The Alpha's Fated Kiss
The thread wrote it in the ash, the letters glowing like embers: ELENA VASQUEZ: THE HEART THAT REFUSED TO BREAK.
My breath hitched. The alley shivered. The rubble became La Isla Dorada, the night it burned, the air thick with smoke and sizzle, the scent of arroz con gandules and mofongo curling like a memory I couldn’t hold. Javier was there, alive, his laugh booming as he flipped mofongo on the grill, his eyes crinkling at me; five years old, clinging to his leg. “Mija, you’ll run this place one day,” he said, ruffling my hair. But his hand was wrong, fingers too long, nails red. The thread smiled with his mouth.
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