Carolina Moon

Cypress Hollow was vastly different from Kingsport, and all its metal and glass. Hell, it was different from Charleston. My grandpa hated that I’d moved out here, and left the corporate world for a high-end boutique and a small town life. I was happy though. I’d trade suits and heels for sundresses and combat boots. I’d traded busy cities and skyscraper offices for marshland and big trees full of Spanish moss. I’d traded the constant hum of traffic for the nightly rhythm of the cicadas. The coffee here was also excellent. It didn’t take long for me to become the manager at Rebel Rose. It wasn’t something I’d set out to do when I was originally hired six months ago, but I was overly qualified as a cashier, and my organizational skills had been the icing on the cake that brought me the promotion. Here, in this quiet town, I found peace, and I actually enjoyed the work I did at the boutique. I couldn’t shake the “phantom limb” though. The feeling of constantly being watched. I often caught myself looking over my shoulder, checking for hidden cameras. I reached Rebel Rose after a brisk, eight minute walk from the cafe that was only a block from my little bungalow. As I was unlocking the front door, I saw the familiar old, green Chevy pickup pulling into the parking lot from the corner of my eye. K.C. pulled up beside me, and hopped out of the driver’s seat. He had a bright, neon orange vest on over his gray tee, his white construction helmet was sitting on the dash, reflecting the sun through the windshield. He looked rugged and sun-baked, pushing his black hair behind his ears. “Good mornin,” he smiled as he lowered the tailgate. “Morning,” I smiled back as I opened the door to the shop and propped it open with a rubber door stop. “Need help with that?” I asked, watching him climb into the bed of the truck to unstrap the blanket-wrapped, custom-built shelf I’d ordered for the new fall display. “I got it,” he told me, focused on his work. Our chemistry was undeniable. We’d fallen into a rhythm similar to when we’d been in college together, but there was an underlying sense of caution in every interaction. He was trying hard to rebuild the trust he’d broken when he set me up to be used as a pawn in his territory war with Darian Whitmore. He didn’t have any of Darian’s possessive heat though. He was cautious and shy. He gave me space and didn’t pressure or push. He never asked me to “get over it” or give more than I had available. I felt an undeniable pull towards him, unlike anything I’d ever felt before, but if he felt it too, he didn’t say anything. He didn’t try to force a “Mate Bond” or make demands. I watched quietly as he lowered the rack down out of the back of the truck, then walked it into the shop. Once he had it inside, I shut and locked the door behind him. “Where do you want it?” K.C. asked. “In the back for now,” I answered, leading the way to the stock room. I held the door open for him. “This is for the fall display, but the truck won’t be here until Thursday.” He moved the display to an empty spot on the floor next to a stack of boxes I was still processing from the last shipment. Then he pulled a clipboard free from the bungees that still secured the blankets over it so I could sign for the delivery. Our fingers brushed, and I felt a jolt of electricity run through me. I set my coffee down on a small desk by the door so I could sign and handed the clipboard back to him. “Your hands are shaking,” I noted, my brows pulling together. I looked at him. Really looked at him. And for the first time, I noticed just how pale he looked. He wasn’t sweating either, despite the late summer heat of the morning, meanwhile, I had a thin layer of it on my forehead just from my brief walk to work. “It’s nothing,” he reassured me, flashing that lopsided smile I had missed so much, but his eyes flashed bright amber for just a second too long. “K.C., you’re sick,” I insisted. “I feel fine,” his hands covered my shoulders, squeezing gently. “I promise.” He kissed the top of my head before letting me go, and started towards the front door. I followed him so I could let him out and begin my opening duties. “You sure you’re okay?” I asked one more time as he stepped out into the South Carolina humidity. “Promise,” his voice was low, barely above a rasp. I wasn’t sure I believed it, but I wasn’t going to push. “See you for dinner tonight?” “Yeah,” I nodded. He kissed my forehead again, and moved around the truck to slide back into the driver’s seat. I watched through the glass door as he shot me another smile. The old engine roared to life, and I watched as it rumbled out of the parking lot. I caught my reflection in the window, and for a moment, I didn’t see Tess the boutique manager. I saw the Oracle, fighting the urge to analyze his words and his appearance. I was trying to trust him, but some days were harder than others. Especially when the lie felt obvious. I sighed and returned to the stock room to unwrap the new display. As I pulled the furniture blankets off, revealing the shiny dark wood, a cream colored envelope drifted to the floor. My breath hitched and my heart skipped a beat. I swallowed as I knelt to pick it up. It wasn’t sealed with the Whitmore Crest, but the stationary felt far too substantial and far too expensive for anyone in Cypress Hollow. I fought a tremor as I pulled the card out of the envelope. There was just a single sentence printed across it in a handwriting I didn’t recognize: “A king without a kingdom is just a target.” There was no signature of any kind, but I could smell the remnants of an expensive cologne. I had no way of knowing whether or not this was from Darian, but I was certain it was a message from Kingsport nonetheless. I felt the air in the stockroom vanish, replaced by the ghost of a thousand dollar suit and the sterile chill of a penthouse. I sank onto a nearby crate, the note trembling in my grip. A king without a kingdom. I looked at the door K.C. had just walked through. He wasn’t a king anymore. He was a man who hauled timber and kissed my forehead, and tried to pretend he wasn’t vibrating out of his own skin. But to the world we’d left behind, he was a loose thread. A vulnerable Alpha who had walked away from his power, leaving a vacuum that nature — and werewolves — abhorred. My auditor’s brain, the one I tried so hard to keep quiet, began to run the numbers. Factor one: the note was in the blankets. K.C. hadn’t seen it, which meant someone had access to the carpentry shop, or his truck. Factor two: the “Lone Wolf Sickness.” He wasn’t just pale, he was fading. Without a Pack to ground his energy, he was a lightning rod in a storm. Factor three: the timing. Six months. Long enough for the dust to settle in Kingsport, and for the survivors to start looking for someone to blame. “Dammit K.C.,” I whispered, closing my eyes. He was trying to protect me by staying silent, and I was trying to protect him by pretending I didn’t see the flash in his eyes. We were building a new life on a foundation of mutual, loving lies, and this piece of cardstock was the first crack in the cement. I tucked the note into the pocket of my dress, the expensive cardstock feeling like a shard of glass against my thigh. I couldn’t tell him. Not yet. If I told him “the Alpha” would come back. He’d stop looking like the boy from macroeconomics and start looking like the man who coordinated a city-wide breach. He’d stop healing and start hunting. I stood up and forced myself to finish unwrapping the display. My hands were steady now. The cold, clinical focus of the Oracle was taking over. If someone was targeting him, then they were targeting my peace, too. And if there was one thing the Silvercrest Pack should’ve learned about Theresa Beaumont, it was that I didn’t handle unauthorized interference well. I checked the time. 9:00AM. It was time to flip the sign to open and unlock the doors for the day. I smoothed my dress, wiped the lingering moisture from my palms, and walked out onto the sales floor. I put on my manager’s smile, the one that said everything was okay, and greeted the day’s first customer. My mind was miles away though, auditing the shadows of Cypress Hollow. Dinner tonight wasn’t just going to be small talk. I needed to find out exactly how much time my “king” had left before his kingdom came to collect his head.