MINE

~ • ~ • ~

THIRD PERSON’S POV

Across the city, silence reigned in the Alpha’s office.

The moonlight filtered through half-closed blinds, glinting off the crest of White Cliff carved into the wall behind him. Papers sat untouched; the whiskey glass before him reflected the fire’s glow. Jake hadn’t moved in hours.

He’d replayed that night again and again—the girl’s trembling breath, the flash of fear and strength in her eyes, the way she had slipped away before dawn as though escape was a duty, not a choice.

He should have been furious. Wolves didn’t take lightly to being walked away from.

And he was furious—just not at her.

At himself. For remembering the scent of rain and honey that clung to her skin. For wanting to know what kind of storm built a woman who could vanish and still haunt his sleep.

Jake’s jaw flexed as he stared into the amber depths of his drink.

He’d told himself it was lust. A mistake of instinct.

But seeing her again three nights ago—serving coffee like she belonged to a world too small for her fire—had stripped him of every illusion.

The bond was real.

His wolf had known the moment her scent brushed the air: Mate.

He had spent years rejecting fate’s cruel timing. Yet there she was, fragile and defiant, shaking hands hidden behind an apron. She didn’t even know what she was to him.

Jake tipped back the glass and swallowed the burn in one motion.

“You can run, little wolf,” he murmured into the empty room, “but fate doesn’t bend. And I don’t break.”

The shadows answered with silence.

~ • ~ • ~

ELLA’S POV

When morning came, I felt as if gravity had doubled overnight.

Every muscle ached; my bones pressed against the thin mattress like punishment. The world was heavy, and I was the only thing holding it up.

I didn’t close my eyes again. I couldn’t. Every time I did, I saw him, Jake the stranger whose voice still lived in the corners of my mind.

I told myself to forget.

I’d said the words out loud in the dark, like an oath.

Forget the stare that saw too much. Forget the heat that wasn’t supposed to exist. Forget how my pulse had betrayed me.

But forgetting is a luxury for people who haven’t been branded by memory.

I shoved the blanket aside and forced my body upright. The air in the small room was stale, thick with the scent of soap and last night’s rain. I dressed quickly—uniform, apron, hair tied back tight. The mirror caught my reflection for half a second: tired eyes, but still standing.

Work.

That was the plan. Work until my thoughts went quiet.

By the time I reached the diner, the morning rush had already started. Plates clattered; the bell over the door rang without mercy. The air smelled of coffee, butter, and exhaustion. I slipped behind the counter, grabbed a tray, and summoned a smile that didn’t belong to me.

It lasted exactly three seconds.

Because he was there.

Sitting in the far corner like the seat had been waiting for him. One arm stretched lazily along the booth, eyes already fixed on me. Calm. Amused. Dangerous in the way silence is before a storm.

For a heartbeat, the world stopped moving. My tray wobbled in my grip.

He tilted his head, the faintest smirk playing on his lips.

Morning, sunshine, he mouthed.

The air vanished from my lungs.

I turned away sharply, pretending to check the counter, pretending not to notice that my pulse had turned traitor again. He was supposed to be gone. That night was supposed to mean nothing.

But here he was—flesh, shadow, and unreadable intent.

I took the longest route around the tables just to avoid looking at him, but his presence filled the room like gravity. Even the chatter seemed to hush around him.

When I finally reached his table, I kept my gaze on the tray.

“Coffee?” I asked, proud that my voice only shook a little.

“Yes,” he said, voice low, smooth, the kind of tone that made ordinary words sound like promises.

Then, softly: “Black. Unless you’re on the menu.”

My head snapped up before I could stop it. His eyes caught mine—dark, steady, and far too knowing. My face burned.

“Excuse me?” I said, though it came out as barely more than breath.

He leaned forward, elbows resting on the table. “What’s the excuse, Ella? That you ran before I could ask your name?”

The sound of my name on his tongue froze me. I hadn’t told him. I hadn’t told anyone.

“I told you,” I said, clutching the tray, “it was a mistake.”

His gaze didn’t waver. “Didn’t feel like one.”

