Intercrossed

Chapter Seven

A few hours later, Al pushes through the door, a paper bag dangling from one hand, a bottle of orange cream soda clutched in the other. “It’s a poor excuse for an apology, but I suck at apologies.” She presses both into my hands, eyes dropping to the floor, shame painting her face.

The scent hits first—greasy, glorious burgers and fries—and my stomach growls in betrayal. I’d skipped breakfast when Martha offered, too wary of how my stomach might rebel. Now, at three in the afternoon, hunger claws at me.

“I’m a rotten person,” Al murmurs, head bowed.

“No, but you’re a terrible wing-woman.” I tear into the foil, the first bite pulling a moan from my throat. Pickles, cheese, ketchup—sharp, sweet, tangy—meld into the juicy patty, the bun warm and toasted. Fries follow, crisp and golden, dunked in ketchup, another growl escaping me as I devour them.

“Does this mean I’ve been forgiven?” Her eyes lift, wide and practiced, the sad-puppy look I know she’s unleashed on other victims before me.

“Maybe. I’m willing to overlook the incident. Besides, it’s not like you hurled a copper knife at me.”

She nods, lips curving into a small smile. “Fair enough. Would you be upset if I admitted I was glad the incident gave me a day off from training?”

I shoot her a look sharp enough to cut.

“Good, because I’m not glad,” she blurts, too fast. Silence stretches, then breaks into laughter, both of us caught in it.

“I really am sorry, Maryelle,” she says, voice softening. “Abandoning you was a jerk move. It won’t happen again. I’m not that person—not anymore. I saw a former boyfriend at the club and… had a lapse of judgment.”

“You don’t have to keep apologizing.” I wave her off, burger halfway gone. “Thank you for the food. It’s appreciated.”

Her smile warms. “Don’t mention it.”

Then, with a crooked grin: “So, I hear you and Phantom are getting married soon. Can I be your maid of honor, since I’m the one who indirectly made you spend time with him?”

“No.”

She clutches her chest in mock agony. “Seriously? You don’t want me as your maid of honor? Why not?”

“Because we’re not getting married,” I mutter, flat, unamused.

“Does Phantom know that?” Her tone shifts, teasing but edged with certainty. “I can foresee threads of the future—it’s my gift. The visions I’ve had of you always involve him. Last night wasn’t the first. The more you’re around him, the clearer they get.” She twists open the soda and hands it to me. “I know you don’t believe me, but trust me—I’m not creative enough to invent what I see. Like the one I just saw of you.”

I arch a brow. She glances at the bottle. “Be glad I opened this for you—our crappy floor doesn’t survive broken glass. Now, if you’ll excuse me, Gaston’s been rehearsing a lecture on responsibility and insists on sharing it with me. I’d ask you to join us at the pool, but you’re about to have a visitor.”

She winks, already halfway out the door. “Phantom really likes the blue dress with the white flowers,” she calls, her voice trailing down the hall.

👑👑👑

Sebastian lets out a wolfish howl—half catcall, half joke—after sliding me a side-glance. I glare at him. Getting catcalled by a werewolf. The irony bites. The blue dress isn’t scandalous, but the way his gaze lingers makes me feel stripped bare, exposed under a spotlight.

“Where are you going?” he asks, smirk curling.

“To change clothes.”

He titters softly. “Why would you do that?”

A knock at the door halts me. The sound reverberates through the thin walls, sharp as a drumbeat. “Trying to prevent premeditated strangulation,” I mutter.

“Expecting someone?” Sebastian wonders, already moving. My heart stutters when he yanks the door open. Breath catches—hope flares like a match struck in the dark.

“You got any cash?” Sebastian asks. “Pizza man’s here.”

“Sir, the pizza’s already paid for. Gratuity included,” the deliveryman says, stepping onto the rickety floorboards. Disappointment claws at me. Not Phantom. My coyote spirit laughs—what prince makes house calls?

“Miss? Where should I put the pizza?”

