Chapter 1: Nessa
“Did you hear?” Rebecca nudges my shoulder like we’re twelve and gossiping in a school hallway instead of working in a rundown diner that smells like burnt grease and regret. “He’s back.”
Of course he is. The Alpha. The one who rolls up in a black Escalade like he’s starring in his own damn book cover. The one who sits in the same section every time. The one who orders coffee he doesn’t drink and waits.
For her. Not us. Her. The quiet little human waitress who pretends he doesn’t exist. Classic trope. Alpha is obsessed with the oblivious waitress. Wattpad eats that shit up. Meanwhile, the rest of us are out here subtly arching our backs and pushing our tits up like unpaid background characters. Not that I care. Okay. I care a little. He’s hot. Obviously. Tall, dark, stupidly handsome in that “I own half the state and could buy this diner for pocket change” way. And yeah, once upon a delusional time, I thought maybe I’d end up with a rich, powerful Alpha. Spoiler alert: I did not. He didn’t even blink in my direction. That was my cue. Rebecca didn’t get it, though.
“That’s nice,” I say flatly. “Table four needs more coffee, and they’ve been bitching about the hash browns.”
She snorts. “What do they expect? This place is a shithole.”
She’s not wrong.
“Can you take them? I’ve got another table.”
Her grin turns predatory. She adjusts her bra like she’s loading weapons. I watch her strut over to him, hips swaying. He doesn’t even look at her. Just dismisses her and goes back to staring at the door, waiting for his little human virgin whose shift doesn’t start for another fifteen minutes. I sigh and deal with table four. They complain about cold food—stale coffee. The world is ending. I smile and apologise. I get ninety cents as a tip. I hate people.
The diner was emptied, except for Mr Alpha Brooding-in-the-Corner.
She was ten minutes late. This is not going to end well. I sit in a booth, pull out my phone, and open my latest eBook. Alpha’s Daughter: Claimed by Four Kings. Reverse harem. Fated mates. Territorial snarling. Steamy tension.
The werewolf biology is wildly inaccurate, but humans think we’re myths anyway, so who cares? I read so many of these books that I’ve practically memorised the tropes. I used to think one would happen to me. Because statistically? It should have. My sister accidentally crossed into an Alpha’s territory once. Saved a pup. His pup. Instead of killing her for trespassing, he offered her a job as the pup’s nanny. Yes. Really. The Rogue Nanny. Guess how that ended? Claimed. Luna. Pregnant. Then Rebecca tells me about her aunt's daughter who became a live-in maid at some rich pack estate.
She ended up mated to the twin Alpha brothers. Twin. Mates. Then the neighbouring pack’s Alpha daughter gets kidnapped by the rival Alpha and somehow ends up claimed instead of dead. This isn’t fantasy for us. This shit actually happens. And me? My family got banished. Because my mother decided to be a raging bitch to the Alpha’s omega mate. He spared her life because of us. But we were exiled. Boom. Rogues. And I thought, okay. This is it. This is my tragic backstory arc. Fresh start. New town. New me. New school. Cue destiny. Nope. Turns out we were blacklisted from most packs. So I ended up going to human schools. Then Alex showed up. We met just after I finished college. And I thought, finally — my trope. He wasn’t an Alpha. Just human. Safe. Normal. And he wanted me. We dated for nine months. Got married. Two months in, he lost his job. Unemployment lasted six months. After that? Guess who worked two jobs? And Guess who stayed home playing video games and hosting “gaming events” until 3 a.m.? I’d come home exhausted, cook dinner, clean up, and ask if he’d applied anywhere.
“Yeah, babe. I applied.”
I believed him. Because I’m apparently the side character in my own life. Then things got weird. I walked in on him not once but a few times, jerking off to some red-haired fox avatar on his screen. He didn’t hear me. So I stepped out and slammed the door harder. He bolted to the bathroom like a guilty raccoon. Came back, kissed my cheek. Went back to gaming. That kiss? That was the most intimacy we’d had in months. Because on my days off, he was “busy.”
Then one night, I came home early. He was grunting again.
I thought it was the same shit. So I was finally going to confront him.
It wasn’t. He was balls-deep in a orange-red-haired woman wearing a literal fox getup. Full cosplay commitment. And while he was still inside her, he dared to blame me.
“You’re never home. I have needs.”
I was never home because I was paying the mortgage. The fox girl at least had the decency to look embarrassed. She scrambled for her clothes and muttered, “You said you lived with your mom.”
I stood there.
Completely numb.
Not crying.
Not screaming.
Just done.
Then the fucker refused to sign the divorce papers. What he didn’t know?
If you don’t show up to court, the divorce still goes through. I sold the house. Took the cash and left. He didn’t know it was sold until he got evicted. Oh — and I sold his car too. That was my villain origin story, and that’s when I finally accepted it: Story tropes are not meant for me. Because what bestselling romance features: A 29-year-old rogue she-wolf
working as a waitress. Divorced. Broke. Bitter. Snarky. There’s no category for: “Unclaimed Rogue with Debt and Trust issues with a resting bitch face.”
No Alpha waiting in the corner for me.
No fated bond.
No hidden royal bloodline.
No secret heat cycle that drives a pack crazy.
Just me.
NPC energy.
I don’t get chosen.
I don’t get claimed.
I don’t get kidnapped.
I don’t get a redemption arc.
I get bills.
I’m the background character who refills the coffee while the real heroine gets claimed against the counter. So yeah. When Rebecca says, “He’s back.” I don’t look up. Because Alphas don’t come back for girls like me. They wait for the quiet virgins with soft eyes and tragic backstories. Not the snarky divorced rogue who swears too much and knows how the story ends. And if this is my trope? It’s probably: “The Background Bitch Who Watches Destiny Happen to Other People.”
That tracks.
Not like I fit into any of the overdone, copy-paste, bestseller tropes anyway.
Fated Mates? Please. The Moon Goddess clearly lost my paperwork. If I had a mate, he’s either dead, defective, or emotionally unavailable with a podcast.
Alpha & Omega? I’m not some trembling omega with heat cycles and fragile wrists. And I’m definitely not the Alpha’s delicate little “good girl.” I’d mouth off during the claiming ceremony and ruin the vibe.
Rejected Mate → Grovelling Alpha? For that to happen, an Alpha would first have to want me. And second, reject me. And third, crawl back begging. The only man who crawled back to me wanted Wi-Fi.
Secret Luna? Hidden royalty? Surprise pack princess? The only secret about me is how I still manage to pay rent. I don’t have a dormant throne—I have overdue bills.
Virgin Heroine? I was married. To a man who cheated on me with a woman dressed like a woodland mascot. The innocence ship has sailed, crashed, and been auctioned off.
Billionaire Romance? Billionaires don’t fall for divorced rogue waitresses with student loans and a caffeine addiction. They fall for art curators and women who “summer” in places.
