It happens on a Thursday, when the café is quiet and I’m foolish enough to believe the universe might give us one normal day.
The late-morning rush has thinned. A couple of students hunch over laptops, nursing cold coffee. An older woman reads a paperback by the window. The hiss of the espresso machine and the low murmur of conversation weave into a gentle hum that almost passes for peace.
Marco is in the back, taking inventory. I’m on my allotted stool, compressions socks hidden under my jeans, prenatal vitamins buzzing faintly in my veins. Lio rolls lazily under my hand, half-asleep.
The bell over the door jingles.
My wolf lifts her head before I even look up.
Not Corin. Not human.
The scent hits a heartbeat later: wet stone, pine, a hint of iron. Wolf, scrubbed in human soap and c
