Chapter 3

Scarlett's POV 

The worst of the pub rush had finally passed. The air still thrummed with leftover noise, scraping chairs and slurred laughter, but the frantic energy was gone. 

My body ached all over and my elbow and finger joints made a popping sound every time I moved them, a trademark from the constant mixing and stirring I'd been doing all day. And frankly, I was grateful to just sit behind the sink and do dishes as long as I wasn't moving, but a girl could only dream.

Fiona leaned over the bar counter minutes later, sliding a note pad across the tapered counter tile.

“We got an order here.” She announced, settling onto one of the stools with a tired sigh.

I stepped out from behind the bar sink, wiping away soap suds from my hands on a towel as I joined her at the counter. I scanned the note pad, lips twitching with impression at the detail of the order.

“Exotic.” I hummed, already turning towards the liquor shelves, wincing a little at the pain around my shoulder as I reached for a margarita on the top shelf.

“I know.” She agreed, a knowing smile gracing her lips. “It's from table twenty six. You know table twenty six?”

“Of course I know table twenty six,”  I deadpanned, setting the drinks on the counter. “I work here.”

She made a face at me. “I meant the people, genius.”

My gaze flicked past her, pointed but casual, towards the familiar group of wolves occupying the table, each of them radiating an easy confidence, quiet and composed in a way that didn't match the mostly rowdy aesthetic of the establishment.

Among them sat the man, who'd helped her earlier. He wasn't speaking, just listening to something the blonde man beside him was saying, his brown hair catching the light in a way that made it richer, warm amber eyes sweeping the room.

“Apparently, they're from this new pack that just got into town. And the cute one with brown hair, Arlo–” 

Arlo, I repeated in my head.

 “–he's the Alpha.”

That explained the aura he gave off. The silent control he exuded, even without having to voice it. The way the panther shifters had backed off earlier when he appeared. Even just sitting there, he reeked of power. It was abhorring. Wolves were abhorring. Too rigid in their hierarchy, and obsessed with maintaining pure blood. I knew because I'd been in a pack once, until they decided I was a blot in their existence, and exiled me and my mother, simply because I wasn't ‘wolf enough’. 

That was where my mother's resentment set in. Her constant accusations against me for ruining her life and selfish need to be even by constantly piling debts in my name. 

Sometimes though, I felt like it started way before that, way before the exile. Sometimes, I think, she just despised me for what I was: this abominable mix of lycan and warlock, an incomplete representation of my father. A father I'd never known, but who my mother resented just as much. Many times, I'm tempted to tell her she's the one who chose to mate a warlock. She chose to have me, but I never do.

I pushed the button on the blender, its whirring sound pulling me back before memories sank its teeth deeper.

Still it didn't explain the way my body reacted every time I looked at him.

“And the blonde? That's Rhett,” Fiona continued, undeterred, “Curtis is the brunette—the guy not the girl. The red head is Lyra… or was it Lola? Either way, she has a twin–” 

“You got all this from just taking their orders?” I cut in, pushing the tray of drinks towards her.

“Yep.” She claimed proudly, picking the tray smoothly and balancing it on one palm with practiced ease. “I'm very perceptive.”

“Sure.”

I reached for a paper towel, wiping down the counter as she glided through the room to their table. She set each drink down carefully in front of its owner, her lips in a wide smile as she made casual conversation with them. She’d always been such an easy charm, that was probably why she always knew so much. 

My gaze drifted to Arlo, who was already watching me. The contact was brief, a second at most, but it felt like forever, something unspoken stretching between us.

I broke the connection first, looking away immediately. My pulse hammered against my skin and I tried and failed to ignore the little jump my heart did. 

What the fuck is wrong with me? 

I turned away from the counter, my hand brushing hard enough against the mixer that it almost went tumbling to the ground. I caught it just in time.

“You break it, you buy it.” Randy called, still nursing his same tumbler of rum.

“Go home, Randy.” I shot back and to my greatest satisfaction, he did, albeit hours later.

And so did everyone else, one table at a time, until the pub emptied, the noise fading into the low buzz of the refrigerator and the clinking of glass. 

My eyes drifted to Fiona seated cross legged by the counter and scrolling through her phone. 

“You know you don't have to wait for me, right?” I said, setting down a glass. I shifted my weight carefully, a wince flashing my features when I rolled my shoulders and picked another one to clean dry.

“I know.” She replied without meeting my eyes. The tone of her voice told me she knew where this conversation was going and was not ready to engage.

I smiled, “Seriously, you don't.”

She looked away from her phone then, shooting me a measured glance. “You literally got jumped today.”

“I knew I shouldn't have told you.”

“You didn't, I figured it out.” 

I rolled my eyes, still refusing to meet hers. “Seriously though, I'm okay.” I said, though I didn't fully believe it.

“Yeah, tell that to your bruised collar bone.” She argued.

“I knew you were going to this.” I gasped dramatically even though my heart warmed at her concern. “They were just a bunch of thugs who needed quick cash. And they were scared off, so I'm good.”

