The silence that falls over the diner is heavy. It is physical. It presses against my eardrums like deep water.
Three men stand in the doorway.
They are not truckers. They are not locals. They are predators.
The man in the center takes a step forward. My breath catches in my throat. He is terrifying. He is beautiful. He wears a long black coat that swirls around his ankles like smoke. His hair is dark, cut short and severe. His face is a collection of sharp angles and rough stubble, but it is his eyes that freeze me in place. They are grey. Storm grey. Turbulence trapped in irises.
He scans the room. It is a tactical sweep. He is checking exits. He is checking threats.
His gaze slides over the drunk in the corner. It slides over Marge, who has frozen with a pot of coffee in mid-air. Then his eyes land on me.
He stops.
I look down immediately. I scrub a stain on the counter that has been there for ten years. My heart is hammering against my ribs, but I force my breathing to remain even. I am human. I am just a waitress. I am nothing.
"Table in the back," the man says. His voice is deep. It sounds like gravel grinding together. It vibrates through the floorboards.
"Yes, Alpha," one of the men flanking him mutters.
Alpha.
I grip the rag tighter. An Alpha is here. In this dump. That means this is not a social call. They are hunting.
They move past me. The air ripples around them, charged with static electricity. I smell them as they pass. Pine. Blood. Cold stone. It is the scent of the wild, untamed and dangerous.
They take the booth furthest from the door. It gives them a view of the entire room.
Marge scuttles over to me behind the counter. Her hands are shaking.
"Elara," she hisses. "You take them. I can't. My knees are knocking together."
"They are just customers, Marge," I whisper back. I am lying. We both know it.
"Just customers don't look like they could murder you with a spoon," she squeaks. "Please. You are tough. You deal with Earl when he gets handsy."
I sigh. "Fine. Give me the pot."
I take the coffee pot. I take a deep breath. I check my mental walls. My scent blockers are working. To them, I should smell like bleach and lemon soap. Nothing else.
I walk over to the booth.
The three men are talking in low voices. I catch snippets as I approach.
"...scent trail went cold three miles east," the blonde one says. He is massive, his neck as thick as a tree trunk.
"He is wounded," the Alpha says. "He won't get far. He needs shelter."
"We should burn the woods," the third man suggests. He has a scar running down his cheek. "Flush him out."
"We do not burn anything without my command, Riker," the Alpha snaps.
They stop talking as I arrive at the table.
I refuse to make eye contact. I focus on the mugs.
"Coffee?" I ask. My voice is steady. Thank you, Miller.
"Black," the Alpha says.
"Same," the blonde says.
"Do you have raw meat?" Riker asks. He grins at me. It is a sharp, jagged smile. "I am starving."
"We have burgers," I say flatly. "I can ask the cook to forget the grill."
Riker laughs. It is a barking sound. "She has a spine, Damon. I like her."
Damon.
The name rings a bell. Damon Blackwood. The Alpha of the Obsidian Pack. They are new. They are dangerous. Rumor says they are a pack of outcasts and rogues that banded together to form a superpower. They are brutal. They are efficient.
And they are sitting in my section.
"Coffee is fine," Damon says. He does not look at Riker. He is looking at me.
I pour the coffee. I can feel his eyes on me. It feels like a physical touch. It burns my skin.
"You are not local," Damon says.
I pause. I do not look up. "I live down the street."
"That is not what I meant," he says softly. "You walk with purpose. You balance your weight on the balls of your feet. You are ready to move."
I finish pouring. I risk a glance. His grey eyes are narrowed. He is studying me like a puzzle he cannot quite solve.
"It is a rough neighborhood," I say. "I learned to be careful."
"Careful is good," he says. He leans back. "But fear is better. You are not afraid of us."
"Should I be?" I ask.
Riker snorts. "Most humans piss themselves when we walk in. You didn't even blink."
"I have seen a lot of scary things in this city," I say. "You are just three guys wanting coffee. Unless you are planning to rob the register?"
Damon's lip twitches. It is almost a smile. "No. The register is safe."
"Then enjoy your coffee."
I turn and walk away. My back itches. I know he is watching me walk. I force myself not to run.
I retreat behind the counter. I put the pot down. My hands are trembling slightly now. That was too close. He saw too much.
"Hey, beautiful!"
A heavy hand slams onto the counter. I jump.
It is Earl. He is a regular. He is also a drunk and a creep. He reeks of cheap whiskey and unwashed clothes.
"Earl," I say. I step back. "Go home. You have had enough."
"I haven't had anything from you yet," he slurs. He leers at me. His eyes are bloodshot. "How about a smile? You never smile. You are always so cold."
"I am working," I say. "Leave me alone."
"Don't be a bitch," he spits. He reaches over the counter. He grabs my wrist.
His grip is wet and clammy. Instinct flares. Miller's voice screams in my head. *Twist the wrist. Lock the elbow. Drive his face into the counter.*
I tense. I am about to break his arm. I can do it. I have the leverage.
But if I do, the three wolves in the back will see. They will see a human girl move with the speed and precision of a warrior. They will know.
I freeze. I let Earl hold my wrist. I grit my teeth.
"Let go, Earl," I say tightly.
"Not until I get a kiss," he grunts. He pulls me forward. "Come on. Just one."
"I said let go!"
I try to yank my hand back, but he puts his weight into it.
