The Daily Grind Café – Two Days Later
The acrid tang of burnt espresso and sodden wool usually masked everything in The Daily Grind, but today, even that potent combination couldn't conceal Elara's bone-deep exhaustion.
She leaned against the counter of the cramped coffee shop, where humidity clung to every surface and the fluorescent lights buzzed overhead. Three blocks from campus, the place attracted sleep-deprived students and locals who counted their pennies. Outside the smudged windows, the late Thursday afternoon sky had darkened to a bruised purple, heavy with the promise of another downpour.
Elara's fingers trembled as she wiped the same spot for the tenth time in five minutes, the sanitizer stinging the raw skin between her knuckles.
The double-concentrated wolfsbane suppressants coursed through her veins, doing their job—she smelled like absolutely nothing—but at a brutal cost. Her joints throbbed with each movement, her skull pulsed with rhythmic pain, and nausea rolled through her stomach in persistent waves.
'You're killing us slowly,' Lumina's voice whispered, faint and drugged in the recesses of Elara's mind. 'A wolf needs to run free. To feel moonlight on her fur. You're starving me.'
"I'm saving us," Elara murmured, the words barely audible as she tossed the rag into the sanitizer bucket with a wet slap.
"Say something, Elara?" Rick called from the back office, his beta wolf energy so submissive and weak that he remained blissfully oblivious to her true nature. To him, she was just a quiet human who never complained.
"Just arguing with the coffee machine, Rick," she called back, forcing lightness into her voice.
The bell above the door chimed, its cheerful tinkle cutting through the ambient laptop clicking and murmured conversations. Elara plastered on her customer service smile—thin and brittle as ice—and looked up. "Welcome to The Daily Gr—"
The words died in her throat.
The café atmosphere transformed instantly. Pressure dropped as if a storm had entered the building. Ambient noise vanished. Students froze mid-sentence.
Damien Blackwood filled the doorway.
He stood there in a charcoal wool coat draped over a navy suit that probably cost more than six months of her rent. The harsh overhead lights caught the polished gleam of his Italian leather shoes and the platinum watch peeking from his sleeve. He was too large, too dark, too powerful for this cheerful, cluttered space with its mismatched chairs and chipped mugs.
His steel-gray eyes didn't bother with the menu or the pastry case. They locked directly onto Elara.
Her heart slammed against her ribs as he approached. Why is he here? How does he keep finding me?
Damien stopped at the counter, close enough that she caught the scent of sandalwood and rain clinging to his coat. Up close, exhaustion had etched itself around his eyes, and restless energy radiated from him in almost visible waves. He placed his hands on the granite countertop, which seemed to groan beneath his weight.
"You look terrible," he said.
Elara blinked. "Hello to you too, Mr. Blackwood. Can I interest you in a latte?"
"You're pale," he continued, ignoring her offer. His gaze swept over the purple shadows beneath her eyes, the waxy pallor of her skin. He leaned forward slightly, nostrils flaring. "And you still smell like chemicals. Are you sick?"
"I'm working," Elara deflected, grabbing a to-go cup just to occupy her hands. "What can I get you? We have a special on pumpkin spice."
Damien's jaw tightened, a muscle pulsing beneath the shadow of stubble. "Black coffee," he grunted. "Large."
Elara turned to the machine, feeling his gaze burning between her shoulder blades like a physical touch. Her hands shook so badly she nearly dropped the portafilter, coffee grounds spilling across the workspace.
She poured the steaming liquid, secured the lid, and turned back. "Three dollars and fifty cents," she said, voice steadier than she felt.
Damien slid a sleek black credit card across the counter, deliberately covering her hand with his. That spark ignited again—that jolt of recognition that stole her breath.
"I don't want the coffee," he said, voice dropping to a velvet rumble.
Elara frowned. "You just ordered it."
"I bought it so I could stand here," Damien said. "And talk to you."
Elara glanced around the shop. Every eye was on them. A cluster of sorority girls huddled in the corner, phones raised, whispering furiously behind manicured hands.
"Mr. Blackwood," she hissed, leaning over the counter. "You're drawing attention. Please."
"Damien," he corrected. "Call me Damien."
"I am not calling you Damien. You're a billionaire investor, and I'm a barista making minimum wage. Please take your coffee and sit down."
A ghost of a smile touched his lips—not a friendly smile, but a wolfish grin of satisfaction. He liked her defiance. Most people cowered. She commanded.
"Fine," he said. "I'll sit."
He took the cup, turned, and claimed the only empty table—a wobbly two-top directly in the center of the room. He sat facing the counter, the untouched coffee steaming before him. And he watched her.
For two hours.
He became a fixture in the space, taking calls in low, commanding tones that made nearby students shiver involuntarily. His fingers tapped messages on his phone. But whenever Elara glanced up, those gray eyes were tracking her movements.
He watched her steam milk, the machine's hiss punctuating her movements. He watched her wipe tables, her sleeve catching on a splinter. He watched her battle with the ancient register, cursing under her breath.
It was unnerving. Flattering. Terrifying.
As evening approached, the café emptied. Rick emerged from the back, cardboard box balanced on his hip.