I turn, confused, words forming—I didn’t order pizza—but they die in my throat. Phantom steps inside, smooth as shadow, taking all three boxes. “I’ll take those. Go grab the drinks. Which one’s your room?” His eyes lock on mine, waiting. Shock steals my voice.

“I’ll tell you for a slice,” Sebastian bargains.

“You’re here…” I finally manage. “I mean—why are you here?”

Phantom’s look says the answer should be obvious. He sighs at Sebastian. “I never liked you, but I’ll feed you if you tell me which room is hers. Then make yourself scarce.”

“The feeling’s mutual. Far left, up the stairs.” Sebastian snatches a box and vanishes outside as the deliveryman reappears with sodas.

“Follow me,” Phantom instructs. Dumbfounded, I trail after them once my brain kicks back into gear.

Four slices of pizza and three root beers later, hunger still gnaws. “Why aren’t you eating?” I ask.

“Already had dinner. My mother makes an event of it most nights, especially Fridays.”

Pepperoni slips down my chin. His gaze never wavers. He picks up a napkin, dabbing gently at the corners of my mouth. His hand slows at my lips. The room seems to hush—the hum of the fridge, the creak of the floorboards—all fading beneath the sound of his breath. I inhale sharply when he drops the napkin, tracing my lips with his finger. He cups my chin, leaning closer. I lean in too, no hesitation.

“Maryelle?” His voice—smooth, deep—wraps around my name like a hypnotic chant, a siren’s song.

“Y-yes?”

He chuckles, warm breath brushing my lips, honey and spearmint mingling. “I have a confession.”

My eyes fix on his mouth. “A confession?” My throat tightens. “What is it?”

“I don’t kiss girls who claim I’m not their type. Unless you admit the truth…” His fingers graze my lips again. “…you’ll never get a kiss from these lips.”

I clear my throat, retreating slightly. “Good. I don’t want a kiss from those lips.” A lie.

“Why don’t I believe you?” He tucks strands of hair behind my ear, my heart galloping like a spooked horse.

“Maybe you have trust issues.” I slide further away, space suddenly too small.

I’d sat on the floor to avoid the awkwardness of sharing my twin bed. Not working.

“Why did your parents name you Phantom?” I ask, desperate to redirect.

“I’ll show you someday. Too long to explain now—I have a meeting.”

Disappointment floods me. Why does it sting that he’s leaving?

I rise when he does. “Walking you to the door?”

He grins. “You’re the girl version of a gentleman.”

“Thank you for dinner. Not too bad of a date.” I offer my hand. He pulls me into his arms instead. Heat radiates from his chest. His lips brush my earlobe, goosebumps racing my neckline.

“This wasn’t a date,” he whispers. “I want to plan it. Make it the most memorable of your life.”

My legs wobble.

“Good night, princess.” His lips graze my neck, my breath breaking into erratic sounds. Vulnerability flickers in his eyes. He starts to speak, then stops.

“You were going to say something. Say it.”

“I shouldn’t. I don’t know if I should feel this yet. I just met you. If I’m honest, you’ll run—or think I’m crazy. And I’m not ready to be away from you.”

Butterflies riot in my stomach. His presence intoxicates.

“Please say something. Your silence drives me mad.”

“If it helps, I already know you’re crazy,” I whisper. “Lucky for you, I like it.”

His smile beams. “You need rest. I’ll have a car pick you up tomorrow.”

“Pick me up? I can walk—it’s not far.”

“Princess, I live forty miles away. Please. I don’t let girls walk in the dark.”

“Letting me? You’re not letting me do anything.”

He sighs. “Stubborn. Pretend it’s your idea if you want. You have my number. Be on time—my trainer hates tardiness.”

“No need to worry. I’ll make it on my own.”

“I’ll see you tomorrow.” His perfect smile ignites my chest.

When he leaves, bliss sighs through me. I close the door, inhaling the lingering scent of sage and cedar. The air feels charged, as if the walls themselves hold the echo of his presence. My pulse slows only when I hear his car fade into the night, tires whispering against asphalt like the closing line of a song.