Useless Mate

The Cold Spark

The revelation hung in the flour-dusted air of the kitchen for days. Lazelle didn’t change her routine, but her senses went on high alert. Dalonius Lacoste. She had heard the name whispered in the shadows of the Lycan underworld long before she fled Europe. He was known as a ghost—a cold, terrifyingly efficient tactician who had taken over the Italian syndicate at a remarkably young age and ruled it with an iron fist.

And now, she was baking bread for his mother.

Two weeks after Maria’s confession, the bell above the bakery door didn’t just chime; it seemed to ring out a warning.

It was a Tuesday afternoon, the dead hours when the sun baked the cobblestones outside and the shop was completely empty. Lazelle was behind the counter, meticulously wiping down the espresso machine.

The air in the room changed instantly.

Before she even looked up, her inner wolf slammed against her ribs, roaring with a ferocity that nearly stole the breath from her lungs. A wave of pure, intoxicating heat washed over her skin. The scent of dark espresso, rain-slicked asphalt, and a terrifyingly dominant masculine musk flooded her senses.

Mate.

The realization hit her like a physical blow. Lazelle froze, her fingers locked around the cleaning cloth, her heart hammering a frantic, violent rhythm against her chest. Of all the people in the world, of all the corners of the earth she could have hidden in, the moon had bound her to him.

Slowly, she forced herself to look up.

Standing in the doorway was a man who looked like he had been sculpted from shadows and stone. He was tall, broad-shouldered, and dressed in a dark, tailored charcoal suit that screamed wealth and lethality. His dark hair was brushed back, framing a jawline so sharp it looked dangerous. But it was his eyes that locked her in place—obsidian, calculating, and piercingly intelligent.

Dalonius Lacoste stepped into the shop, his gaze scanning the room with the practiced ease of a predator checking his perimeter. Then, his eyes hit Lazelle.

He stopped dead in his tracks.

Lazelle saw the exact moment the bond hit him. His pupils dilated, turning his eyes completely black. A muscle in his jaw twitched violently, and his chest expanded as he drew in a sharp, ragged breath, inhaling her scent—the hidden, rich sweetness of her Lycan aura beneath the vanilla and flour.

For a fraction of a second, the feared Mafia Don looked completely undone. The air between them crackled with an ancient, undeniable pull.

Lazelle’s instincts screamed at her to lean into it, to let out the soft whimper of a wolf finding her match. But then she saw his eyes change.

The shock in Dalonius's expression faded, replaced instantly by a cold, calculating wall of ice. He looked at her simple apron, her flour-dusted hands, and the plain, un-silvered brown of her hair. He didn't see a queen. He saw an ordinary, unprotected human girl working a minimum-wage shift in a neighborhood bakery.

Lazelle watched the brutal calculus happen behind his eyes. A fated mate was a liability in his world. A human mate was a death sentence. He had empires to conquer, a syndicate to solidify, and high-society alliances to forge. He couldn't afford a bakery girl.

With a terrifying display of pure, ruthless willpower, Dalonius snapped the connection. He forced his eyes away from her, his posture rigidifying into a stone-cold mask of absolute indifference. He looked right through her, treating her like she was nothing more than a piece of furniture.

"Ma," Dalonius called out, his deep, baritone voice echoing through the shop, entirely steady and devoid of the chaos raging in his chest. "I’m in the front."

The curtain to the back kitchen threw open, and Maria rushed out, her face lighting up with pure, maternal joy. "Dalonius! My boy!" She threw her arms around his neck, and for a brief moment, the Don softened, hugging his mother back.

When Maria pulled away, she beamed, gesturing to Lazelle. "Dalonius, you must meet Santia. She has been my saving grace these past months. A beautiful, sweet girl."

Lazelle stood perfectly still behind the counter. Her heart was shattered into a million jagged pieces. The agonizing pain of the silent rejection throbbed in her veins, but as she looked at the back of Dalonius’s head, a spark of her father’s royal blood flared to life.