Boss/Employee? Unless my boss is the 63-year-old diner owner with gravy stains on his apron, that trope isn’t happening. And if it does, call the police.
Reverse Harem? Multiple men fighting over me? I can’t even get one emotionally stable adult male to return a text. One or more possessive Alphas? Be serious.
Marriage of Convenience? Tried marriage once. It was inconvenient enough.
Hidden Heir? The only inheritance I’m getting is generational trauma and my mom’s attitude.
Accidental Pregnancy? Bold of you to assume destiny would give me something that dramatic. My life doesn’t do plot twists. It does paperwork.
So no. I’m not the fated one. Not the chosen one. Not the secretly powerful one. At this point, if an Alpha walked in, dropped to one knee, and said, “You’re mine,” I’d probably ask if he brought health insurance and what his credit score looks like. Because I don’t need a trope. I need therapy and a savings account. I know what you’re thinking.
“Ohhh, so you’re the bad girl trope.” No. I’m not the mysterious bad girl with trauma and a redemption arc. I’m not the morally grey anti-heroine who secretly has a heart of gold. I’m not the misunderstood villain who just needs to be loved correctly. Fuck all of that noise. I’m the cunt. I’m the ugly stepsister. The one who stands in the corner of the ballroom watching Cinderella trip into destiny while I’m stuck holding the broom. I’m not the dark seductress the Alpha can’t resist. I’m the girl the heroine side-eyes because I dared to exist within breathing distance of her man. You know the trope.
The jealous coworker.
The pack slut.
The bitter ex.
The clingy she-wolf who “doesn’t know her place.”
The power-hungry Beta’s daughter.
The mean girl who “tries to steal him.”
The Luna wannabe.
The girl who throws herself at the Alpha and gets publicly rejected.
That’s the category I fall into.
Not the chosen one.
The “she should’ve known better.”
I’m the girl readers comment about like: “Ugh, I hate her.”
“This Bitch.” “She needs to get humbled.” “Someone put her in her place.”
“Why is she so desperate?”
Desperate? No, sweetheart. I’m just not written to win. I’m not soft-spoken.
I’m not innocent. I don’t blush and look at the floor. I don’t pretend to notice when a hot Alpha walks in. If I look, I look. If I want, I want. Apparently, that makes me the villain. Because in romance books, women like me don’t get claimed. We get used to tension. We’re the obstacle. The dramatic interruption at the mating ceremony. The one who says, “He doesn’t love you,” right before security drags us out. I’m not the sunshine to his grumpiness. I’m the thundercloud that gets written off as unstable. I’m not the omega he protects. I’m the rogue he warns people about. And let’s be honest — every story needs one.
The girl who tries too hard.
The girl who wears the tight dress.
The girl who flirts.
The girl who “doesn’t respect boundaries.”
The girl who wants the Alpha and isn’t ashamed of it.
Meanwhile, the heroine stands there with wide innocent eyes, as if she doesn’t even know what sex is. And somehow that’s what gets the bond to snap. So no. I’m not the bad girl trope.
Bad girls still get arcs.
They still get redemption.
They still get claimed by the darker, hotter, more dangerous male lead.
I’m the one who watches it happen.
The ugly stepsister.
The jealous she-wolf.
The background bitch.
And if you’re waiting for the part where I reveal I’m secretly powerful, secretly mated, secretly royal—
Wrong book.
I’m just the girl who learned the hard way that some women are written to be loved... And some of us are written to be the lesson.
I shoved my apron into my locker and rolled my aching shoulders. “See you tomorrow, Jimmy,” I call out, pushing through the back door.
“Have a good night, Ness. Get home safe,” he waves, spatula in hand like some greasy knight.
“I will.”
I live in a tiny-ass town called Maple Hollow in upstate New York. Less than two thousand humans. A handful of rogues thrown in because we can’t exactly waltz into pack territory without an alpha’s permission slip. This place? Neutral ground. It’s negative twenty in February. The kind of cold that doesn’t just freeze your breath — it freezes your fucking soul. The kind that makes you question every life choice that led you to this ice cube of a town.
And yes, before you ask — werewolves get cold. Here’s the thing nobody tells you: we’re pack creatures. Without a pack, our wolf goes dormant. Quiet. It crawls into the back of your skull and curls up to sleep. You don’t shift. You don’t feel that power humming under your skin. You just... exist. I could join a pack. Wake her up. Get that power back and not freeze my tits off. But honestly? It feels kinda good not answering to anyone. Not having to bow my head. Not having to worry about some big bad alpha pounding on my door because I stepped out of line. Freedom tastes better than loyalty ever did. It’s been three years since I moved here from Las Vegas. Three years since the divorce. Three years since I packed my shit and decided I’d rather freeze my tits off than stay somewhere that suffocated me.
Do I love it here? No. Do I hate it? Also no. It’s just... neutral. Like me. I already ate at the diner, so when I got home, I took a quick shower. Hot water beating against my shoulders, washing off grease and the smell of burnt toast. Then collapse onto my couch, fully intending to zone out. I flip through Netflix. Romantic comedy. Romantic drama. Romantic tragedy. Fuck me.
I groan. I toss the remote aside.
“Yeah, no. Not tonight.”
My apartment is a small one-bedroom. The kitchen and the living room are basically the same damn space. If I burn toast, the couch smells like it for a week. But it’s mine. No ex-husband. No pack. No expectations. Just me. Being blacklisted was the best thing that could have happened to me. So instead of a movie, I open the new story I started — a human mafia romance. Toxic men, guns, tension, bad decisions. You know. Fun. It was so damn good I didn’t realise it was three in the morning until my eyes started burning.
Chapter 2: Nessa
When my alarm went off, I dragged myself into jeans and a plain shirt. Practical. Comfortable. Not flirty. I’m not dressing for anyone. The only thing I attract is tips and mild disappointment. When I walk into the diner, it smells the same as always — frying grease, burnt coffee, and sanitiser trying its absolute best to pretend this place wasn’t hanging on by a thread. I grab a rag and start wiping down the counter, sipping lukewarm coffee and counting down the seconds until the breakfast rush hits.
“You wouldn’t guess what happened yesterday,” Rebecca frowns. “Our little virgin was finally taken by the big bad Alpha.”
Of course she was. Because apparently, the universe loves nothing more than to remind me that some people’s lives are dramatic soap operas while mine is... well, this shit. One hand wipes the counter. The other slides the help-wanted flyer into the window like a passive-aggressive offering to fate.
“How long have you had that?” Rebecca asks, squinting at it.
“Since he first showed up,” I say, shrugging.
Rebecca blinks. “That was… two months ago.”
“Yep.” I lean back against the counter like I’ve got all the time in the world, crossing my arms. “And I knew the second he walked in.”
She squints at me. “Knew what?”