"Elara, toss these or take them home," Rick said, dumping the box of day-old pastries on the counter. "I'm heading out. Good to close up?"
"I'm fine, Rick."
After he left, Elara massaged her temples, the headache intensifying to jackhammer strength. She grabbed the box of croissants and muffins and shuffled toward the trash bin.
"Don't," a deep voice commanded.
She looked up. Damien stood at the counter again. He'd moved without making a sound.
"Don't what?"
"Don't throw them away," he said, his gaze flicking between the pastries and her thin frame. "You look like you haven't eaten in a week."
"I eat," Elara snapped defensively. "I have a high metabolism."
"I'll buy them," Damien stated.
"They're stale, Mr. Blackwood. We throw them out."
"I'll buy them," he repeated, his tone brooking no argument. He placed a hundred-dollar bill on the counter with a decisive snap.
Elara stared at the money. "This is a box of day-old muffins worth maybe ten dollars."
"Consider it a tip," he said. "Pack them up. Take them home. Eat them."
"I can't accept this."
"It's for the... scholarship students," he improvised badly. "I heard students are hungry. You are a student. Therefore, eat the muffins."
A bubble of laughter nearly escaped Elara's throat at the transparent excuse from a man who could purchase an entire bakery chain without checking his account balance.
"You are absurd," she muttered, sliding the money back toward him. "I'll take the muffins, but keep your money. They were trash-bound anyway."
She tucked the box into her backpack, feeling his gaze track the movement as her sweater rode up slightly. A low sound rumbled in his throat—half growl, half purr.
The door swung open with a gust of cold air.
Three men lumbered in, bringing the sharp reek of cheap beer and motor oil. Not students—older, with hard eyes and harder expressions. Construction workers, maybe, but their swagger carried the unmistakable energy of trouble.
Elara's spine stiffened. She was alone behind the counter. "We're closing in ten minutes," she called, voice steady despite the warning prickle across her skin.
"We just want some coffee, sweetheart," the leader sneered, a big man with grease-stained fingers and yellowed teeth. He leaned over the counter, invading her space with the sour blast of his breath. "And maybe a smile. You look too pretty to be so grumpy."
Elara stepped back. "The machines are off. I can get you drip coffee, to go."
"I want to stay," the man insisted, grin widening as his gaze dropped to her chest. "It's warm in here."
Elara's wolf bristled beneath her skin. 'Threat,' Lumina growled through the suppressant fog. 'Snap his throat.'
She clenched her fists, nails biting into palms. She couldn't react. Couldn't reveal herself.
"Please leave," she said, voice glacial.
"Come on, don't be a b—"
The man never finished the word.
A hand—large, manicured, and terrifyingly strong—clamped onto his shoulder.
Damien didn't shout or posture. He simply stood behind the man, towering over him by several inches. The air in the shop instantly crystallized with cold. The Alpha aura pouring from him rattled the windows in their frames and made the lights flicker.
"She asked you to leave," Damien said, his voice a soft, deadly whisper.
The man spun around, aggression melting into terror as he took in Damien's face. This wasn't just wealth and power standing before him. This was a predator wearing human skin. Damien's eyes glowed faintly—swirling storms of gray and black.
"I... we were just..." the man stammered, shrinking backward.
"You were leaving," Damien corrected, squeezing the man's shoulder. The fabric compressed with a sickening crunch of material and possibly cartilage.
"Right. Leaving. Sorry."
The man scrambled back, frantically signaling his friends. They tripped over each other in their haste to escape, the bell jangling wildly as they fled into the darkness.
Silence settled over the shop like snow.
Elara released a shuddering breath, knuckles white against the counter's edge.
Damien turned to her. The monster receded, replaced by the man—but his eyes remained dark, pupils dilated.
"Did he touch you?" The question cut through the air, urgent and raw.
"No," Elara said softly. "No, you... you handled it."
"Good." Damien dragged fingers through his hair, exhaling sharply. "If he had touched you, I would have torn his arm off."
He stated it as simple fact—not a threat, just an inevitable consequence.
Elara studied him—truly looked at him. Terrifying, yes. But he stood between her and the door, body angled to shield her. He'd waited hours just to ensure her safety. He'd tried to feed her with stale muffins.
A traitorous flutter awakened in her chest.
"Why?" she whispered. "Why are you doing this? You don't know me."
Damien approached the counter. His hand hovered in the air between them before gently settling over hers.
Warmth seeped into her aching joints, spreading up her arm.
"I don't know," he admitted, voice rough like gravel. "I don't know why. All I know is that when I'm not near you, the world feels... empty. And when I am near you, I feel like I can finally breathe."
Vulnerability softened his features—an expression that should be impossible on an Alpha's face.
"Who are you, Elara?" he asked, the question hanging between them. "And why do you feel like home?"
Her pulse hammered against her throat. She wanted to tell him everything. Wanted to lean into his touch and let the bond snap into place.
But memory flashed: hunters with silver bullets, white fur stained crimson. She withdrew her hand gently.
"I'm just a barista, Damien," she said, his name unfamiliar yet right on her tongue. "And I have to close the shop."
Damien stared at his empty hand, then nodded slowly. The CEO mask slid back into place, though his eyes remaine