Chapter 06 (Part 03)

I sip the coffee to buy time, to give my hands something to do besides shake. It’s bitter, hot, too strong—the kind of coffee that strips paint and keeps truckers awake for days. But I’m grateful for the taste, for something that grounds me in the physical world when everything else feels like it’s shifting beneath my feet.

The caffeine hits my empty stomach like acid, but the warmth is comforting. Real. Tangible in a way that nothing else in this town seems to be.

“You’re not normal, are you?” I ask suddenly.

It slips out before I can stop it, before my brain can catch up and apply the filters that keep polite society functioning. But once it’s out there, I don’t try to take it back. Because I need to know, and because I’m tired of dancing around the obvious.

Elias blinks slowly, processing the question. Then he smiles again—but this time it’s smaller. Sadder. Like I’ve touched on something he’d rather not discuss but can’t entirely deny.

“No,” he says simply. “But I’m harmless.”

“That sounds like a lie.”

The words hang between us, honest and sharp. Because everything about him—from his too-bright eyes to his casual mention of scent to the way he talks like he knows things he shouldn’t—screams dangerous. Predatory. Other.

He leans in slightly, his tone shifting—quieter, lower, more intimate. Like he’s sharing a secret meant only for me. “If I wanted to hurt you, Ivy, you wouldn’t be sipping coffee right now.”

I freeze, the mug halfway to my lips.

The threat is delivered so casually, so matter-of-factly, that it takes a moment for the words to sink in. There’s no anger in his voice, no aggression. Just simple truth stated like a weather report.

Then his smile returns, softer again, and the moment breaks like a soap bubble.

“I’m joking.”

I set the mug down carefully, fighting the urge to throw it at his head. “You’re really not.”

Because I can see it in his eyes—the knowledge that he could hurt me if he wanted to. The certainty that he’s choosing not to, and that this choice is a gift I should be grateful for.

We fall into a silence that stretches too long, heavy with implications neither of us wants to address directly. I can hear the kitchen sounds again, muffled by the swinging doors. The tick of an old clock somewhere behind the counter.

Normal sounds that feel anything but normal.

Finally, he speaks again, breaking the tension with words that make everything worse.

“He doesn’t usually come down here.”

My stomach drops. “Who?”

But even as I ask, I know. Something deep in my bones knows, the same instinct that’s been screaming warnings since I arrived in this place.

Elias’s eyes shift toward the door, and his whole posture changes. Alert now, focused. Like a soldier who just heard enemy movement in the distance.

Like he felt something before it even happened.

And then—

The bell over the door chimes.

The air changes.

Just a soft ding—barely louder than the hum of the ancient refrigerator behind the counter, no different from the sound it made when I walked in twenty minutes ago.

But the second it happens, the air changes.

I don’t mean that metaphorically. I don’t mean the mood shifts or the atmosphere grows tense.

I mean the air actually changes.

The pressure in the room drops like we’ve suddenly gained altitude, like the oxygen has been sucked out through some invisible vacuum. The warmth from the coffee in my hands turns cold, the ceramic suddenly feeling like ice against my palms. My breath catches—stuck in my throat like something’s pushing down on my chest, making it impossible to inhale fully.

Every nerve ending in my body lights up at once, a full-system alert that makes me want to run and hide and fight all at the same time. My vision sharpens until I can see dust motes floating in the shaft of sunlight streaming through the window. My hearing becomes acute enough to catch the soft whisper of Elias’s breathing across from me.

I don’t turn around right away. I don’t have to.

Because my body knows.

Whatever this is, whoever this is, my entire nervous system recognizes them before my brain can process what’s happening. Every instinct I have is screaming danger, but underneath that is something else. Something that feels like recognition wrapped in terror and anticipation.

Something just walked in. Something big. Bigger than human. Bigger than safe. Bigger than anything I’ve ever encountered in my carefully mundane life.

Elias straightens across from me, his casual demeanor evaporating in an instant. Not tense exactly, but alert in a way that reminds me of nature documentaries—the moment when prey animals lift their heads and freeze, nostrils flaring, ears pricked for the sound of approaching predators.

Not tense, but ready. Like a soldier who just heard a rifle cock behind him and is calculating his options.