I give her a look. “Don’t make me spell it out. Tall, broody, jaw clenched like he’s personally offended by oxygen? That girl was done for.”
Rebecca snorts. “You’re being dramatic.”
“I am being genre aware,” I correct, grabbing the coffee pot and topping off a mug. “There’s a difference. He had the full ‘touch her and die’ starter pack. Broody stares. Silent intimidation. Probably tragic backstory. I could practically hear the ominous soundtrack.”
“That doesn’t mean she’s going to quit.”
“It absolutely does.” I slide the mug across the counter. “Human girl. Small town. Mysterious wolf man with emotional damage and biceps. She acts flustered for a few weeks, insists she’s ‘independent,’ ignores the red flags because he’s hot, and then—boom. Gone. Mated. Claimed. Off the market and suddenly allergic to public spaces.”
Rebecca folds her arms. “You’re so cynical.”
“No,” I say flatly, “I read. I observe. I’ve survived three paranormal romance arcs in this town alone.”
“This isn’t a book, Ness.”
I raise a brow. “You sure about that? Because last time a six-foot-four alpha type showed up, someone ended up ‘finding herself’ in a cabin for six months.”
“That was different.”
“It’s always ‘different.’ He’s protective. He growls. He doesn’t like other men looking at her. She says it’s intense but kind of hot. He glares at the bartender. She blushes. Next thing you know, she’s not allowed to come into town alone.”
Rebecca stares at me.
“I give it a month,” I say, wiping down the counter. “Two if she drags it out for dramatic tension. Possessive wolves don’t loosen their grip. They double down.”
“You don’t even know him. Maybe he’s a chilled Alpha.”
“I don’t need to. I’ve seen the trope. ‘I don’t share.’ ‘You’re mine.’ ‘Say it.’” I deepen my voice mockingly. “And she’ll roll her eyes and pretend she hates it.”
Rebecca tries not to laugh. “You’re awful.”
“I’m accurate.” I lean in slightly. “Watch. She’ll stop coming to night shifts first. Then she’ll start saying things like, ‘He just worries.’ Then she’ll defend the growling.”
“That’s not fair.”
“It’s predictive modelling,” I say sweetly. “I should start taking bets.”
Rebecca shakes her head, but she’s smiling now. “What if you’re wrong?”
I shrug. “Then I’ll happily admit defeat. But when she disappears and shows up three months later with that dazed, claimed look? I expect a muffin basket and a formal apology.”
“You’re impossible.”
“And yet,” I pick up the coffee pot again, smirking, “never surprised.”
And that was the highlight of the morning. The breakfast rush came and went like a mild inconvenience. Two regulars argued about politics. One guy sent his eggs back because they were “too yellow.” I stared at him for a full five seconds before sending it back to Jimmy to remake them exactly the same way.
Then Mrs Delaney complained that her toast was burnt. It wasn’t burnt. It was toasted. Jimmy didn’t like that either, and I’m pretty sure he just warmed it up back and sent it out. Then, some middle-aged man in a Carhartt jacket told me his coffee was “weak.” It was not weak. He just wanted attention. I topped it off and walked away before I told him to chew the grounds straight from the filter.
By two o’clock, the diner was dead again. No dramatic entrances. No alpha storming through the door. No tension in the air. Just the hum of the fridge. The sticky floor. The smell of grease that never truly leaves your hair. Small-town excitement. Jimmy dropped a spatula. Rebecca spilt syrup on herself. I refilled napkins. That was it. I clocked out, shoved my apron into my locker, and stared at my reflection for a second.
“See you tomorrow,” Jimmy calls.
“Unfortunately,” I say.
He laughs.
The town outside was dead quiet at seven in the afternoon. No traffic. No sirens. Just wind scraping against the building. As soon as I got home, I curl up on the couch, blanket over my legs, and fall right back into the chaos—guns, tension, broody, dangerous men who actually communicated through meaningful glances instead of passive aggression. God, fiction is superior.
One chapter turned into three. Three turned into six. By the time I blink at the clock, it was 3:47 a.m. I sigh.
I crawl into bed. The sheets were cold at first—February in upstate New York does not play nice—but they warmed quickly. Thank god this apartment at least has really good heat.
My alarm went off at 6:00 a.m., and I lay there for a solid thirty seconds debating whether adulthood was really mandatory. Spoiler: it is. Rent doesn’t pay itself, and neither does my caffeine addiction. By the time I step into Maple Hollow Diner, the fryer is warming up, coffee brewing strong enough to wake the dead, and Jimmy is arguing with the ancient radio that only plays country or static.
“Morning, Ness,” he grunts.
“Define morning,” I mumble, tying my apron.
“I got a fresh pot coming up,” he chuckles, knowing how I hate conversation before my morning cup.
The bell above the door jingles at 7:32. am sharp. Mr. Harlan. Every day. Same seat. Same order.
“Coffee,” he says, lowering himself into the booth like gravity personally offended him.
“Here you go,” I reply, sliding a mug in front of him before he can complain.
By eight, the breakfast rush hit. Farmers. Truckers. Two moms with screaming toddlers who treated the sugar packets like confetti.
Rebecca rushes past me, whispering dramatically, “Guess who drove past this morning?”
“I don’t care,” I say automatically, pouring more coffee.
“The Alpha.”
I didn’t even look up. “Congratulations to him for knowing how to operate a vehicle.”
She huffs like I’d personally offended her romantic sensibilities and scurried off.
“Excuse me?”
“Yes?”
“These pancakes are too fluffy?” The man with his beer belly says. Since it was only Rebecca and me working, we didn’t bother with sections.
“Too... fluffy?” I blink.
“Yeah. They’re not dense enough.”
I blink slowly. “Sir, that’s how pancakes work.”
He stares at me. “I’ll get you a new plate.”
I told Jimmy, who tosses them in the microwave and back at me. I giggle. Around ten, a college kid complained that the Wi-Fi was slow. This is a diner in a town with two thousand people and one blinking traffic light. If you need high-speed internet, go to New York City.
I smiled instead. “I’ll let the internet know you’re disappointed.”
He didn’t catch the sarcasm.
By three, someone spilt syrup all over the counter. Sticky. Everywhere. Rebecca dropped a glass. Jimmy cursed. The fryer popped aggressively like it had opinions.
By 4 o’clock, the place went quiet again. Sunlight filtered through the front windows, catching dust particles floating lazily in the air. I wipe down the counter, staring out at the nearly empty street. Snow piled high along the sidewalks. One pickup truck drove past. Can’t wait for dinner rush.
“Same time tomorrow?” Jimmy teases as I untie my apron just as the last customer leaves.
“You know it.”
I clocked out, shoved my apron into my locker, and stepped back into the cold that bit at my face like it had beef with me. As soon as I got home, I went straight to bed. I started a new book, which was another steamy, raunchy mafia romance. This was about a woman who comforted a Don's son in a restaurant. She grew up with four younger brothers and a sister, and she knew what every cry meant. They got steamy real fast. From getting railed in a restaurant to a penthouse balcony.
