Fortunes Bite

Chapter Five

Lila Hart's boots slapped wet pavement, Midtown's drizzle turning the sidewalk to a slick trap.

Late again—damn subway delays, damn bills clawing her margins. Gran's latest hospital ping

had hit at dawn: Treatment delayed. $20K overdue. Her stomach knotted, the anonymous

windfall a bandage

on a bullet wound. $250K from ShadowWolfNYC? Lifeboat in a storm, but who shells out for

forgotten abstracts without strings? She'd texted back: Business? Name the meet. No reply.

Yet.The cafe shift loomed, tips her buffer against eviction. She dodged a suited horde, tray

balanced like a shield—coffees steaming, her curls frizzing in the humidity. Freckles itched under

foundation she'd skipped; paint flecks ghosted her nails, a rebel flag against the apron's starch.

Independent? Hell yes. But fierce only carried you so far when machines beeped in Brooklyn

ICUs.Focus, Lila. Gran's laugh lines, not the shadows in Dad's autopsy pics. Fifteen years, and

the claw scars still haunted her sketches—beasts in the brushstrokes, howls in the hues.

Journalism had been her armor: Layla StrongHart unmasking empires, truths too sharp for safety

nets. But art? That was raw, uncontrolled. Like her.She hip-checked the door, bells jangling.

Order up: black coffee for the shark in the corner, eyes like winter steel. Tall, dark-haired, suit

screaming money. He turned—too slow— and collision hit like fate's cruel joke. Tray tipped.

Scald poured. His shirt bloomed dark, clinging to ridges of muscle she had no business

noting."s**t—oh God, I'm so sorry!" Heat flooded her cheeks, but she lunged with a wad of

napkins, dabbing his chest—hard planes under silk, his cologne a punch of pine and thunder. Up

close: icy blues locked on hers, pupils dilating like a predator's. A jolt zipped her spine, electric,

unwelcome. Her skin hummed, pulse thundering in places it shouldn't. What the—? Like Dad's

stories of "old blood," whispers Gran shut down with tea and tales."You,"

he growled, low and rough, fingers snaring her wrist—warm, unyielding, sparking fire under her

skin. "Just ruined a Brioni."She jerked back, chin jutting. No simpering. "Bill me, suit. Or learn to

dodge." The cafe hushed, stares prickling like needles. Barista froze mid-pour; a tourist snapped

a sneaky pic. Great—viral humiliation, round two.But he didn't yell. Didn't sue on sight. Those

eyes—storm gray now, flecked with gold?—held her, peeling layers she guarded fierce. "My

office. Now." Not a request. A command, laced with something darker, hungrier. His grip lingered,

thumb brushing her pulse—deliberate?—before release. Scent lingered too, wrapping her like

smoke.Lila snatched her tray, heart hammering. "Yeah? And if I say no?" Defiance her sword, but

Gran's voice echoed: Bills don't pay themselves, love. $5K in tips could buy time. Or this shark

could eat her alive."Cross Industries. Block away." He straightened, shirt translucent, abs

shadowed. Ruthless. Calculative. The name clicked—Damon Cross, CEO whisper, cutthroat

kingpin. Feared. Untouchable. And now, coffee-soaked and staring like she'd clawed his

control.She should've bolted. Instead: "Fine. But you spill first—on the dry-cleaning tab." Storming

out, she felt his gaze—burning, binding. The drizzle chilled her flush, but that pull? It warmed

deeper, a forbidden itch. Fake it, Lila. Just a gig.His Bentley idled curbside, engine purring like a

beast. He slid in first, door open—invitation or trap? She climbed in, leather swallowing her, his

thigh brushing hers in the tight space. Forced close, air thick. "Talk," she snapped, masking the

shiver. "Or is this your kink—drenching strangers?"Damon's lips twitched—not a smile, a

predator's curl. "Proposition." He tapped his phone; her site loaded, Sold Out glaring. "Your art.

Impressive. Raw." His gaze raked her—paint-splattered, stubborn. "Like you."She stiffened.

ShadowWolf. "You? Why—""Six months. Marry me. Play the wife—galas, photos, perfection."

Envelope slid from his jacket: contract, crisp. "$5 million. Walk away clean." His voice dipped,

eyes darkening. "I need an heir's facade. You need... freedom from the grind."Lila's laugh cracked

sharp. "Marry? A stranger who buys my ghosts for leverage?" Fury flared, but under it—

temptation. Gran's bills. The studio's dust. His scent coiled tighter, that jolt flaring to heat. No.

Control. "Pass. I'm not for sale, wolf-boy."Wolf-boy? Where'd that slip from? His jaw ticked, gold

flecking those blues. Rejected. But the bond? It snapped taut, unspoken.Her phone buzzed—

hospital. Ms. Hart: Critical escalation. Immediate payment or ventilator pull. World tilted.Damon's

gaze sharpened, wolf scent spiking. "Refuse? Fine. But think—your gran's clock ticks louder than

mine."She stared at the contract, fire and fear warring. Sign? Or claw free?As rain lashed the

windows, a shadow loomed outside: suited goon, phone to ear. Lucas's text pinged Damon's:

She's the one? Careful—her digs hit our pack secrets.(Word count: 1,058)

