BETWEEN TWO ALPHA'S

He doesn’t stay long. Maybe thirty minutes, maybe less. He barely touches his drink just watches the bar with a casual air that doesn’t quite hide the predator beneath.

But he keeps glancing at me. Not in the obvious way most men do. It’s subtler than that. 

The third time I catch his eyes on me, I have to excuse myself. My hands tremble, not from fear, but from something harder to pin down. Something warm and frustratingly alive.

Ellie gives me a knowing smirk. “Go hydrate or scream into a mop bucket, boss. I’ve got this.”

I slip into the back, lock the door, and brace my hands on the sink. His gaze still lingers on my skin like it’s been burned there.

Why does he look at me like he knows me?

More importantly, why does it make my chest feel like it isn’t mine?

When I return, his stool is empty. His glass is gone.

Just like that, so is he.

---

The next morning starts with the hateful blare of my phone vibrating on the nightstand.

I groan and roll over, grabbing it before it can ring again.

Private Caller.

That can only mean one thing.

“Yeah?” I mutter, voice scratchy with sleep.

“You’re late on the last two payments, Seline.”

Loan collectors don’t do pleasantries.

“I told you I’d get it this month. Business has been slow.”

“Business isn’t our problem. The debt is.”

I sit up, pressing my fingers to my temple.

“I’m good for it. I always am.”

A pause. Then:

“You’d better be. We know where your father is. Next time, we might collect from him directly.”

The line goes dead.

I stare at the wall, rage boiling low in my gut. My father hasn’t stepped foot in my life in years, but somehow he still manages to leave messes behind for me to clean up.

Gambling. Deals with the wrong kind of wolves. Debts with monsters who don’t care who pays, as long as someone does.

And me?

I just keep sweeping up the shattered pieces.

---

The bar is quiet when I unlock the doors that afternoon.

Ellie shows up a few hours later, coffee in one hand, croissant in the other.

“You okay?” she asks, eyeing the shadows under my eyes.

“Just peachy,” I lie.

But it’s easier to push it aside once the crowd rolls in.

The next few nights pass in a blur of spilled liquor, broken chairs, and fae trickery.

Normal. Comfortable.

Until he comes back.

Same stool. Same drink.

Same look that says he didn’t come here for the ambiance.

“Back again?” I ask, sliding him a whiskey, neat.

He takes it without looking away. “Maybe I like the atmosphere.”

I arch a brow. “You like the fire hazard wiring or the constant threat of a vampire brawl?”

He smile.

The kind of smile you earn, not the kind you’re handed.

“I like you.”

I blink.

Straightforward. No games.

“That usually scares people off,” I mutter, wiping down the counter.

He sips his drink, eyes locked on mine. “I’m not most people.”

Yeah. No kidding.

He comes again the next night. And the next. Always in gray or black, always exuding that same calm dominance that makes even the drunkest wolves sober up.

He doesn’t talk much unless I start it, but when he does, it’s never small talk.

“You know you’re suppressing your shift, right?” he says one night, watching me clean blood off a barstool like it’s just another Tuesday.

I freeze. “Excuse me?”

He leans forward, fingers wrapped loosely around his glass. “You’re wolfing. Probably been doing it for years. Your scent’s unstable. Your aura flickers when you’re agitated.”

I narrow my eyes. “You think you can read me?”

“I can read you,” he says, steady and calm. “You’re a lone wolf holding yourself together with duct tape and grit. But your wolf’s restless. It’s only a matter of time.”

I hate how accurate that is.

Worse, I hate that he noticed.

“How would you know what my wolf feels like?”

He tilts his head like the answer’s obvious. “Because I’m an alpha.”

I stare.

“You’re a long way from your pack,” I say carefully.

He smiles again. Dry. Subtle. “Silver Fang doesn’t tie its alphas down. We travel when we need to.”

My stomach flips.

Silver Fang. One of the most feared and respected packs in the region. Neutral. Deadly. Led by ghosts more than men.

“And you just happened to wander into my bar?” I ask, skeptical.

“Maybe I was looking for something.”

“Found it yet?”

His gaze doesn’t waver. “Getting there.”

Something about the way he says it makes my wolf perk up.

He stays longer after that. Talks more. Teases me when I forget how many receipts I’ve already counted. Argues about whiskey distilleries (he’s still wrong).

He even asks about my childhood, not the painful parts, just enough to make me laugh at memories I thought I’d buried.

Weeks pass.

Lucian Vale becomes a fixture in my bar and, if I’m honest, in my thoughts.

And then everything goes sideways.

---

It’s a Friday night. Loud. Packed. The air buzzes with too many scents and not enough patience. Ellie’s running drinks like a machine. I’m mid-flirt with Lucian about his obnoxiously pretentious leather notebook when I catch it—

A flicker of movement just beyond the window.

I glance up. And freeze.

A man stands outside, half-shadowed by the streetlight. Tall. Still. Watching.

Tailored suit. Arms crossed. Someone beside him, probably a pack member. His presence is too... still.

My heart stutters.

I haven’t seen him since that first night. Since he looked at me like he knew me and I didn’t know him. He never came back. Not once.

But now?

Here he is.

Our eyes meet.

My breath catches.

There’s no smile. No warmth. Just something unreadable and beneath it, something coiled. Like regret wrapped in rage.

He looks exactly like I remember. And nothing like I want him to.

I don’t even realize I’ve stopped moving until Lucian’s voice cuts in, low and sharp.

“Who is that?”

I don’t answer.

Lucian follows my gaze. His energy shifts instantly.

He stands—slow, deliberate. And I feel it: the weight of power. Not bar-flirt Lucian. Not calm, charming Lucian.

Alpha Lucian.

“Ronan,” he says, voice hardening.

“Alpha of the Blackstone Pack.”

Blackstone.

My pulse pounds.

Everyone’s heard of Blackstone. Isolated. Brutal. Traditional to the point of cruelty. A pack that values strength above all else. Weakness isn’t tolerated, it’s erased.

Lucian’s tone stays neutral, but his jaw is locked.

“You know him?” I whisper.

“I know of him,” he says. “He’s not someone you forget.”

When I glance back at the window, Ronan is still watching.

And he doesn’t look pleased.

That kind of tension, the one that raises hackles settles deep.

No one else in the bar has noticed him yet. Not yet.

Then he moves.

Not toward the door.

Just slowly down the sidewalk. Past the window.

His gaze never leaving mine until the very last second.

And as he passes, he glances at Lucian.

The look they share?

Pure voltage.

Not recognition.

Not respect.

Rivalry.

Enemies, maybe.

Or something worse.

“Something I should know?” I ask, my voice tight.

Lucian watches him disappear into the night.

“You should stay away from him,” he says.

“Why?”

He looks at me, sharp and unflinching.

“Because I don’t like the way he looks at you.”

“And how do you look at me?” I challenge.

He smiles.

But there’s no heat in it.

“Like I don’t plan on losing.”