I ran my fingertips over the dusty counter, drawing a line through years of abandonment.
Behind me, Rafael said nothing. I knew he was watching me. He always did, like he was waiting for the moment I broke and asked to go back. But he never pushed. He just… stood with me.
And it was a lot of work. So much more than I ever thought. Fixing this place up. Trying to make something worth staying for.
And what if the town hated our food? What if all they saw were scars and teeth and old blood?
What if my father had been right? What if all I was good for was killing? But I had to try. I turned, straightening my shoulders, and met Rafael’s gaze.
“Let’s go,” I said.
The festival was in full swing by the time Rafael and I stepped onto Main Street.
Sugarpaw Springs had dressed itself in bright bunting and paper lanterns, the scent of kettle corn and grilled meat thick in the air.
Kids laughed, vendors shouted, and music pulsed from somewhere near the town square. And yet, when we walked past, the atmosphere shifted. It always did.
I saw the way people looked at us. Like we were dogs off leash. Scarred. Too big. Too quiet. Too bearish. A mother gently tugged her son closer when we passed.
A man selling wood-carved flutes stopped mid-spiel to watch us walk by, eyes narrowed, mouth a tight line. I caught the muttered words. “Bunch of brutes.”
I tried to ignore it.
Tried to focus on the scent of cinnamon and sugar, the warmth of the sun on my shoulders, the way Rafael’s boots thudded solid and steady beside me. But it was hard.
We were used to being watched like this, but not by civilians. And not when we were trying to do something good.
Rafael’s shoulders went rigid beside me. His eyes locked on the flute guy, who was still staring.
“What the hell are you looking at?” Rafael growled, voice sharp and low.
The man flinched, then turned away, pretending to fix his display.
I grabbed Rafael’s arm, fingers wrapping tight.
“Enough,” I said, voice firmer than I meant.
His head whipped toward me, and for a split second, I saw the heat in his eyes. But then my tone hit him. The weight of it. The command.Alpha voice.
I released him like I’d touched fire. Guilt cracked across my chest. “Sorry.”
But Rafael just blinked and let out a breath. “No need,” he muttered. “I was being a jerk.”
“You were being protective,” I said quietly. “But the people here, they’re not used to us. Not yet.”
He grunted. “They’re used to the wolves.”
I followed his gaze to a sleek, polished booth trimmed with forest green banners.Wolf and Whisk, painted in neat, hand-lettered cursive.
A long table lined with immaculate cupcakes, tarts, and tiny jars of what looked like strawberry preserves. The line in front of it was steady. Easy.
“They’ve been here longer,” I said. “They’ve had time to prove themselves.”
“Or they’ve just had better manners,” Rafael muttered.
I didn’t respond. Because maybe he wasn’t wrong.
Our eyes caught Callum’s. He was tall and muscular, all smooth posture and the calm confidence of someone who knew his place here. The lead alpha of the wolf pack that ran Wolf and Whisk.