The next morning, the second I pushed open the diner door, something felt off. The lights weren’t on. The coffee wasn’t brewing. Jimmy always turned the lights on and brewed the coffee because he’s always the first one here. Always. That man was powered by routine and caffeine. I stood there a second, letting the door close behind me.
I sniff the air. Even with my wolf dormant, I’m still a werewolf. My senses aren’t razor sharp like pack wolves, but they’re better than human. The diner smells the same. Grease soaked into the walls. Old coffee grounds. Lemon sanitiser pretending it makes a difference. Nothing metallic. No blood. Maybe he’s running late. I reach behind the counter, flip on the lights myself, and push the button on the coffee machine. It groans to life like it resented existing this early. That makes two of us. Then I head to the back to grab my apron. When I came out, I froze. Jimmy was sitting in one of the booths. Head down. Arms clasped tightly on the table. Shoulders hunched. And he smelled like piss. Not faint. Not “oh I didn’t make it to the bathroom in time.” Fear piss.
“Jimmy?”
He lifts his head slowly and forces a smile so stiff it looks painful. “Hey, Ness.” His voice was hoarse. Like he’d been crying. Or shouting. Or both.
“You good?”
For half a second—just a flicker—fear crosses his face. Real fear. The kind that sits in your bones.
“Yeah—yeah,” he says quickly. Too quickly. “I should get back there.”
He stands, and that’s when I notice the limp. Subtle. But there. He disappears into the kitchen without another word.
I stand there a moment longer.
I know when someone’s hiding something. And Jimmy? He is hiding something.
The morning rush hit. Mrs Delaney complained her toast was “too brown” again.
“It’s toasted, Mrs. Delaney.”
“Well, I prefer it less... enthusiastic.”
Jimmy remade it. Less enthusiastic.
Table three—a couple in matching camo jackets—argued for ten full minutes about whether deer season was technically over or just “spiritually over.”
A teenage boy tried to pay for a $7.82 breakfast with a ziplock bag of change.
“I counted it,” he insists.
He had not counted it correctly.
A tourist—yes, we occasionally get one—asked if we had almond milk.
I blink at him.
“This is Maple Hollow. We barely have regular milk.”
Rebecca drops a syrup bottle and somehow manages to step in it, leaving sticky footprints across the floor like a crime scene made of sugar.
Through all of it, Jimmy cooked.
Flipped burgers. Cracked eggs. Barked at the fryer like usual.
But every time the bell above the diner door rang? He flinched. Just slightly. Most people wouldn’t notice.
I did. Around noon, a guy in a thick black coat walked in. Not a regular. Too clean. Too alert. Jimmy went still in the kitchen. The guy ordered coffee. Sat in a booth. Watched. Didn’t smile. Didn’t talk. Left after ten minutes. Jimmy didn’t breathe normally again until the door shut behind him. The rest of the day crawled by.
More coffee refills. More complaints. One woman demanded we “turn down the smell of bacon.”
I stared at her.
“Ma’am... that’s just bacon.”
By closing time, the diner looked like it survived a minor war. Crumbs everywhere. Coffee rings on tables. A faint haze of fryer smoke clings to the air.
Jimmy avoids my eyes while wiping down the grill.
“You sure you’re good?” I ask quietly.
He forces that same tight smile. “Yeah.”
Bullshit. But I didn’t push. Rogue rule: they tell you when they’re ready.
Or they don’t. By the time I got home, my nerves felt like they’d been lightly sandpapered all day. Jimmy’s fear. The guy in the black coat. The flinching every time the bell rang. I told myself it was nothing. Small towns breed paranoia the same way they breed gossip. I locked my apartment door, double-checked it out of habit—not fear, just habit—and peeled off my jacket. The heat clicked on with a tired groan. I showered, scrubbing the smell of fryer grease out of my hair, then climbed straight into bed with my phone. Back to the mafia romance. At least fictional danger makes sense. There are rules. Clear villains. Clear stakes. Hot, morally questionable men who actually admit what they want. Real life? It just sits there and stares at you from a booth. I read until my eyes blurred. One chapter. Two. Three. The clock ticks, I blink 2:38 a.m.
I turn off the lamp and roll onto my side. The building creaks. Wind scrapes against the windows. Eventually, sleep took me.
When I walk into the diner, the lights are on this time. Coffee brewing. Jimmy behind the grill. He looks like shit. Dark circles under his eyes. Movements stiff. But he’s upright.
“Morning,” I say.
“Morning.”
No forced smile today. Just tired.
The bell jingles. Jimmy’s shoulders tighten. Just a regular. Old man Peterson and his newspaper.
Jimmy relaxes. The breakfast rush came hard and fast.
A woman complained her scrambled eggs were “too scrambled.”
A guy insists his bacon was “undercooked.”
A mom let her toddler dump sugar packets into the booth like it was a sandbox. Again. What is it with these toddlers and sugar packets.
I keep moving. Wiping. Pouring. Smiling just enough to earn tips. At ten, the lights flicker, and the Wi-Fi goes out. You would’ve thought civilization collapsed.
“It’s been spinning for five minutes!” some college kid whined.
“Try reading a book,” I suggest sweetly.
Rebecca snorted behind me. No one seems concerned about the lights; they were more worried about the damn WiFi. We were expecting a bad storm, but WIFI was the pressing matter. Humans. The bell dinged again. Jimmy froze.
I glance at the door. Same black coat guy from yesterday. My stomach tightens. He walks in like he owns the place. Calm. Controlled. Eyes scanning. He didn’t look at me. He looks at Jimmy. Jimmy drops a spatula. The sound cracks through the diner. Everyone looks up. Jimmy mutters something and bends to pick it up, his hands shaking just slightly.
I grab a coffee pot and walk over to the guy’s booth.
“What can I get you?” I ask with a flirty smile
“Coffee.” His voice was smooth. Too smooth, and he is handsome. Like I would let him bend me over this table and rail me till neither of us can remember our name. And judging by his Rolex, he was rich. I poured it. Close enough to catch his scent.
Human. He didn’t thank me. He just watched the kitchen. Watched Jimmy.
Stayed ten minutes. Left again.
The second the door shut, Jimmy sagged like someone cut his strings.
I walk into the kitchen, the smell of grease and overworked oil thick in the air.
“You want to tell me what the hell that is?”
Jimmy didn’t look at me. He kept scrubbing the grill like it personally offended him.
“Just a guy.”
“Bullshit.”
The word came out flat. Not loud. Just certain. He swallowed. I saw it in the tight movement of his throat.
“Some things don’t stay buried, Ness.” He finally glances at me, eyes tired in a way that wasn’t just from lack of sleep. “Daisy’s coming back tomorrow instead of next week, so you don’t have to come in early if you don’t want to.”
