Layla rolled her eyes. “You’re ridiculous.”
“No, you are,” Maddie hopped down from the counter, snagging another vase to help. “The man’s an absolutedreamboat. All dark menace and muscles and jawline. Brooding works for him.”
Layla made a face, arranging wildflowers into a small ceramic pot. The flowers hung a bit limp, the cold of the Alaskan autumn wilting them too soon. She whispered a word under her breath, careful to shield the vase from Maddie’s view. Instantly, they perked up, vibrant color bleeding over the dull edges, the bright green leaves brimming and spilling over the sides. She couldn’t help her small smile. “Brooding is just…bad communication. Also, he’s not a man. He’s a male.”
“So? What’s the difference?”
Layla sighed, “His manners, for one.”
“Come on, he can’t be that bad. Not when he looks sogood.” Maddie giggled. “So why didn’t you go? The whole pack was there.”
Layla finally put the vase down and turned to look at her best friend. “How do you know? No offense, but you’re human. You shouldn’t even know about the pack. About shifters.”
Maddie shrugged. “You know, Dad keeps informed of this sort of stuff. He had extra police out on patrol just in case things got frisky like they did last winter. Ooh, those flowers look nice!”
“Thanks. And that wasn’t the Volkhov,” Layla said, “it was the Nordan.”
“Same difference.”
“No. It really isn’t.”
“Whatever,” Maddie said, “dodge my questions all you like.”
“I’m not…that’s not…look, it’s not that deep, Maddie.”
Maddie raised an eyebrow, and Layla exhaled, pushing her hair back from her face. “I just didn’t want to be around a bunch of obnoxious drunk alphas, alright?”
Maddie held her hands up in defeat. “Alright, alright. Just…” she paused, biting her lip as she searched for the right words, “just remember, I’m here, okay? I know I might not fully understand this stuff, but…I’m here for you. And whatever happened between you and the Volkhov,”—she held a hand up as Layla started to protest—“no, don’t argue, I know you too well, I knowsomethinghappened. I’m not going to pry. I just want you to be happy, Layla. And it seemsunhappythat you’re so distant from your pack.”
Layla huffed out a bitter laugh. “Trust me, it’s the healthiest choice I’ve ever made.”
Deep in her chest, that old wound ached. She swallowed down the pain.
Maddie didn’t look convinced, but she seemed reluctant to push the point any further. Instead, she pulled Layla into a hug before brushing off her jeans. “Right! Cressida Hart! Where did you put the boxes? I’m about to make the most beautiful display you’ve ever seen in your life!”
Layla’s laughter came easy, and she was grateful for it. The bookshop was her haven, a shelter she’d built for herself brick by brick. Nobody criticized her here. Nobody insulted her for everything she wasn’t. It was just quiet work, good books, and the hum of human normalcy around her. Her little apartment lay up the creaky stairs at the back, covered in homemade blankets and photos and warmth.
It was a small life, by all accounts, but it was hers.
The bell over the door jingled softly as the first of the morning crowd trickled in, two elderly women who came every week to gossip under the pretense of buying a nonfiction book for the history club before inevitably drifting over to the romance section. Layla greeted them with a smile, hiding her laugh as their hungry eyes tracked Maddie unpacking the Cressida Hart books.
For a while, it was almost easy to forget last night’s music, the laughter that had spilled down from The Anchor like thunder. The pack’s world felt far away here, muffled by walls of books and human chatter.
And then the door handle turned.
Layla’s heartbeat stumbled once, twice. The bell above the door gave a bright, deceptive chime.
The door opened.
A tall man stepped in from the cold, framed by a spill of pale light and frigid air. The world seemed to narrow around him, pausing as if holding its breath.
Julian Rook stepped inside.
He closed the door with unhurried precision, the sound too neat. His coat, black and travel-stained, carried a trace of rain and the metallic scent of the road. His eyes, dark, fathomless, swept the room once, taking in everything, then came to rest on Layla.
For a heartbeat, she forgot to breathe.
She knew who he was, of course. Everyone did. And everyone had a different story. Bastard son of the Russian Tsar Pack Alpha, some said. Exiled follower of Lunarion, others whispered. His nose was slightly too big for his face, his fingers too long, his eyes too sharp. Some called him a demon givenshifter form, and said that one day, the devil would call back his most trusted servant.
