Chapter 484

** Poppy’s POV **

I’ve learned two things in the last eight months.

The first is that oat milk people are the most judgmental people in this town. The second is that if you talk back to the voices in your head out loud, strangers will absolutely assume you’re unhinged. Which is honestly pretty fair.

The bell above the coffee shop door chimes as another customer leaves, and I plaster on my best friendly smile while silently begging the universe for five uninterrupted minutes without someone demanding a complicated order that I will most definitely get wrong and earn myself a huff and an eye roll. The universe, as usual, ignores me.

The pressure starts behind my eyes. It’s not painful, more like a hand settling at the base of my skull, heavy and insistent.

“You’re avoiding it again,” the ethereal voice floats through my mind as if it’s my own thought.

I snort a small laugh as I wipe down the counter. “I’m working,” I mutter.

Mrs Ribble, who comes in every morning at 8:17 a.m. narrows her eyes at me from the other side of the counter.

“Sorry,” I say brightly. “Talking to the espresso machine. It’s been giving me attitude all morning.”

She huffs. “Machines don’t have attitudes.”

“You’ve clearly never met this one.”

She leaves with her Americano and a suspicious glance over her shoulder. I can already hear it now.

‘Crazy coffee girl,’ they whisper.

I don’t care, not really. Or at least, I tell myself I don’t.

The pressure deepens, curling inward this time, warm and annoyingly patient.

“You can’t keep running.”

“Oh my goodness,” I hiss under my breath as I grab another cloth and scrub at an already spotless surface. “Can you not do this right now? I’m on shift.”

“You always have an excuse,” a voice replies with an amused tone.

I bite down on my tongue. This one feels different from the others. It’s clearer and sharper somehow. It sounds almost smug.

“I swear,” I whisper, leaning closer to the counter as if the till might overhear, “if you are another hallucination brought on by caffeine withdrawal, I’m going to lose it.”

“You know I’m not.”

A man at the closest table looks up from his laptop screen.

I straighten immediately, forcing a smile. “…lose it,” I repeat louder, with a strained laugh. “Like, misplace it. My pen, it happens all the time.”

He nods slowly and goes back to typing. Fantastic, I nailed it. He doesn’t suspect a thing.

The other presences are there too; they always are. They don’t speak to me though. They press in, sliding like cold fog along the edges of my thoughts.

Sometimes, late at night, I think I hear them breathing. Like they’re right there, just out of sight.

I busy myself making two lattes for a tourist couple who whisper while pointing at the cakes behind the glass, and for a blissful few minutes, the world is just steamed milk, soft chatter, clinking cups and the smell of fresh coffee.

Then the bell rings again, and everything in me goes still. I don’t look up right away, not wanting to alert whatever it is that’s just walked through the door that I can feel them, feel that they’re different. That I can sense how they make the air feel suddenly charged, like the moment before a thunderstorm.

My skin prickles as if someone has dragged fingers lightly down my spine, and my heart skips a beat that has nothing to do with attraction and everything to do with instinct.

“Oh,” says the voice in my mind. “That’s interesting.”

I lift my gaze slowly.

Two men stand just inside the doorway, raindrops clinging to their jackets; one is blonde, the other a redhead. They don’t look the same physically, but they move with the same easy confidence, the same awareness of the space around them. Predators who know they don’t need to rush.

Their eyes find me immediately. Not the counter or the menu, like most customers, their focus is all on me.

I don’t flinch or step back; I just raise an eyebrow and say, “If you’re going to stare, at least buy me dinner first.”

The redhead blinks, and then gives me a curious smile.

“Sorry,” he says. His voice is warm but rough. “Didn’t mean to be rude.”

“Uh-huh,” I reply, already reaching for a cup. “What can I get you?”

They order simply. Black coffee, no sugar, no fuss. As I make their drinks, I can feel them watching. Tracking the way I move, assessing me like they’re trying to solve a puzzle.