He wants to pretend I am invisible? she thought, a fierce, icy pride locking into place. Fine.

Dalonius slowly turned his head to look in her direction, his expression completely blank, expecting to see a trembling, heartbroken girl begging for a flicker of his attention.

Instead, Lazelle met his gaze dead-on.

She didn't cry. She didn't flinch. Her face smoothed out into a polite, completely vacant customer-service mask. She looked right through his imposing aura, matching his coldness with an absolute wall of indifference.

"Good afternoon, sir," Lazelle said, her voice smooth, professional, and entirely unaffected. She offered him a empty, polite smile that didn't reach her eyes. "Welcome to the bakery. Can I get you an espresso while you speak with your mother?"

Dalonius’s eyes narrowed slightly, a dangerous flicker of frustration crossing his features. He had expected her to break under the weight of his rejection. He hadn't expected a nameless girl to look at the head of the Italian Mafia and treat him like an ordinary customer.

His inner wolf let out a low, irritated growl deep in his chest, furious that its mate was showing absolutely zero desire to chase him.

"No," Dalonius barked out, his voice sharper than intended as he tore his eyes away from her unyielding stare. "I’m just here to speak with my mother."

"Of course," Lazelle replied, her voice a perfect note of calm indifference as she picked up her cleaning cloth and went right back to wiping the counter, completely dismissing him. "Let me know if you change your mind."

Dalonius didn’t move for three agonizing seconds. His eyes bored into the side of her face, his jaw clenched so tightly the bone looked ready to snap. He was a man used to people trembling at his feet, yet this girl was casually ignoring him to wipe down a metal espresso tray.

"Dalonius?" Maria asked, looking between them, her brow furrowing slightly at the heavy, freezing tension thick enough to suffocate the room. "Is everything alright?"

"Fine," Dalonius gritted out, finally tearing his gaze away from Lazelle. He cleared his throat, forcing his voice back into its smooth, commanding timber. "Come into the back, Ma. We need to discuss the arrangements for the gala this weekend. And the... guests arriving from the North."

"Ah, yes. The Northern alliance," Maria sighed, her cheerful demeanor dropping into something more subdued. She patted his arm and looked over her shoulder. "Santia, dear, can you manage the front for a bit?"

"Of course, Maria. Take your time," Lazelle said. Her voice was like silk—cool, soft, and entirely devoid of friction. She didn't look up from her work, keeping her focus entirely on a stubborn coffee stain.

Dalonius followed his mother into the back kitchen, but right before the bead curtain fell shut behind him, he cast one last, dark look over his shoulder. Lazelle caught it in the reflection of the stainless-steel machine. His obsidian eyes were burning with a dangerous, volatile mix of primal fury and intense frustration.

The moment the curtain settled, Lazelle let out a long, ragged breath she hadn't realized she was holding.

Her hands were shaking. She gripped the edge of the counter, her knuckles turning white as the phantom ache of the broken fated-mate bond throbbed mercilessly in her chest. It felt like an invisible tether was trying to pull her heart out through her ribs, dragging it toward the back room.

He rejected us, her inner wolf whimpered, pacing restlessly in the dark of her mind, confused and bleeding from the sting. He looked at us and chose a crown of dirt over us.

Let him, Lazelle snapped back mentally, her internal voice hardening into pure steel. We are a Dellegdego. We do not beg for scraps from a mafia don. If he wants to pretend we are nothing, we will show him just how much nothing hurts.

She closed her eyes, practicing the deep, meditative breathing her father had taught her to suppress her Lycan side. She pushed the pain down, locking it away in a dark corner of her soul, replacing it entirely with the unyielding, royal pride of her bloodline. By the time the front door chime rang out ten minutes later, her mask was flawlessly back in place.

For the next two hours, Lazelle served the neighborhood regulars with her usual gentle warmth. She smiled at the old men, threw extra cookies into the bags for the local children, and acted completely normal.