That wasn’t an answer.
“Is there anything I can do?”
He waves me off without meeting my eyes. “Don’t worry about me. I can take care of myself.” A pause. “Now get.”
In other words, stay out of it. I hold his stare for a second longer, then turn and walk back out front. Fine. His mess. His secrets. The rest of the day drags its feet like it didn’t want to be there either.
Mrs Delaney found a new personality trait to complain about—apparently, the air felt “too cold near table five.”
It’s February in upstate New York. The air is cold everywhere.
A trucker snaps at Rebecca because his hash browns are “too crispy.” Jimmy remade them without a word, jaw tight. Then Rebecca squeezes a ketchup bottle too hard, and it explodes against the wall behind the counter. Red splatter everywhere. For half a second, the entire diner went silent.
Then I said, “Well. That’s festive.”
She looked horrified. Jimmy actually laughed—short and rough—but it broke some of the tension.
By late afternoon, the sky outside had shifted. I glance through the window. Clouds were rolling in from the west—thick, low, heavy. Not soft snowfall clouds. These were dense. Angry.
“Storm’s coming,” Jimmy says behind me.
“Yeah. No kidding.”
The wind picks up first. It rattles the front windows, sending loose snow spiralling across the empty street. The temperature drops fast—like the air got sucked out and replaced with knives. Then the snow hit. Not gentle flakes. Hard. Fast. Sideways. Within minutes, visibility drops to almost nothing. The blinking traffic light at the end of the street disappears behind a white curtain. The radio crackles with a weather alert. A storm sweeping down from Canada, pushing off Lake Ontario and barreling straight through our little nowhere town.
“Alright,” Jimmy says, wiping his hands on a towel. “We’re closing early.”
Chapter 3: Nessa
No one argues. The two remaining customers practically run for the door.
We lock up fast. Lights off. Chairs flipped. Register counted. The wind outside didn’t howl — it hunted.
I step into it and instantly reconsider every life choice that had led me to this exact moment. The snow didn’t fall softly and pretty like in Christmas movies. No. It attacked. Tiny frozen needles pelting my face, sneaking down my collar, finding places snow has absolutely no business being.
The wind slams into me so hard I have to lean forward just to move. It wasn’t blowing past — it was pushing, shoving, daring me to try harder. The storm wasn’t coming. It was already here. And it was pissed. I sprint to toss the trash and nearly lose a finger to frostbite for my efforts. When I run back and grab the back door handle—
It didn’t budge. You have got to be kidding me. I shove it. Yank it. Slam my shoulder into it. Nothing.
“Open!” I shout, banging hard enough to rattle the frame. “I swear to God if you idiots left me out here!
No answer. Just wind screaming in my ears. I was not about to freeze my tits off behind a diner because of a jammed door. So I did the only logical thing. I walk around. Halfway there, my eyelashes are crusted with ice and I couldn’t feel my nose. By the time I reach the front, my fingers are numb and my temper is nuclear.
I shove the front door.
Locked.
“For fuck’s sake.”
Thank God I still had my keys stuffed in my apron pocket. I fumble them out with shaky fingers, nearly dropping them twice, finally jamming the right one into the lock. The door swings open and I throw myself inside, slamming it shut behind me.
“What the fuck? First, the back door jams and now the front door was—” My words die in my throat.
At the back of the diner, under the flickering fluorescent light, were three men. Massive didn’t even begin to cover it. They were fucking huge. Off-white trench coats draped over broad shoulders, the fabric dusted with melting snow — probably to blend in with the storm. Not that anything about them could ever blend in anywhere. They weren’t just tall — they were imposing. The kind of men who made the room feel smaller simply by existing in it, and for a split second — just a flicker — I swear their eyes widened. Either my brain is glitching from the cold ... Or they did not expect me. Didn’t they hear all the banging?
The first one sat like he owned the damn town. Long legs stretched out just enough to be lazy about it, one arm draped along the back of the booth like the vinyl was custom-made for his brooding ass. Dark brown hair, short and perfectly styled — not a strand out of place, which is honestly rude considering the snowstorm was trying to exfoliate my face off.
His face is unfair. Sharp cheekbones, a jawline that could probably slice open envelopes, and that controlled, unreadable expression that screams I kill things for a living and look good doing it.
But his eyes. Ice-grey. Not soft grey. Not stormy grey. Frozen-lake-you-fall-through-and-die grey. They didn’t just look at you — they stripped you down, catalogued your sins, and judged you for the dirty ones. Cold. Precise. Absolutely merciless.
The second one leans back against the wall like this was a casual Tuesday night. Relaxed posture. Crossed arms. One boot propped slightly behind him. Except nothing about him was actually relaxed. His blonde hair was tousled in that effortless, run-your-hands-through-it way — sun-kissed streaks catching the overhead light like he belonged on a magazine cover titled ‘How to Ruin Your Life in 10 Seconds or Less’. It was almost unfair how good-looking he was. Then his gaze lifted.
And the pretty illusion shattered.
His eyes weren’t some soft rom-com blue. They were deep navy. Dark. Heavy. Like the ocean at midnight when you can’t see the bottom, and you definitely shouldn’t be swimming. Not bright. Not warm. Just endless. The kind of blue that swallows ships whole and doesn’t apologise for it. There was heat in them, though.
Not kindness.
Not desire.
Intensity.
Then there was the last one.
He didn’t sit.
He didn’t lean.
He just stood there — slightly behind the others — silent and still in a way that made my skin prickle. Black hair brushes his shoulders in loose waves, framing a face that was criminally perfect. High cheekbones. Full mouth. Strong nose. The kind of face artists would ruin trying to capture.
And his eyes...
Chocolate brown. So dark they look black in the low light. Rich. Deep. Almost warm at first glance — like melted dark chocolate you’d be stupid enough to touch before realising it burns. Because there was no softness in them. Only calculation. His stare didn’t skim over me.
It settled.
Not curiosity.
Not assessment..
Like he wasn’t wondering who I was.
Like he was deciding what I was.
They were beautiful. In the way wildfires are beautiful — bright and devastating and guaranteed to leave nothing standing. In the way cliffs are beautiful right before you slip.
And the worst part? My traitorous brain still had the audacity to think:
Well. If I’m going to die, at least it’s to something hot. I was freezing before now, I think I’m overheating, and my pussy is sending smoke signals. Something is horribly wrong with me.
“Kitchen’s closed.”
Ice-grey’s lips twitched. “Well,” he says smoothly, voice sexy, deep and controlled, “good thing we’re not here for the food.”
“Let them go,” Jimmy says.
Only then do I actually see them.
Jimmy and Rebecca are on their knees by the window. The three giants stand around them like walls with heartbeats.
Oh.
Oh.
