The Alpha's Sentence

“Greer, I seated table nine,” Vanessa says, peering around the divider with a grin. “Your section was looking a little empty.”

“Van–” I stop myself. She doesn’t care. She does this every time. It was looking empty because my shift was over, you unbearable ass. “Yeah, I’ll just clock back in.”

“You do that,” she says with a dismissive wave, grin broadening at my scowl. Fucking bitch.

I let out a sigh and yank my apron back off the hook, swearing as my pen scatters across the floor. On top of not getting shit for tips today, now I have to stay late. Did I have plans? No. But I’m so sick of these walls, I’m ready to scream.

For the third time today, and the millionth time of the week, I consider picking up smoking just for the excuse it will give me to escape outside during these unbearable shifts.

“Hi, my name is Greer, and I’ll be your server today. What can I get started for you?” I say the usual spiel as I approach the table.

My nose itches.

Not like I need to sneeze. It’s deeper than that. Sharp, almost burning. I blink hard and tilt my head without meaning to, like my body is trying to line itself up.

The air feels heavier the closer I get, like it’s pressing back. Thick. Pressing against my chest.

I stop a step short of the table, fingers tightening around my notepad. My stomach drops, not from nerves. From weight. Sudden and dense, like something just settled there without asking.

I swallow, and the motion feels wrong, like my throat didn’t get the message in time.

“Sorry,” I say automatically, though nothing’s happened yet.

My pulse stutters.

Whatever just shifted inside me doesn’t feel like mine.

When I look up, it’s into deep brown eyes. Not soft. Not kind. Hard and cold. Dark hair, sharp features, a face that would be handsome if it weren’t for the way he looks at me. Like I’m an offense. Like my presence has already irritated him.

The moment we lock eyes, something in him shifts. Something like recognition, followed quickly by confusion, then disgust. As if my existence is something he’s offended by.

I try to open my mouth to say something. Anything. But every time I breathe, his scent embeds itself deeper, and something inside of me is trying to claw its way up to answer.

His expression hardens. Not anger, though that would be kinder. No, this is something sharper. Disgust, naked and immediate.

He’s on his feet before I can process the shift, the booth screeching as he shoves it back with enough force to rattle the table.

“Don’t,” he snaps, the word low and harsh.

He moves to pass me, fast and unforgiving, and the impact comes before I can react. His shoulder clips mine hard enough to spin me off balance, the world tilting violently as my feet slide out from under me.

I hit the floor hard, the breath tearing out of my chest in a sharp, humiliating gasp.

“Fuck,” I grunt, pushing myself upright. My palms sting. My lungs burn. I look up just in time to see him heading for the front door, completely unbothered by the fact that he just knocked the wind out of me.

“Fuck you too, man,” I snap after him.

Then I flinch. Actually flinch when he turns that hard gaze on me over his shoulder.

“Maybe in your dreams, little stray,” he says. His voice is low, but it carries. Deep. Unmistakably final.

He looks me over slowly and deliberately, like he is cataloging something he does not like, then turns away and walks out. The diner door slams behind him hard enough to rattle the windows.

Stray?

What the fuck?

I don’t stand there wondering what that means. There had been someone in my section, and now there’s not. My apron is off and my notepad discarded by the time I reach the kitchen.

“Hey,” Vanessa starts, trying to stop me before I can punch my timecard again.

I brush past her and stamp it anyway, then bolt for the back door before she can try to trap me for another minute.

The cold air hits my face, and so does that scent. Low and cruel, a punch straight to the gut. It sinks into me deeper this time, sharp and undeniable.

Fire blooms in my core.

I stagger to my truck and brace my hands against the hood, breathing hard, waiting for the ground to stop tilting. The night feels too close. Too thick.

Whatever he left behind in me isn’t done.

I climb into my truck and whisper a quick prayer to whatever god might be listening that my engine doesn’t treat me the same way the rest of today has, then turn the key. Thankfully, it starts, and I’m peeling out of the parking lot before Vanessa can guilt-trip me into working another double.

As I merge onto the highway, a large black blur cuts through my peripheral vision. I jerk my head toward it, pulse spiking, but there’s nothing there.

What the hell was that?