But from the back room, the low, rumbling murmur of Dalonius’s voice drifted through the curtain.

He stayed far longer than he usually did. Lazelle could feel his heavy, dominant aura bleeding through the walls, practically stalking her from afar. Even though he had rejected her, his primal Lycan instincts were clearly fighting him, refusing to let him leave the vicinity of his mate.

Finally, around four in the afternoon, the curtain rustled.

Dalonius walked out first, his face a mask of absolute authority. But the moment his eyes swept the front room and landed on Lazelle, that familiar, tight frustration returned to his features. She was currently laughing softly at a joke a local delivery man was telling her, her smile bright and genuine.

The sight of her smiling so easily at another man made Dalonius’s blood boil. His hands curled into fists inside his suit pockets.

He walked straight toward the exit, his heavy boots echoing on the floor. He expected her to look up, to freeze, to show some sign that his presence affected her.

Instead, Lazelle simply glanced toward him as he neared the door, her eyes passing over him as if he were a pane of glass.

"Have a pleasant evening, sir," she said politely, her customer-service voice flawless as she turned her back to restock the pastry display.

Dalonius stopped right at the threshold, his hand gripping the brass door handle so hard the metal groaned. He wanted to turn around. He wanted to storm across the room, trap her against the counter, and demand to know how she could be so damn unaffected when his own soul felt like it was tearing itself to pieces.

But he couldn't. Political survival demanded he marry into the Northern Lycan bloodline. He needed the Dellegdego wealth to win his syndicate's war. He couldn't ruin everything for a beautiful, nameless human girl.

Without a word, Dalonius pushed the door open and stepped out into the bright Italian sun, the chime ringing out behind him like a funeral knell.

From across the street, perched high on the stone ledger of a centuries-old cathedral, a dark figure in a heavy coat adjusted his collar. His glowing gold eyes tracked Dalonius as the Don stepped into his armored SUV, then shifted back to the bakery window, where Lazelle stood unbroken.

The shadow guard let out a low, approving hum. The Princess is stronger than the Don realizes.

The week that followed became a brutal, silent game of psychological warfare.

Dalonius began showing up at the bakery almost every single day. Before, he would visit his mother once a week, usually late on Sunday evenings when the streets were empty. Now, his armored SUV was permanently idling at the curb on random afternoons.

He didn't say a word to Lazelle. He would walk in, his dark eyes instantly locking onto her, searching for even a single crack in her armor—a tremble in her hands, a flicker of sorrow in her eyes, a hesitation in her voice.

She gave him absolutely nothing.

Every single time he crossed the threshold, Lazelle treated him with the pristine, icy professionalism of a high-end concierge. She poured his espresso without spilling a drop. She handed him his change, her fingers deliberately avoiding any physical contact with his skin. When he stared at her heavily across the counter, she looked right back at him with bright, empty eyes, smiled her perfect employee smile, and asked, "Will there be anything else for you today, Signor Lacoste?"

It was driving him completely out of his mind.

On Friday afternoon, the tension finally hit its boiling point.

The bakery was dead quiet. Maria had stepped out to the local market to haggle over a shipment of blood oranges, leaving Lazelle alone to prep the evening batches. The bell above the door chimed, and the familiar, suffocating wave of espresso, rain, and dominant Lycan musk filled the room.

Dalonius walked in. But he wasn't alone.

Walking a half-step behind him, her arm looped possessively through his, was a woman dressed in a flawless, cream-colored Chanel suit. She had perfectly coiffed hair, diamonds dripping from her ears, and a soft, fragile smile pinned to her face.

It was Mena.

Lazelle’s stomach did a violent, freezing flip. Her inner wolf bared its fangs, a low, lethal snarl echoing inside her mind. The stepsister who had helped murder her father, the fraud who had stolen her crown, was standing right across the counter from her, smelling of expensive perfume and stolen wealth.

