then lower. Then to the curve of her chest as she reaches for a cup on the high shelf.
A slow, cold rage creeps through me.
My fingers curl into fists in my pockets.
He leans forward, whispering something to her, smiling like he thinks he has a chance.
She stiffens.
Not fear. Discomfort.
That’s enough.
I don’t even remember walking back in.
One second I’m outside.
The next the bell is ringing above my head, and I’m inside again, water dripping off me onto the tiles.
The manager sees me.
He goes pale instantly.
Good.
He mumbles something, an excuse, an apology, whatever and retreats quickly toward the back office.
He should. If he hadn’t moved, I don’t know what I would’ve done.
Zyra turns, startled.
Her eyes widen.
Her lips part faintly.
Her breath stutters.
“What,” she whispers, “are you doing back here?”
Before I can answer, her coworker Mia glances up. Her eyes sweep my height, my shoulders, the tension in my jaw. Her expression tightens not fear, not attraction.
Recognition.
She knows what I am.
“What can we get you?” Mia asks cautiously.
For a moment, I don’t speak.
I stare at Zyra.
At her shaking fingers.
At the fear she masks behind irritation.
Her hair is dark now but still incapable of hiding what she is, what I can smell even when I try not to. My voice comes out low, quiet, edged with warning.
“I’m not here for coffee.”
The air thickens.
Zyra’s throat bobs as she swallows. “Then what?”
“Something was bothering me.”
I look at the doorway the manager disappeared through.
Then back at her.
“You don’t let people get that close,” I say. Not a question. A command.
Her brows knit, anger flaring. “He’s my boss.”
“I don’t care.”
“You don’t get to decide”
“I do.”
She stares at me, stunned.
Mia opens her mouth to interrupt, but I lift a single look toward her, and she shuts it.
I turn back to Zyra.
“You’ll stay away from him.”
Her jaw clenches. “I don’t…”
“And he’ll stay away from you.” I interrupted
Her breath trembles. “Why do you care?”
I don’t answer. Because I don’t have the answer. All I know is that the sight of another man looking at her made something savage inside me snap.
All I know is that I can’t walk away.
All I know is that I don’t want to.
Finally, I step back, giving her enough space to breathe again, barely. But as I turn toward the door, I speak one last time, not bothering to hide the truth that’s been clawing its way up my throat since I saw her behind that counter.
“You don’t have to understand it,” I murmur without looking back.
“You just have to listen.”
And then I leave. Because if I stay, I might turn this place upside down
- Writer