Suddenly, a shadow falls over us.
"She asked you to let go."
The voice is low. It is terrifyingly calm. But underneath the calm, there is a growl that sounds like tectonic plates shifting.
Earl freezes. He looks up. And up.
Damon is standing behind him. He looms over the drunk like a skyscraper.
"Who are you?" Earl slurs. He tries to sound tough, but his voice wavers. "This is between me and the lady."
"The lady looks like she wants to be left alone," Damon says. "And I am the guy who is going to remove your hand if you do not move it in the next one second."
Earl laughs nervously. "Yeah? You and what ar..."
Damon moves. It is a blur. One moment he is standing there, the next his hand is wrapped around Earl's throat.
He lifts Earl off the ground. Literally off the ground. Earl's feet dangle six inches in the air. He chokes, clawing at Damon's hand, but Damon is made of iron.
"Bad choice," Damon whispers.
The diner goes silent. Marge gasps. The other patrons stare in horror.
Damon carries Earl to the door like he is taking out a bag of trash. He kicks the door open and tosses Earl onto the sidewalk.
"Stay out," Damon commands. He infuses the words with Alpha power. It is a compulsion. Even a human can feel the weight of it.
Earl scrambles up and runs. He doesn't look back.
Damon stands in the doorway for a moment, adjusting his cuffs. Then he turns back to me.
My heart is pounding so hard I feel dizzy. He just displayed supernatural strength in front of everyone. He doesn't care. He is too powerful to care.
He walks back to the counter. He stops directly in front of me.
We are separated by two feet of formica, but the energy coming off him hits me like a wave. Heat. Power. Dominance.
"Are you alright?" he asks. His grey eyes bore into mine.
"I... I had it handled," I say. My voice is breathless.
"I know you did," he says. The statement throws me.
"What?"
"I saw your muscles tense," Damon says softly. He leans in closer. He sniffs the air near my neck. "I saw you shift your weight. You were about to break his elbow. You stopped yourself."
I go cold. "I took a self-defense class. That's all."
"No," he says. He shakes his head slowly. "That was instinct. But you held it back. Why?"
"I don't want trouble," I whisper.
"Trouble found you," he says. "And you smelled like fear, but your heartbeat..."
He pauses. He listens. I know he can hear it. My traitorous heart, beating a rapid, human rhythm.
"Your heartbeat is steady," he murmurs. "Fast, but rhythmic. Like a drum. Not like a panicked bird."
He narrows his eyes. He looks deep into me, past the contacts, past the hair dye, past the lies.
"You smell like chemicals," he says abruptly. "Bleach. Soap. Why are you trying so hard to smell like nothing, little waitress?"
"Hygiene," I snap. I try to step back, but my back hits the rear counter. I am trapped.
"Curious," Damon says. The corner of his mouth lifts. It is not a smirk. It is an expression of genuine intrigue. "Most humans reek of their emotions. You? You are a blank slate. A void."
"Is there a law against smelling clean?" I ask defensiveness creeping into my tone.
"No," he says. "But nature abhors a vacuum. And I hate mysteries."
"I am not a mystery," I say. "I am just a girl trying to finish her shift."
"Are you?" He tilts his head. The movement is avian, predatory. "We are tracking a rogue. A dangerous one. He kills for sport. You should be careful walking home."
"I can take care of myself."
"I believe you can," Damon says. His voice drops an octave. It sends a shiver down my spine that has nothing to do with fear and everything to do with the chemistry sizzling in the air. "But even the best fighters need backup sometimes."
He reaches into his pocket. He pulls out a crisp hundred-dollar bill. He places it on the counter.
"For the coffee," he says. "And for the trouble."
"The coffee is two dollars," I say.
"Keep the change."
He straightens up. He towers over me again. For a second, I think he is going to reach out and touch my face. His hand twitches at his side. The air between us is thick, heavy with unspoken questions.
Then he turns away.
"Let's go," he barks to his men.
Riker and the blonde scramble out of the booth. They look at me with new respect as they pass. Riker winks.
Damon holds the door open for them. He pauses one last time. He looks back at me. His gaze lingers on my hands, which are still clenched into fists.
"I will be seeing you," he says.
It is not a question. It is a promise.
The door closes behind them. The bell chimes, a cheerful sound that mocks the tension in the room.
I let out a breath I didn't know I was holding. My legs give out, and I slump against the back counter.
"Sweet mother of pearl," Marge breathes, popping up from behind the register. "Who was that?"
I stare at the door. I can still feel the ghost of his presence. I can still smell him. Rain. Ozone. Dark forests.
"Trouble," I whisper. "The worst kind."
I look at the hundred-dollar bill on the counter. It is real. It is a lifeline. But it feels like a trap.
He knows. He doesn't know what I am, not yet. But he knows I am not what I pretend to be.
My hand goes to my chest. The bond to Kael is silent, a dull, dead ache. But where Damon looked at me, my skin feels alive. It tingles.
I grab the bill and shove it into my pocket.
I need to run. I need to pack my bag and leave this city tonight. If the Obsidian Alpha is interested in me, my cover is blown.
But as I look out the window into the dark street, I don't move. My feet are rooted to the spot.
For three years, I have been running from monsters.
But for the first time, when the monster looked at me, he didn't see a victim. He saw a fighter.
And God help me, I want him to look again.