She didn't look entirely convinced, the hesitation to leave me alone still evident.

“Besides I have to stop by Mr. Kazowski’s.” I continued. She winced at that and I nodded. “Exactly and you know he's gonna keep me hostage for hours belting his ass off. And I don't waste your time.”

She watched me for a little while, concern lining her features. 

“You sure?” she finally asked.

“Hundred percent.” I assured her.

“Okay.” She said after a moment's contemplation.

“Okay.” I repeated.

She slid her purse off the counter, slinging it over her shoulder. I walked her to the door.

“You call me if something happens, okay?” I nodded. “And be careful.” 

“I will.” 

Finally, she stepped into the night disappearing beneath the streetlights. I flicked the pub sign closed and locked the door from the inside, just to be careful.

I returned to drying the glasses and organised the liquor shelves. I wiped down the last of the tables and cleaned the alcohol stains off the floor. By the time I was done, it was properly dark outside, but I didn't care. Taking up the shift of the person who was supposed to close up came with extra cash, and right now, that was what I needed. 

I tied the trash bags close, bidding my luck by carrying the four at once, anything to minimize my journey. I shouldered past the kitchen back door into the dark alley where the dumpster was. I had just put in the last trash bag when I noticed them.

The panthers from earlier.

Their footsteps thundering against the pavement, shadows stretching against dull walls.

I bolted for the kitchen door, my heart thundering in my chest, but they were faster. One of them slammed into me from the side, sending me skidding into the pavement. Pain shot through my ribs, the air knocked out of my lungs when I hit the ground.

I rolled, scrambling to my feet, my thoughts jagged, eyes darting frantically between them. Driven by instinct, I bit my thumb, the burn grounding me as I sketched a sigil onto the concrete, whispered enchantments escaping my lips.

The sigil flared, following the cracks in the pavement and violently shifting the ground beneath the nearest panther and hurling him across the pavement. His claws scraped uselessly against the concrete and I used the opening to run, dragging myself towards the open door, a painful throb travelling up my legs with each desperate step.

I'd only gotten so far when a hand came roughly on my shoulder (the same fucking shoulder), chucking me harshly against the brick wall. I grunted, a flash of pain traveling up my spine. I braced my bloodied thumb against the concrete, trying for another sigil when a foot came down heavily on my hand. Stars burst behind my eyes, manifesting as a delayed cry.

“You fucking bitch.” The one who'd gone flying across the pavement growled, crouching down to my level, his shoe grinding against my fingers, another agonizing sound leaving me. “I oughta–”

He was cut off by his partner flying through the air and landing in a bloody mess on the pavement directly across him. 

The shifter stilled, confusion and poorly concealed fear, flashing across his features. He pushed to his feet, eyes darting from his battered partner to the surrounding darkness and freeing my hand. I pulled it into my chest, wincing around the pained throb.

“Who's there?” He called, brows knitted in unease.

His reply was a deep, rumbling growl, a menacing figure stepping into the alley.

Arlo.

Except he looked feral and utterly uncontained, and nothing like the composed man I'd seen earlier that day. His chest rose and fell with an uneven rhythm, his muscles shifting with every predatory step he took. His eyes were darker, all the warmth of earlier that evening gone as his pupils followed the other man's tiniest movement.

The panther faltered for a moment, but then thought worse of it. He lunged, but Arlo faster and more brutal, all restraint abandoned as he went at the shifter. His fist met the shifter's jaw with a sickening crack and I flinched at the sound. I told myself I had to get up and out of here but I couldn't muster the energy. Not yet.

The shifter, understanding he was in a losing battle, tried to run. 

Arlo caught him and didn't stop.

He kept hitting, each blow fueled by something primal and savage, until I grasped with a surge of fear that might kill him.

“Arlo?” I whimpered.

He froze with his fist in the air, chest still heaving, eyes wild and unrepentant as he started at the fading shifter beneath him. Slowly, and with deliberate effort, he pulled away and turned to me, his eyes flashing with something like guilt.

He closed the distance between in two short strides, and recoiled, my muscles tensing in anticipation of another battering. 

Instead he crouched beside me, his large hands ghosting over mine.

“You're hurt.”

I looked away, bracing my good hand against the wall, I pushed to my feet.

“I'm fine.” I lied, my eyes settling on his split knuckles, covered in blood that wasn't all theirs. “Why don't you just worry about yourself?”

My knees buckled beneath me, but I caught myself just in time.

The pain was fully catching up now that the adrenaline had worn off and everything suddenly began to hurt. My ribs, where I had been slammed into. My shoulder, where I had been grabbed. My fingers, where they'd been crushed beneath the shifter's boot.

“I'm fine.” I repeated, attempting to walk again and failing miserably.

Arlo caught me just in time, his warm hands snaking around my waist and my body reacted against my will: heart racing, pulse spiking, an electrifying sensation travelling up my spine. 

He pulled me closer, careful with it, like any harder and I might break, the rage from minutes ago tempered now by something else.

“Let me help you?” He said, voice almost pleading.