The door didn’t jam by accident. Jimmy jammed it. He was trying to keep me out. He was trying to save me. A tight, ugly knot forms in my chest because they look at me, terrified, helpless. Then it hit me. Why they look like they seen a ghost, or rather three.
The men surrounding them aren’t even men.
Nor wolves.
Worse. Lycans. It took me a second too long to realise that.
Rare. Immortal. Violent, deadly creatures. The kind of creatures whispered about in the same tone people use for natural disasters. There are only a handful in the world, which is fantastic news for humanity because one is already too many. Three is just showing off. I glance toward the window. The storm has worsened. Snow slams sideways across the glass, wind shrieking down the empty street like it’s trying to peel the building apart.
So options. Die outside — slow, frozen, dramatic.
Or die inside — fast, ripped apart by mythological sexy, muscular beasts. I weigh it seriously. Freezing is painful, but at least it’s predictable. Hot as fuck Lycans are unpredictable, likely messy. I look back at them.
They’re all watching me.
Not lunging.
Not speaking.
Just... waiting.
Like I’m the one holding the power here. Which is insulting, honestly.
If this were one of the books I read at night — the ones with brooding immortals and “touch her and die” energy — this is where the reveal would happen. Cue the dramatic fucking music. Turns out I’m the long-lost something. The rare bloodline. The forbidden mate. The girl who smells like destiny and bad decisions. One of them would step forward. Probably Ice-Grey Eyes. He’d tilt his head and murmur something cryptic like, “You have no idea what you are.”
Navy-Blue would smirk like he’s already claimed me.
Chocolate-Brown would just stare, intense and silent, because the quiet ones are always the worst.
And I’d be the main character. The innocent, untouched, secretly powerful girl who trips into supernatural chaos and somehow survives because fate said so.
Yeah.
No.
Let’s review reality. I work double shifts at a diner. I have student debt. I once cried over a broken coffee machine. I am not the chosen one. In stories like that, I’m the extra. The waitress in chapter two who gets killed off to show how dangerous the immortal hot guys are, before they meet their real mate. I’m the slutty one. The “this is what happens if you’re in the wrong place at the wrong time” girl. So the choice is obvious.
Freezing.
At least the storm doesn’t stare at you like it’s deciding where to bite first or rip your limbs off.
I take one step toward the door.
“Don’t.”
The one with the deep navy-blue eyes says it softly, but it lands like a command. Not loud. Not panicked.
Certain.
“You won’t make it far.”
His gaze flicks to the window, then back to me — not mocking. And that’s the part that unsettles me.
Because he doesn’t sound like he’s threatening me. He sounds like he’s stating a fact.
“I wouldn’t know if I don’t try,” I say.
Even though I am approximately two seconds away from peeing myself.
The one with the ice-grey eyes tilts his head slightly. “Aye,” he says.
And says nothing else.
That’s it.
One vague-ass syllable.
There’s the faintest edge of an accent wrapped around the word. Subtle. Controlled. The kind authors would absolutely overuse. His eyes never leave mine. Of course they don’t.
Classic trope. Hot, deadly immortal with a voice like sin and winter. Add in the accent for dramatic effect. You genuinely can’t make this shit up.
In a book, this is where tension stretches. Where he’d step forward slowly. Where he’d say something layered and cryptic about fate or blood or how long he’s waited.
It happens so fast my brain refuses to process it. The one with the chocolate-dark eyes moves. There’s no dramatic wind-up. No growl. No transformation. He’s just suddenly there. A blur. A shift of air. A sickening crack. Her head sits at an angle that heads are not meant to sit. Then she slowly falls to the ground.
My stomach flips violently. As I slam my hand over my mouth to stop the scream from escaping. I was too afraid that it would annoy them further, and I would have ended up like Rebeca.
It’s official, this is the opening chapter massacre. This is where the author proves the immortals are ruthless. This is where the extra dies to set the tone. The storm howls outside like applause. Jimmy’s jaw is tight, fist clenched as he too holds back his scream and tears. And the three fuckers were still looking back at me.
Not angry.
Watching.
Waiting.
Like they’re still curious what I’m going to choose. I don’t run. I don’t scream. Because Rebecca was the point. They took her life to make a fucking point. My jaw clenches. I grab one of the metal chairs from the counter and sit down. Because apparently I’ve decided if I’m going to die, I’m going to do it seated.
My hands are shaking so hard they rattle against the metal frame. I tuck them between my knees to hide them.
They stare at me for a moment longer. Then their attention shifts back to Jimmy.
The ice-grey one steps forward slightly. Not rushed. Not angry. Just inevitable.
“You know why we are here?” he asks.
His voice is calm. Almost conversational. Like this is a business meeting and not a crime scene.
Jimmy nods. He drags in a few uneven breaths, shoulders trembling. He opens his mouth—
“Lie,” the one with the dark chocolate eyes says softly, “and we will start removing her limbs.”
The words land gently. Which somehow makes them worse. What. The. Actual. Fuck. Everything inside me goes cold and buzzing at the same time. My heart slams against my ribs so hard I swear they can see it through my chest.
Jimmy squeezes his eyes shut.
“I buried it,” he whispers.
Silence.
“Where?” Ice-grey asks.
“The old mine.”
I don’t look. I can’t. Because I know what follows. I clench my eyes shut like maybe I can hide there. Maybe if I don’t see it, my brain won’t record it.
Crack.
Jimmy’s body hits the floor a second later. My stomach twists violently, but nothing comes up. My body is in shock. Frozen. Floating somewhere above itself.
Now it’s my turn.
I feel them move.
Not hear.
Feel.
They aren’t just men. They are dominant alpha-level lycans. The air shifts. Their Alpha dominance energy floods the room. Subconsciously, my instincts activate. My wolf stirs out of recognition. These are leaders. These are apex predators. And she wakes up not to protect me or help me but because dominance triggers hierarchy awareness.
I don’t know what they’re waiting for.
Permission?
A confession I don’t have?
“Can you hurry it up?” My voice comes out thinner than I want, but it doesn’t break. “All this waiting is giving me anxiety.”
Silence. No laughter. No threat. Nothing. That’s worse.
After a second too long, I force my eyes open and turn slowly in the chair. They’re standing a few feet behind me.
Not touching.
Not looming.
Just watching.
But their bodies are tense. Shoulders tight beneath their white coats. Hands flexing slightly at their sides. Like they’re holding themselves back from something. Their stares aren’t casual anymore.
They’re locked. On me. Not the way predators look at prey right before the kill. Something else. Something heavier. And that’s when it really starts to feel creepy. Because if they were going to kill me... They would have already done it. Right? The silence stretches so long it starts to itch under my skin. Ice-grey steps closer. Not fast. Not threatening. Slow.
But I still flinch as if he slapped me.
His gaze drags over my face, forehead, eyes, nose, and mouth, cataloguing me like he’s comparing me to something only he can see.
A memory.
A ghost.