I take a deep breath and try to shake it off, but that burning in my core only grows hotter. Bigger. It spreads through me like a wildfire, impossible to contain. Before I’ve even made it a mile down the road, restlessness crawls under my skin. My fingers drum against the steering wheel. My leg bounces against the torn leather seat.

I don’t realize my foot is heavy on the accelerator until I glance down and see the speedometer creeping toward ninety.

Jesus.

I didn’t even know my truck could handle that.

I ease off the gas as I take my off-ramp, heart hammering, when the blur flashes again at the edge of my vision. Closer this time. My pulse jumps hard enough that it hurts.

It looks like a bear.

No. That’s not right.

That thing is too long. Too fast.

Is it a wolf?

When I finally pull into the driveway of my house, I practically bolt for the side door, though I don’t know why. There’s no one following me.

Why would there be?

I’m… well. I’m me.

I try to jog up the stairs to my bedroom the same way I do every day, but my foot catches on the third step. That’s embarrassing. And weird. I manage to get upright, but my legs shake too hard to hold my weight.

It’s not fear. And it’s not weakness.

It’s this heat. This thing clawing its way up from my stomach.

I brace my hand against the wall, breathing through the pounding of my heart. The air feels too thin. The weight in my chest is too heavy. It isn’t until I taste copper that I realize I’m biting down hard on my tongue.

I drag myself into my bedroom and crawl under the covers like that might help, like it might muffle the low hum vibrating through my body. It feels like a frequency I’ve never tuned into before.

Lying down makes it worse.

The moment I’m horizontal, the fire takes over my legs, burning all the way down to my toes. My chest tightens like my lungs forgot how to work. My skin feels too tight. Like I’m going to combust if I don’t cool off.

I fling myself out of bed and stagger to the window, struggling to wrench it open.

The second I do, I regret it.

That same scent from the diner slams into me. Heat. Hunger. Cedar.

“God,” I whisper, squeezing my eyes shut as I crawl backward, away from the window.

That smell makes me want to rip my skin off and crawl out of it. At the same time, it sends heat straight to a place I do not want to think about.

I force myself upright, knees wobbling as I stumble back down the stairs.

I rip the front door open.

And I am face-to-face with a massive black wolf.

I open my mouth, but nothing comes out. I am not sure what I expected. A word? Animals aren’t known for conversation. A scream? Somehow, that feels unwise.

Instead, the only sound I manage is a humiliating little squeak, which I will never admit to making.

My fingers tighten around the door handle, and I manage a small step back. I half expect the wolf to close the distance instantly, to lunge, to tear into me.

It doesn’t.

It stays exactly where it is, huge and still, fierce brown eyes locked on mine.

Some stupid voice in my head says those eyes look familiar. Like the man from the diner.

That’s ridiculous.

Wolf men are not real. If they were, the world would know about them. There would be documentaries. Warning signs. Something.

The wolf finally moves.

Not toward my throat. Not to maul me like I expect.

Instead, he lowers his massive head until his muzzle hovers an inch from my chest and huffs, sharp and offended, like whatever he smells there makes him angry.

I’m screaming at my body to move. To slam the door. To turn and run.

Nothing happens.

I wish I could say it’s all fear.

His eyes snap back to my face as his head lowers further, until his muzzle is level with my hip. He inhales deeply.

His pupils flare wide.

A low sound vibrates out of him. Not loud. Not wild.

Finally my body catches up to my brain. I jolt back, the door slamming closed as I spin and bolt up the stairs.

There’s no way that just happened. There’s no way I just made prolonged eye contact with a wolf.

I stood an inch away from what is probably the largest wolf in existence and survived.

Why was there a wolf standing at my door in the first place? And why did some part of me… recognize it?

No. You’re going crazy, Greer. You’re seeing shit.

God, I really wish I were a smoker. I need a cigarette.

I don’t know what part of my brain decides it needs proof, but before I realize I’m moving, I’m back in the hallway, walking toward the window.

I take a deep breath as I flip the latch and push it open, then lean out and look down toward the front door.

Nothing.

I almost laugh as I reach to close the window.

Then I glance up toward the road.

The wolf stands just inside the tree line, massive and still, eyes locked on me like he never looked away at all.

Fuck.