I turned before he could see my hands shake, before my composure cracked in half.

Focus. Coffee. Orders. Anything but him.

“Order up!” the cook called from behind me.

I grabbed the next plate too fast, syrup sloshing onto my wrist. When I turned back, he was still watching—same unreadable calm, same quiet authority that made the space around him feel smaller.

I set the plate on his table and stepped back. “No coffee yet,” I said, trying to sound like a professional instead of prey.

He smiled slightly, the kind that didn’t reach his eyes.

“Take your time. Watching you hurry might ruin the view.”

The tray trembled in my hand. I wanted to snap something sharp, something that would cut through his arrogance—but before I could, a voice sliced through the air.

“Ella.”

Mr Dallas stood by the counter, arms crossed, frown deep. “You here to daydream or work?”

“Yes, sir.”

Heat flooded my face. Laughter—soft, masculine—followed behind me. I didn’t have to turn to know.

I poured his coffee with a hand that wasn’t steady and set it down a little harder than necessary.

“Careful,” he murmured, fingers brushing the cup. “Wouldn’t want you to burn me. You’ve already left your mark.”

My heart stuttered. I forced myself to walk away, tray clutched against my chest.

I didn’t see his smile fade as I turned. I didn’t see the flicker of guilt—or something close to it—in his eyes.

All I felt was the tremor of my own heartbeat echoing his name I didn’t know.

~ • ~ • ~

THIRD PERSON’S POV

The diner wasn’t his world. It smelled of humans and grease and dreams too small to survive the wild. But he came anyway.

Because she worked here.

When Ella stepped through the door that morning, something inside him shifted. She moved like she was afraid to be noticed, yet every line of her body demanded attention. The wolf in him stirred, restless, pacing beneath his skin.

He’d expected resistance. What he hadn’t expected was how fragile she looked—and how strong that fragility made her seem.

She froze when their eyes met. He almost smiled. Fate doesn’t miss twice.

When she approached, her shoulders were squared, her chin lifted. She was trying to appear untouchable. He respected that. Admired it, even.

But he also knew she was trembling under it.

Jake’s mouth curved as she stammered out the offer for coffee. He could hear the lie in her steady tone. The wolf wanted to push—wanted her to admit she felt the pull too.

He reined it back, but not entirely. “Black,” he said. Then softly: “Unless you’re on the menu.”

Her eyes shot to his, wide, indignant. For a second, his restraint wavered. She had no idea what she did to him with just a look.

He shouldn’t have said it. Yet he couldn’t stop himself.

When she turned away, he noticed the tension in her shoulders—the war between pride and fear. The human part of him wanted to call her back, to soften the edges. The Alpha in him wanted her to turn on her own, to acknowledge the thread pulling them together.

Then the older man snapped her name.

She flinched.

And something dark stirred in Jake’s chest. A low, dangerous sound threatened to rise, one that would’ve reminded the entire room what kind of creature sat among them.

He swallowed it down. Not yet.

She returned with the coffee, hands shaking despite her effort to hide it. He didn’t touch her, just brushed the cup deliberately, close enough for his scent to reach her.

“Careful,” he murmured. “You’ve already left your mark.”

Her pulse jumped in her throat; he heard it clearly. She turned away before he could say more.

Jake watched her retreat to the counter, her back straight but her energy storming.

His wolf wanted to chase.

He forced himself still.

This wasn’t about control.

It was about recognition—the unbearable knowing that someone in the world was meant to mirror your soul and had no idea.

He’d waited years for peace, built walls of command and silence around himself. Now one stubborn, exhausted girl from nowhere had walked through those walls like they were made of paper.

Jake sat there until the coffee went cold. Until she stopped glancing his way even though he could still feel her awareness prickling the air between them.

When he finally rose, he dropped a folded note beside the empty cup.

You can keep running, it said, but I’ll still find you.

Then he stepped into the daylight, the scent of her still tangled in his lungs, the bond humming low and certain under his skin.

His wolf stirred once more, not in hunger this time, but in promise.

Mine, Griffin whispered.

Jake didn’t argue.