Mena didn't recognize her. Lazelle had her hair tied back in a messy bun, flour dusting her cheeks, and her skin lacked the royal, glowing luster it used to have back in the palace. To Mena, she was just a common Italian peasant girl.

"Oh, Dalonius, darling, it smells absolutely divine in here," Mena purred, her voice sweet as poisoned honey as she leaned her head against his shoulder. "Your mother’s shop is so... charming. So rustic."

Dalonius didn't look at Mena. His obsidian eyes were fixed entirely on Lazelle, burning with a dark, twisted intensity. He had brought Mena here on purpose. His ruthless mafia brain had decided that if he couldn't force a reaction out of Lazelle with his own silence, he would use his fiancé to break her. He wanted to see her jealous. He wanted to see her hurt. He needed to prove to himself that he had some kind of power over this ordinary girl.

Lazelle swallowed the white-hot rage building in her throat. She forced her posture to relax. She looked directly at Mena, then let her eyes slide slowly to Dalonius, completely blanking out her expression.

"Good afternoon," Lazelle said, her voice dropping into that smooth, chillingly polite register. "Welcome to Lacoste Bakery. What can I get for you today?"

Mena offered a dismissive, sweet smile, not even looking Lazelle in the eye as she pointed at the display case. "We’ll take a box of the sfogliatella, please. Dalonius says they're his favorite." She turned to face Dalonius, smoothing the lapel of his charcoal suit. "We need to keep our energy up for the gala tomorrow night, don't we, love? The elders are so excited to celebrate our engagement."

Dalonius kept his gaze pinned to Lazelle's face, watching for the shatter. "Yes," he said, his baritone voice rough, heavy, and intentionally loud in the quiet shop. "The engagement is the priority. Nothing else matters."

He delivered the words like a physical strike, waiting for her to flinch under the weight of his fated rejection.

Lazelle didn't even blink.

She turned around with absolute, fluid grace, picked up the pastry tongs, and began placing the golden, flaky pastries into a white cardboard box. Her hands were steady as stone. Inside her chest, her heart was bleeding, but her royal Dellegdego pride was a fortress. She would rather die than let Mena or this arrogant Don see her cry.

She folded the box, tied it with a piece of red twine, and placed it gently on the counter.

"That will be twelve euros, please," Lazelle said, looking right past Dalonius’s burning stare as if he were made of smoke.

Dalonius’s jaw clenched so hard a violent tremor ran down his neck. He pulled a crisp fifty-euro note from his wallet and slammed it onto the counter. "Keep the change," he growled, his voice thick with a dangerous, volatile frustration. She wasn't breaking. Why wasn't she breaking?

"Thank you, sir. Have a wonderful evening, and congratulations on your upcoming wedding," Lazelle said smoothly, her empty, customer-service smile perfectly in place as she swept the bill into the register.

Mena took the box, entirely oblivious to the silent, lethal current passing between the two wolves. "Thank you, sweetie," she cooed to Lazelle, before tugging on Dalonius’s arm. "Let’s go, darling. We have so much to do."

Dalonius let himself be pulled toward the door, but right before he stepped out, he stopped. He looked back at Lazelle over his shoulder, his eyes wide, dark, and practically begging for something—a glare, a tear, anything to show she cared.

Lazelle didn't look back. She had already picked up her damp cloth and was calmly wiping down the marble counter, completely dismissing him from her reality.

When the door finally closed, the heavy glass pane rattling into place, Lazelle slowly let go of the cloth. She looked down at her hands. They were covered in flour.

She looked toward the back kitchen door, then at the empty shop.

Six months, she thought, her eyes hardening into something cold and absolute. I have hidden. I have survived. But I will not stand here and be a ghost in his twisted game while a snake wears my crown.

The pain of the fated bond didn't stop, but the sadness was entirely gone, replaced by a fierce, burning resolve. She was done hiding. It was time to start moving.

She walked into the back kitchen, took off her apron, and folded it neatly on the wooden table.