SERA'S POV
The coffee machine hisses like an angry snake, and I barely flinch. After eight hours on my feet, I'm too tired to care.
"Sera, honey, why are you still doing this?"
I look up at Mrs. Chen, my favorite regular customer. She's seventy-something, always smells like lavender, and tips way too much for a simple latte.
"Doing what?" I ask, forcing my best smile—the one that says I'm totally fine when I'm actually dying inside.
"Working here." She waves at the tiny coffee shop like it personally offended her. "You're smart. You could be doing so much more with your life."
If only you knew, I think. But I just shrug. "I like coffee. And the tips are good."
It's a lie. I hate coffee. The smell makes me sick after smelling it for ten hours straight. But this job is perfect because nobody asks questions. Nobody knows my real name. Nobody cares where I came from.
That's exactly how I need it.
Mrs. Chen shakes her head, disappointed, and leaves with her drink. The moment she's gone, my smile drops. I'm exhausted. My feet hurt. My head is pounding. And I still have another hour before my shift ends.
The bell above the door jingles. Another customer.
I paste the smile back on. "Welcome to Moonbean Coffee, what can I—"
"Just black coffee," the man grunts without looking up from his phone.
Rude. But whatever. I make his coffee, take his money, and go back to wiping down tables that are already clean.
This is my life now. Boring. Safe. Invisible.
Exactly what my mother died to give me.
"Never let them find you," she'd whispered seven years ago, blood pooling beneath her. "Never let them know what you are. Run, Sera. And never stop running."
So I ran. And I'm still running.
New city every six months. New name. New job. New apartment with locks that don't work and neighbors who don't care. I've lived in fifteen cities since she died. Seattle is number sixteen.
Maybe I'll make it to seventeen.
The clock finally hits nine. My shift is over. I untie my apron so fast the strings almost rip, grab my backpack, and practically sprint for the door.
The night air hits my face—cold, wet, smelling like rain and car exhaust. Seattle never stops raining. I kind of like it. Rain makes people keep their heads down. Makes them ignore the girl walking past.
I'm halfway down the block when I hear it.
Screaming.
My whole body goes stiff. Every instinct I have screams RUN. HIDE. DON'T GET INVOLVED.
But I look anyway.
A car is speeding down the street—way too fast, swerving like the driver's drunk or crazy or both. And standing right in the middle of the crosswalk, frozen in terror, is a little girl.
She can't be more than five years old. Pink jacket. Blonde pigtails. Eyes huge with fear.
The car isn't slowing down.
Everyone else is just standing there, screaming, pointing, doing absolutely nothing useful.
The girl is going to die.
Not your problem, the voice in my head hisses. If you help her, people will notice. People will ask questions. People will—
But I'm already moving.
The world slows down—or maybe I speed up, I've never been sure which. Everything around me goes quiet except for the pounding of my heart and the squeal of tires on wet pavement.
I run.
Not normal running. The kind of running that shouldn't be possible. The kind that makes the world blur and my blood burn hot beneath my skin.
Three seconds. That's all I have.
Two seconds.
I reach the little girl, scoop her into my arms, and throw us both toward the sidewalk.
One second.
We hit the ground hard. I curl around her, protecting her head with my hands. The car screams past—so close I feel the wind from it—and crashes into a storefront with an explosion of breaking glass.
For a moment, everything is silent.
Then the screaming starts again.
People rush toward us. The little girl is crying but she's alive—not a scratch on her. I try to stand up, but my legs are shaking. My hands are shaking. Everything is shaking.
What did I just do?
"Oh my God, are you okay?"
"That was incredible!"
"Did you see how fast she moved?"
"Someone call an ambulance!"
"I got it on video!"
That last one makes my blood turn to ice.
Video.
I look up and see at least five people with their phones out, pointed right at me. Recording. Uploading. Sharing.
No. No, no, no.
I try to push through the crowd, but they're surrounding me now, asking questions, patting me on the back, calling me a hero.
"Miss, please wait," a police officer says, grabbing my arm gently. "We need a statement."
"I'm fine," I say, pulling away. "I didn't do anything special, I just—"
"You saved that child's life," the officer insists. "We need your name for the report."
My name. Right. Because that's what always happens when you do something good—they want to know who you are. Where you live. How to find you.
And if the wrong people see that video...
My phone buzzes in my pocket. I don't need to check it to know what's happening. The video is already uploading. Already going viral. Already spreading across the internet like wildfire.
I'm so stupid. So incredibly stupid.
I give the officer a fake name—I've got about twenty memorized. I smile. I lie. I tell them I really need to get home.
Finally, they let me go.
I walk three blocks before I start running again. Not superhuman speed this time—just normal, terrified running.
I reach my apartment building, take the stairs two at a time, fumble with my keys until the door finally opens.
The moment I'm inside, I lock every lock, draw every curtain, and pull out my emergency bag—already packed, always ready.
I'll leave tonight. Take the first bus out of Seattle. Maybe Portland. Maybe further.
That's when I smell it.
Pine and smoke. Danger and dominance. The scent of something wild and powerful and definitely not human.
My heart stops.
Slowly, I turn around.
Three massive men are standing in my apartment. I didn't hear them come in. Didn't hear the window open. They're just there, watching me with eyes that reflect the light wrong.
Eyes that glow.
The largest one smiles, showing teeth that are just a little too sharp.
"Hello, Sera," he growls. "The Alpha wants to see you."