His next murder Victim.
His jaw tightens.
Navy-blue says more so to himself. “Haven’t seen one of them in a while.”
A rogue? You bastards literally just killed two of them. Jimmy has been working behind the grill for 10 years. Rebecca, four. We never talk about our past Rogue rule. Never ask why or what pack you came from. Jimmy and Rebecca were the only two rogues I talked to. Even though we only work together and never hang out or anything, they were the closest things to friends that I had. Chocolate eye is staring like he can’t wait to get rid of me.
“The mine,” ice says. “You will take us.”
“It’s down the road,” I stutter. “You literally can’t miss it.”
Three identical glares.
Right.
“I’ll just, you know... grab my coat.”
Chapter 4: Nessa
“It’s down the road,” I stutter. “You literally can’t miss it.”
Three identical glares.
Right.
“I’ll just, you know... grab my coat.”
I push myself up from the chair on slightly shaky legs. My knees feel like jelly, but I refuse to fall in front of them. None of them moves. They just watch me. Like I’m about to vanish into thin air.
“I’m not running,” I say dryly. “You’ve got super speed and murder vibes. I’m aware I won’t make it five steps.”
I head toward the back anyway, hyperaware of them tracking every step like I’m the last rabbit in winter. My brain is screaming. My heart is punching my ribs. I know what this is. I’m collateral damage. Loose end. Witness. The girl who happened to clock in at the wrong time. I’m not leaving that mine, and even though I don’t talk to my sister or my parents. I guess... I still would’ve liked to say goodbye.
Or.
Option B: I run and let them kill me here, in the diner, next to the only two people I could actually call friends. Rebecca, gossip queen, dramatic as hell, probably narrating her own death in heaven right now. Jimmy is grumpy but sweet and apparently willing to die trying to keep me out of this mess.
“You really want to do that?”
I physically cringe. His voice is ridiculous. Deep. Smooth. The kind of voice that should come with a warning label. It slides down my spine and settles low in my stomach like it pays fucking rent there. I grab my coat and turn. Blondie — Navy Blue Ocean-of-Doom eyes — is standing by the door, blocking it like a tall, lethal coat rack.
“I was weighing my options,” I tell him. “Die alone in a mine or here with my friends. You know. Pros and cons.”
He studies me for a second, actually considering it. Then he nods. “A quick death in the mine,” he says calmly, “or an excruciating one here. One that would make you beg for it,” he says it like we’re discussing tomorrow’s weather forecast.
Meanwhile, my dumbass was still hung up on the way he said “beg for it.” We were still talking about murder, right? What the fuck is wrong with me? I shove the thought down fast and pretend I didn’t see the corner of his mouth twitch — like he somehow heard the disturbing mess in my head. Cool. Love being verbally threatened by a man who looks like a Viking god with anger issues. I shrug into my coat. Because what else am I supposed to do? Cry? Faint dramatically? Ask for a group hug? I stand there waiting for him to move first.
He doesn’t. Instead, his gaze pins me in place. “What were you thinking about?” he asks, voice low — controlled — like he already knows the answer.
I swallow.
“That my death would be quick,” I lie smoothly.
We both know it’s bullshit. His eyes narrow slightly.
“Liar.”
I roll my eyes. “You asked. I answered. Not my fault you don’t like the honesty.”
He takes one slow step closer. “Try again.”
My heart thuds harder — traitor.
“Fine.” I cross my arms, forcing confidence I absolutely do not feel or have. “I was thinking that if you actually wanted me dead, you wouldn’t keep talking about it like it’s foreplay.”
Silence. His jaw tightens. “Careful.”
I tilt my head, pretending boredom. “Or what? You’ll threaten me again?”
His gaze drops to my mouth for half a second — deliberate — before meeting my eyes. My stomach flips. God. I hate that my body reacts before my brain can protest. He steps aside, careful not to touch me. Did I smell or something? I want to glare. I want to tell him to choke on his own superiority.
Instead, I listen to my survival instincts for once in my life. Don’t mouth off to the serial killer lycans.
Noted.
As I walk past him, something finally clicks in my brain. There’s no scent. Nothing. They’re masking it. Another perk of being an ancient, immortal murder machine. Now would also be a great time to admit I should’ve paid attention in pack training instead of using it as a social club. But nooo. Teenage me was far too busy flirting with anything that had an Alpha rank and a pulse. Very educational. Zero notes retained. Then we got ourselves dramatically exiled — blacklisted — and I traded pack politics for human college debt and cafeteria coffee. So yeah. My knowledge of lycans? Surface level at best. Wikipedia summary energy. And now I’m standing here trying to outthink creatures who’ve been alive since before indoor plumbing. I step toward the door, painfully aware of three silent shadows falling in behind me. If this were one of those stories I read, this would be the part where the “dangerous but secretly obsessed immortals” realise I’m their mate. He would be jealous and wouldn’t want the others standing near me. Instead, I’m the extra. The background waitress, the author spends maybe two paragraphs describing before killing her off to show how dangerous the hot immortals are.
“The girl barely had time to scream before darkness claimed her.”
Boom. Dead. Page turned. Meanwhile, the real heroine enters in chapter three smelling like destiny with a mouth-watering scent that drives their lycan mad with lust. And I bet she’s human. I push open the door and step straight into the storm. Parked out front is a white Hummer. It blends into the snow like a tactical marshmallow. Chocolate Eyes opens the front passenger door for me.
Guess I’m riding Shotgun.
“Wow. First time in a Hummer and it’s a kidnapping,” I mumble.
No one laughs. Ice-Grey eyes slide into the driver’s seat. Blondie and Chocolate eyes get in the back. The doors shut. The engine rumbles to life. Ice-grey eyes look at me.
Oh. Right. “Take a right at the light and then just drive straight,” I say. “You can’t miss it. It’s the creepy abandoned mine. Very on theme for you guys,” I whisper the ending, but I’m pretty sure they heard it, judging by the glares.
We pull away from the diner. And then— BOOM. The entire building erupts behind us. Flames explode outward, lighting up the storm in violent orange. The shockwave rattles the windows.
“What the actual fuck?!” I twist in my seat, staring at the inferno. “Was that necessary? What if someone— what if they can’t find their bodies?”
“That’s the point,” Blondie snorts from the back.
I glare at him. “That’s horrible. They have family.”
“They’re rogues,” Ice-grey eyes says calmly, eyes never leaving the road. “They have no family.”
The words hit harder than the explosion. He’s not technically wrong.
When a wolf goes rogue, they’re exiled. Cut off. Dead to the pack. Dead to their bloodline. Still. Doesn’t mean no one cared. I clamp my mouth shut because absolutely nothing I’m about to say would improve my life expectancy. And I have zero interest in pissing off three immortal bloodthirsty monsters in a moving vehicle. We pull up in front of the mine faster than I expect. Dark entrance. Snow whipping sideways. Perfect horror movie setting. Before I can even process what’s happening, Ice-grey eyes reaches over— click. Cold metal snaps around my wrist. And then the other end locks around the steering wheel. I stare down at the handcuffs. Then up at him.