Evelyn Hart—Gran to the girl who'd always been too much fire for her own good—sat by the

window of her cramped hospital room, the Hudson River's gray churn mocking the IV drip's

steady tick. At seventy-eight, her Scottish brogue still cut like Highland wind, though the cancer

had whittled her to bone and whisper. White curls pinned back with a silver thistle clip, eyes sharp

as the kilt pins her grandda had smuggled from Glasgow, she clutched the worn photo album like

a shield. Pages yellowed with salt-streaked edges, tales of merchant ships docking in New York

harbors a century back, her own ma whispering of "shadows that walk on four legs under the full

moon's glare." Nonsense to most, but to Evelyn, it was the vein of truth running through Hart

blood—claws in the dark, howls that called kin across oceans. She'd buried those stories deep

after her son's mangled end, but now, with Lila's ring glinting in hurried visits and that Cross boy's

name dropping like a stone in still water, the old itch stirred. "Fool girl," she muttered, fingers

tracing a faded snapshot of young Jack Hart—Lila's da, grinning wide with a fisherman's net,

oblivious to the pack's pull that would one day rip him apart.The room smelled of bleach and

wilted daisies, monitors beeping like impatient ghosts. Evelyn's sister—Lila's great-aunt Moira, all

sharp elbows and sharper tongue—huffed from the vinyl chair, flipping through a dog-eared

Enquirer with headlines screaming about the Cross wedding scandal. Moira was the family

anchor no one asked for: sixty-five, widowed twice, running a corner bodega in Queens with an

iron fist and a flask of single malt hidden in her apron. "That boy's trouble, Evie. Crosses been

wolves in suits since the docks. Your Jack knew it—chased their shadows one too many times."

Her voice was gravel, laced with the same burr that had scared off suitors back in

'68. Moira had been the one to claim Jack's body from the feds fifteen years back, ignoring the

"suicide" stamp and the claw marks scrubbed from reports. She'd burned the autopsy pics in the

bodega's back alley, but not before Evelyn saw the gold flecks in his eyes, the bite that matched

old family lore. "Lila's in over her head. Fake ring or no, that Damon'll mark her like he did the

rest."Evelyn's grip tightened on the album, a cough rattling her chest like loose gravel. The meds

Lila's windfall had bought kept the pain at bay, but dreams clawed back—full moons over the

Firth of Forth, her own da shifting in the barn, warning of blood debts unpaid. "She's got the fire,

Moira. Same as Jack. But fire meets fang..." Her words trailed as the door creaked open, Lila

slipping in like a shadow, curls tamed under a wool cap, cheeks hollow from nights Evelyn could

only guess at. The girl's eyes—brown storms that hid the hurt—flicked to the monitors first, then

softened on her gran. "Hey, old wolf. Docs say you're cheating death again." Lila's tease was

light, but Evelyn caught the tremor, the way her hand twisted that diamond band like it

burned.Moira stood, muttering about coffee runs, but her squeeze on Lila's shoulder lingered—a

silent "watch your back." The door clicked shut, leaving the room thick with unsaid weight. Lila

dropped into the chair, pulling Evelyn's frail hand into hers. "Gran's steady. That cash... it's

buying time." But her voice cracked, gaze drifting to the river where barges cut wakes like scars.

Evelyn studied her—the paint flecks under nails, the new bruise of shadows under eyes

that spoke of gala lights and whispered threats. "Time for what, lass? Healing, or hunting?"

She patted the album, flipping it open to Jack's page: him at thirteen, awkward with a

sketchpad,

drawing beasts that looked too real. "Your da chased truths that bit back. Cross boy—Damon's

got the scent of pack on him. Old blood, the kind that don't mix easy."Lila's laugh was brittle,

pulling her hand free to fiddle with her phone—alerts buzzing like angry bees, Vanessa's

summons unread, Lucas's "offer" a poison pill in her inbox. "It's a job, Gran. Six months, then I'm

out. No bites, no marks." But the lie hung heavy, her mind flashing to Damon's thigh in the

Bentley, his walls cracking under full moon pull she felt in her own bones—a echo of Dad's

restless nights. Evelyn leaned forward, brogue thickening with urgency. "Listen, girl. Harts came

with secrets stitched in. Your great-gran saw it—ships unloading more than crates in '22. Wolves

in the hold, deals cut under moonlight. Jack poked that nest, ended up clawed. And now you,

wed to the alpha pup?" Her eyes bored in, gold-fleck hint in the iris that Lila had always chalked

to light. "Full moon's coming. Three nights. Feel it yet? The itch?"Lila shifted, skin prickling like it

had in Brooklyn lofts, howls bleeding into her dreams amid sketches of Damon's haunted blues.

"Superstition. Dad's death was feds, cover-up. Not... that." But doubt gnawed, Gran's words

yanking the thread Vanessa had tugged: Truths fester. Converse? And Lucas's sly grin over

coffee: Topple him. Your dawn. Freedom dangled, but so did the tether to Damon—the man

who'd growled "mine" in a gala haze, his touch searing past the contract's cold ink. Evelyn's

hand found hers again, cool and sure. "Choose bold, but wise. Blood calls blood, Lila. If he's

pack, he'll claim or kill. Run if you must, but don't leave the fire dim." A cough seized her,

monitors spiking, and Lila hit the call button, heart hammering as nurses swarmed.Outside, rain

lashed the window like claws, the moon a sliver promise overhead. Lila pocketed her phone—

Vanessa's text now lit: Penthouse. Midnight. Secrets that save or sink. Lucas's follow-up: Strike

tonight. Or he scents your doubt. Damon's own message, curt: Home. We talk. The pull

warred—Gran’s warning a anchor to the past, the men's snares a noose on the now. She kissed

Evelyn's forehead, whispering "Hold on," but as she fled the room, the itch deepened, bones

humming with a hunger not her own. Moonrise loomed; choices sharpened to fangs. Cut the ties

with cash in hand, or let the beast in her guarded pulse run wild?