Then I hear the footsteps.

Slow. Measured. Heavy enough to vibrate through the old floorboards beneath my feet.

Boots on old tile, each step deliberate and controlled, like their owner has all the time in the world and knows exactly where he’s going. There’s confidence in the sound, certainty. The kind of walk that belongs to someone who’s never had to worry about whether he’s welcome, because his presence changes the rules of any space he enters.

My heart pounds so hard I can feel it in my throat, in my temples, in the pulse points at my wrists. Every beat sends another wave of awareness through my system, like my body is trying to catalog every detail of this moment for future reference.

I turn my head, moving slowly like I’m underwater, heart thudding in my ears loud enough to drown out everything else.

And I see him.

He walks in like the room belongs to him.

Like everything does.

The first thing I notice is his size. Tall—easily six-three, maybe more—with the kind of broad shoulders that speak of physical labor and discipline. His presence fills the doorway completely, blocking out the gray morning light behind him until he becomes a silhouette against the world outside.

He’s dressed in all black. Black jeans that fit like they were tailored specifically for his body. Black boots that have been use but are well-maintained. A black shirt that clings to a torso made of sharp lines and silent violence, the fabric stretched across muscles that shift and bunch with predatory grace.

His sleeves are pushed to his forearms, revealing hands that hang loose at his sides but somehow manage to look dangerous even in repose. There’s tension in the way his shoulders shift as he moves, like he’s holding something back with effort. Like relaxation is a conscious choice rather than a natural state.

But his face—

God, his face.

Rough jaw covered with a day’s worth of dark stubble. High cheekbones that could cut glass. A mouth set in a hard line that suggests smiling is not something he does often or easily. His hair is dark, almost black, and slightly too long, like he couldn’t be bothered with regular maintenance.

There are lines around his eyes that speak of squinting into sun and wind, of years spent outdoors in conditions that would break softer men. A small scar cuts through his left eyebrow, pale and thin, old enough to have faded but still visible.

He’s beautiful in the way that dangerous things are beautiful. Like a storm on the horizon or a wildfire cresting a ridge. The kind of beauty that makes you want to look and run away at the same time.

But it’s his eyes that stop my heart.

Burning gold. Not warm or soft or inviting.

Predatory.

They sweep the room once, cataloging details with military efficiency, before landing on me and going completely still. When our eyes meet, the impact is physical. Like being struck by lightning or hit by a moving vehicle. Every cell in my body responds to that gaze, recognizing something that my conscious mind refuses to accept.

He sees me the second he steps through the door.

Stops walking.

Doesn’t blink.

Doesn’t look at Elias or scan the empty room or acknowledge anything else in his field of vision.

Just me.

And that’s when it happens.

My body reacts.

I suck in a breath like I’ve been punched, like someone just dumped ice water over my head while simultaneously setting me on fire. Heat surges through my chest, spreading outward in waves that make my skin feel too tight, too sensitive. Then it drops lower—sharp and insistent and completely inappropriate given that I’m sitting in a public place staring at a complete stranger.

It’s not attraction, not exactly. It’s something deeper, more primal. Like every cell in my body is recognizing something my brain hasn’t caught up to yet. Like I’m remembering something I never learned.

I grip the edge of the table to steady myself, my knuckles going white with the effort of staying upright and appearing normal when everything inside me is screaming chaos.

What the hell is this?

I don’t know him. I’ve never seen him before in my life. I’m certain of that because I would remember a face like his, would remember eyes that burn like molten metal and the way his presence seems to bend reality around him.

But every cell in my body is screaming danger and don’t move and mine and touch me and I’ll burn all at the same time. It’s terrifying and exhilarating and completely overwhelming.

He takes one more step, and the air grows heavier.

Like he’s dragging gravity in with him, warping the space around him until even the light seems to bend in his direction. The temperature in the room drops several degrees, but my skin feels flushed, hypersensitive.

He doesn’t speak.

He doesn’t need to.

Because something deep in my bones—the same place that’s been dreaming of wolves and glowing eyes and teeth in the dark—recognizes him.

Not by name. Not by logic or memory or any rational process.

Just… knows.

Knows he’s not safe.

Knows he’s not human. Not entirely.

Knows he’s here for me.