“You’ve got to be fucking kidding me.” I yank at the cuffs. Solid. Unmoving. “There is literally nowhere for me to run,” I snap. “And even if I did, I’d freeze to death before I found help.”
“No one can help you,” Ice says evenly. “Not from us.”
I glare at him. “Why? Because you’re the devil incarnate?”
He studies me like he’s debating whether I’m brave or just terminally stupid. His lips twitch — not quite a smile.
“Worse,” he says calmly. “We’re the monsters they send when the devil misbehaves.”
I blink.
“...Okay, that was annoyingly hot,” I mutter before I can stop myself.
Fuck me. I cringe.
Blondie huffs a quiet laugh from the back. Ice-grey eyes flash — something dark and unreadable. Chocolate eyes, jaw tight.
“Stay,” Ice-grey eyes order.
I look down at the cuffs. Look at the storm. “Yeah,” I deadpan. “Because I was totally about to sprint into a blizzard in handcuffs. Genius plan.”
Chocolate eyes gaze meet mine through the rearview mirror. And for a second—Just a second— There’s something there. Not amusement. Not cruelty. Recognition. Like, I’m not supposed to be sitting in this seat. Like something about this is very, very wrong.
“I would be quiet,” Ice-grey eyes says. “Before I cuff you to a hook instead.”
I clench my jaw shut and glare. The three of them step out into the storm. And I’m left handcuffed to a steering wheel, watching immortal psychopaths walk into the mine. If this were a book? This is where the extra dies off-screen. But for some reason... They’re still keeping me alive. The storm rolls in thick and violent, swallowing the mine in white. Snow slams sideways against the windshield, wind howling. They don’t look back. Why would they? I’m handcuffed to the steering wheel of a locked Hummer in the middle of nowhere during a snowstorm. Very cinematic. Very, “she didn’t make it.” I flex my wrist once. The metal bites.
“Alright,” I say, breath fogging the glass. “Think.”
The keys are gone. I glance around the interior. Dashboard. Analogue speedometer. Old-school ignition column. No push-button start. No digital console.
I freeze.
Wait.
This isn’t new. The seats and everything look brand new, but the radio isn’t touchscreen. The ignition housing is the older GM style. Thick plastic column. Manual tilt lever. And then it clicks. This is an early 2000s model. Not 2015. Not 2020. No smart key. No proximity fob. No modern encrypted start system. My heart jumps.
“No fucking way,” I whisper, can’t believe my luck.
It’s old enough. Old enough to bypass. I lean down awkwardly, cuffed wrist limiting movement, and start prying at the lower steering column panel with my free hand. Plastic snaps. The cover drops. Wires. Colour-coded. Primitive. Beautiful. Outside, snow thickens. Visibility dropping. Wind screaming. Inside, my pulse steadies. Early 2000s GM trucks use Passlock II. Which means if the ignition cylinder doesn’t detect the right resistance from the key chip, it might kill fuel injection. Might. But in extreme cold? Systems glitch. Voltage drops. Sensors lag. And this storm is brutal. I strip the insulation with my teeth, fingers shaking — not from fear. From adrenaline. Red wire. Yellow wire. Ignition and battery. I twist. Spark. The dash flickers to life. I freeze. No movement from the mine. Good. I twist again — tighter. The engine coughs. Stalls.
“Come on...”
I try again. Twist. Spark. The engine turns over. And this time it catches, a low rumble. I don’t celebrate, not yet anyway. I throw it into drive immediately. The steering wheel jerks hard against the cuff as the truck lurches forward. Snow makes traction slippery, but it also muffles sound. The truck fishtails as I steer as much as the cuff allows. I don’t take the main path. Too obvious. I cut toward the tree line. The storm is my cover. Whiteout conditions. Even Lycans can’t track well when the scent is frozen, and the wind is this aggressive. I think. The tyres struggle for grip. The truck bucks over uneven terrain. Behind me, at the mine entrance, three massive silhouettes. They see it. They see me. One of them shifts instantly. Even from this distance, I feel the vibration in my bones. I slam the gas harder. Snow sprays. The truck ploughs forward into the forest road just as visibility drops to almost nothing. Branches whip across the windshield. The world turns white and chaotic. Perfect. I don’t look back. Not at them. I pulled into a park and parked the hammer, hoping it would disappear under the snow. My fingers are shaking so badly that I can barely work the pin from my hair clip into the cuff lock. It takes three tries. Four. I almost laugh at one point because, of course, I survive professional killers only to lose to cheap hardware. The cuff finally clicks open. The sound is small. Freedom shouldn’t sound that small. I don’t let myself think. I start walking. Then jogging. Then stumbling through snow that soaks through my boots until my toes go numb. When I see the headlights of a snowplough crawling down the side road, I wave like a lunatic. The driver barely looks at me. Just jerks his chin and lets me climb up. I don’t remember the ride back to town. I just remember staring at my hands the whole time. They won’t stop shaking.
The second I get home, everything unravels. The door barely closes behind me before I’m moving — fast, frantic. I yank a duffel bag out of the closet and start throwing things in. Jeans. Shirts. Toothbrush. Charger. I don’t even check what I’m grabbing. I just need to move. If I stop moving, I’ll think. The adrenaline that carried me here begins to drain out of my system like someone pulled a plug. It leaves me hollow. I drop the shirt in my hand. The bag slips off the bed. And suddenly, I can’t hold myself up anymore. I sit down hard on the edge of the bed. My hands are still shaking. Not delicate trembling. Violent. Uncontrollable. My throat burns. My chest aches. And then it hits me. I almost died. The first sob rips out of me before I can stop it. Ugly. Broken. I fold forward and bury my face into my pillow like I can smother the sound. My shoulders shake. My lungs stutter. Tears soak through the fabric almost instantly.
I’m not a big crier.
I don’t fall apart.
I don’t lose it.
But given tonight’s events, I think I deserved it. I cry until my head pounds and my chest feels raw. Until the fear bleeds out enough that I can breathe without gasping. Eventually, the sobs turn into shaky inhales. Then silence. I roll onto my back and stare at the ceiling. Okay. Think. Rational. Coming back here was stupid. Reckless. If he wanted to find me, this would be the first place they’d look. But what was my option? Run into the woods? Freeze? Knock on a stranger’s door covered in snow and terror? They probably won’t expect me to come back here. That’s the only thing I have going for me. Unpredictable. Stupid enough to circle back. My laugh comes out weak and cracked. I can’t stay here. That much is certain. My apartment doesn’t feel like mine anymore. Every shadow looks taller. Every sound makes my heart jump, and the air feels thinner somehow.