Warrior's human mate

Laila  As the captain announced we were about to land, I let out an inward sigh of relief. My backside was numb, and my back ached after such a long flight. I could already picture myself standing up, stretching, and walking—just walking ten thousand steps until I felt like a human again. I shifted my gaze from the movie I was watching on the tiny screen to the view outside the window. There it was—the city I would call home for the next six months. The thrill of it all stirred inside me. I had never been here before, and there was so much to explore. Traveling was my passion, and this city—unknown and full of potential—was a new adventure. As the plane touched down, I waited until most passengers had exited before gathering my things. I always stayed at the back. There was no rush. The whole airport process was inevitably slow: endless walking through the maze of terminals, waiting in long queues at border patrol, then more waiting at luggage claim. It always took time. I chuckled to myself. My English could be better, but I had started thinking in English as soon as I stepped into the airport back home. It helped refresh my memory, as if my language skills could rust without regular use. Once I finally exited the airport, I hopped into a taxi and made my way to the new apartment I had rented online. As the city passed by, I eagerly watched the streets and neighborhoods I was seeing for the first time, mentally noting spots I wanted to check out later. The landlord, Harrald, was waiting for me at the door. After a quick phone call at the airport, I had let him know I was on my way. He handed me the keys, and we entered the apartment. I’d seen pictures online, but now that I was here, I took in the space’s vibe. It was a small studio with a separate bedroom that could barely fit a double bed and a closet. The living room and kitchen were combined on one side. The decor was minimalist—white and gray tones, IKEA-style. I was fine with it, but what I liked most were the wide windows facing south, offering plenty of sunlight. Being from the dark, cloudy north, I’d missed the sun, though today the weather was gray even in Denver. Harrald gave me a tour, pointing out the washing machine, dishwasher, and oven. He showed me how to adjust the manual heater, which was simple enough. And of course, he gave me the Wi-Fi password. "Yes!" I silently cheered. Technology was essential for my world to run smoothly. "I'm addicted to you," I hummed in my head with a smile. We made small talk, chatting about where I was from and how long I’d be in the States. Harrald was a sweet gentleman in his forties with two teenage daughters. Renting out apartments was a side business for him—his main job was as an accountant. When he left, I plopped onto the gray sofa, taking in my new home. The walls were white, the floor gray. There was a glass coffee table and a small white side table with a gray lamp. The kitchen was also in shades of white and gray, with a black-framed island and two black plastic bar stools. I grimaced. That was the only ugly part of the place. Maybe I could replace them later—mental note. Overall, it felt light and airy. This would be my home for the next six months. I just needed to add a personal touch to make it feel truly cozy. Though I was exhausted from the long flights and waiting, I dove into unpacking. I carefully put my clothes in the white wooden closet. Even though the place was clean, I couldn’t help but give everything a quick scrub to feel like I was starting fresh. I cleaned the bathroom tiles, the white sink, and shower, then moved on to the kitchen and fridge. The apartment was small, but by the time I finished, I was ready to crash. But I still needed groceries, so I grabbed my purse, phone, and a printed map. Without a local SIM card, I had to rely on the good old-fashioned map. I also fished out some pepper spray from my suitcase—just to be safe. I put on blue jeans, a gray graphic t-shirt with a wolf’s head on it (a piece by a local artist), and a loose white hoodie that covered my butt. I didn’t want to attract attention. And after what I’d witnessed from some American guys—whistles, comments, and even inappropriate offers—I was eager to avoid any unwanted attention. I added a mustard yellow scarf and matching beanie to stay warm. The grocery store was just three blocks away. I got the essentials, including a local SIM card for my phone. Afterward, I finally took a long-needed shower to wash off the fatigue from my travels and the house cleaning. I spent the evening texting my family and friends to let them know I’d arrived safely and that I had a new phone number. After chatting with my mom and sister, I was ready for bed. I flopped onto the soft mattress and pulled the white covers over me. It was a little softer than I liked, but I’d manage. Tomorrow was Sunday, and I could rest and adjust to local time before starting work on Monday. With a contented sigh, I drifted into sleep. I spent most of Sunday sleeping, my internal clock still adjusting. I woke up only to cook and eat, then crawled back into bed to sleep some more. Monday morning came quickly. The alarm blared "Wake Me Up" by Avicii, and I was up and getting ready—showered, dressed, and having a light breakfast. I packed my portfolio and laptop for a client meeting. Today, I would go over the renovation project and see if there were any changes or additions. As I drove to the client’s place, I felt an odd sense of anxiety. Normally, I’d be nervous meeting new clients, but this felt different—like my stomach was buzzing and my palms were sweaty. I tried to shake it off. It’s just another client. I know the drill. But still, my intuition kept nagging at me, wondering if they might cancel the project. Could they? I wasn’t sure, but if so, I’d deal with it. When I arrived, I was surprised to see a security checkpoint. I had assumed the clients were wealthy, but the neighborhood turned out to be a mix of small homes and big mansions, many of them a bit shabby. The mansion I was headed to, though, was definitely grand. I rang the doorbell, and a woman in her fifties answered. "Hello! I’m here to meet Mrs. Montgomery," I said with a warm smile. "She’s expecting me." "Yes, she is," the woman replied, opening the door. "She’s in the sitting room. You can follow me." I waved her off politely. "I know the way, thank you." I removed my dark blue trench coat and hung it up, taking in the grand entrance hall. The house had a posh, Victorian interior, but the clients wanted to modernize it. As I admired the space, I froze—there was a man standing on the stairs. How had I missed him before? He looked like he’d been watching me. I felt a heat wave run over me, nervous that I’d done something weird, like maybe talked to myself. But no, I hadn’t. Phew. Still, this guy… he was like a walking advertisement for muscle magazines. He was massive—shoulders like boulders and a body that seemed sculpted from stone. His blond hair was styled in waves, and his face was sharp, with high cheekbones and a straight jawline. I was too far away to see his eyes, but his look was intense. I couldn’t help but stare. There was no denying he was handsome, ridiculously so. But then my brain kicked back into gear. Rich, good-looking guy? Probably a playboy. Most likely, every girl in the city was throwing herself at him. And here I was, ogling him too. I scolded myself. Come on, Laila, focus! Work, not men! Judging by his approximate age, this guy was most probably my client’s son or something. I straightened up, forcing a smile. "Good afternoon, Sir." Without waiting for a reply, I turned and made my way to the sitting room, reminding myself that I was here for a project, not to stare at handsome strangers. This was, and yet wasn’t, my first time in this house. Having seen pictures and videos of it, it almost feels as though I’ve lived here for years.