The tension between us, the tension she doesn’t even understand, is razor-thin. One slip and blood will spill, seeping into my skin, sinking into my veins, staining my very fucking soul.
Her soft moan is barely audible, but I hear it. Ifeel it.
The sound licks through me like wildfire.
Fuck yes, little lupine.
Moan for your dark monster.
You don’t even know I’m here, and you’re already reacting to me. Already mine.
I could break. I won’t. But, fuck, I love the way she shivers.
I brush my shadow against the shell of her ear, the closest I’ll allow myself to anything real right now.
My voice drifts into her subconscious, a secret that will carve itself into her bones, lingering there like a ghost she can’t shake.
“I’ll see you soon, little lupine.”
Aurora
I don’t know why I let Eve drag me to the bar. She thrives in places like this. Everyone in the room practically drools when she walks by, and honestly, if she weren’t basically my sister, I’d be right there with them.
And then there’s me, drink in hand, quietly manifesting a reading nook while the entire bar loses their minds.
But by some weird twist of fate, the night throws me a bone. Thane, the manager—and only employee—of the bookshop I’m eager to visit, is here and invites us to join him.
Eve and Thane don’t really know each other, just small-town nods and an occasional hello. But there’s this connection between them that crackles beneath the surface, like static begging to spark.
Learning about the online bookstore Thane built from the ground up was the highlight of the evening. When I started questioning him about how he managed to put everythingtogether, he offered to walk me through his process and business plan tomorrow afternoon.
Insert happy dance here!
Maybe I can convince Thane to show me around, too.
I keep telling myself it’s curiosity, that I just want to see the shop up close. But there’s something else pulling me toward it. Like I’ve been there before, somewhere in the space between waking and sleep. It’s ancient, star-sparked, and way too intimate for a place I’ve never stepped foot in.
I can’t get over the feeling that something unseen is waiting for me.
Watching me.
Wanting me.
And no matter how many jokes I crack or anime crushes I stack between me and that feeling, it’s still there, running its fingertips down my throat and whispering my name.
I pretend not to notice the way it lingers.
After a while, something shifts between Eve and Thane.
The smiles linger. The laughter slips into something softer, more personal. Their knees brush, and I brace for the inevitable frenzied make-out session.
The look they share confirms it. I’m officially the third wheel. Again. It happens every time we go out, so I let my mind drift.
The Cardinal radiates 1980s cigarette-mom energy—wood paneled walls, the lingering scent of Virginia Slims, and plastic covered cushions in shades of brown, mustard, and a red so faded it probably saw Reagan’s first term. Decades of smoke and tar cling to every surface, and the vinyl seats stick to the backs of my legs, which somehow only adds to its backwoods charm.
The place is falling apart, but somehow it’s packed most nights. Then again, it’s the only bar in a twenty-mile radius that hasn’t exploded thanks to a meth lab in the basement.
So, you know. Loyalty.