The presence inside me stirs uneasily. “Careful,” it murmurs.

I slide the cups across the counter, making sure our fingers don’t touch, but the space between us hums. The blonde man’s gaze sharpens, just for a second, and the redhead cocks his head as he studies me again.

Then he nods. “Thanks.”

They sit at a table near the window. Close enough that I can feel them even when I turn my back. I don’t know what they are, but I know they aren’t human.

They don’t speak to me again or come back that day. Which, annoyingly, makes me think about them far more than I’d like.

That night, in my tiny rented room above a closed-down bookshop, I lay awake staring at the ceiling while rain taps softly against the window.

It’s been eight months since I ran. Since I left Paige, her too-bright eyes full of worry and love. Since I walked away from Leo’s quiet steadiness and Jake’s crooked grin before either of them could complete the mate bond with me. Before fate could tighten its grip on my life.

I curl onto my side and press my fist to my chest.

“I’m fine,” I whisper into the dark. “I’m safe. I’m free.”

The silence answers back with a low, hungry hum as I drift off to sleep.

The next morning, the non-human blonde and redhead are back, and this time they’ve brought friends. I know before I see them. The pressure tightens, and my heart starts doing that stupid, traitorous thing again.

When I look up, my breath catches. There are four men this time. The two from yesterday… and two more. Tall, broad-shouldered, golden-haired, blue-eyed and completely identical. Twins… smiling like they know secrets I don’t. My pulse jumps hard enough to make me dizzy.

“Oh,” the voice purrs. “Those are important.”

“I don’t care,” I mutter automatically, grabbing a cloth and pretending to clean.

“What?” my coworker asks.

“Nothing,” I say quickly. “Internal monologue.”

She squints at me. “You know people think you’re weird, right?”

“People also think socks with sandals are acceptable,” I reply. “I refuse to be judged by those standards.”

The twins take a table in the centre of the shop. They don’t even try to hide their attention. Every time I move, their eyes follow. Every laugh I force, every annoyed sigh, every accidental brush of hair behind my ear.

“Keep being weird, Poppy, it’s bringing in new customers apparently,” my coworker says, nodding towards the imposing guys in the centre of the room.

“What makes you think they’re here for me?” I ask, following her gaze.

When one of them smiles at me, my heart does a stupid little flip. I hate it. The presence presses closer, heavier now with an excited anticipation that does nothing to calm my nerves.

My coworker snorts a laugh. “Because they’ve not taken their eyes off you since the moment they walked in here.”

“I’m sure it’s…” I trail off as I glance towards the twins again, and when my eyes meet one of theirs, I see it… gold. It’s just a flicker. Barely there, but I see it. My stomach drops.

Well, that explains the whole predator thing. They’re werewolves, of course they are.

I keep my face neutral and my movements steady. Years of surviving on sarcasm and stubbornness have trained me well. I know it’s only a matter of time, but the twins don’t approach, not yet. They wait.

When my break finally comes, I duck into the back room and press my palms and forehead against the cool wall, breathing hard.

“Absolutely not,” I whisper. “I am not doing this again yet, I’m not ready to let the crazy back in.”

“You can’t hide forever,” the voice says gently.

“I can try.”

A knock sounds on the door, and I stiffen.

“Poppy,” a male voice calls softly, his voice like velvet. It’s one of the twins. I know without looking.

How the hell does he know my name? Did my sister send them to bring me home? Has she finally reached her limit? Has something happened?

“Or maybe it’s the name tag on your shirt?” The voice in my head answers sarcastically.

I square my shoulders, let out a breath and plaster a smile on my face before I open the door. He stands there, close enough that I can feel the heat rolling off him. His gaze is intense but not aggressive; it’s curious.

He inhales slowly and deeply, and his eyes close. When he opens them again, they’re burning gold.

“What are you?” he asks quietly.

I say nothing, because even if I wanted to tell him, I honestly don’t have an answer.