Welcome To The Outcast's Restaurant Novels & Stories

A young woman in a traditional Silent Creek dress asked them in a crisp voice. “Bring us all your restaurant’s specialties and give us two bottles of your best alcohol,” Chase said slowly while deliberately deepening his voice. “Alright. Coming right up.” The woman became a little more friendly when she heard their order and turned to enter the kitchen. It was not often that the restaurant had such generous customers. They instantly became her most important customers. “This place is one of the locations where the Voodoo Cult would be, Chase. Will we get too much attention by doing this?” Quinn asked worriedly in a small voice.

"You did not try to teach your entire class the Macarena during a formal pack gathering." "In my defense, I was eight, and it seemed like a perfectly reasonable way to liven up pack politics." The little restaurant was tucked away on a quiet street, all exposed brick and climbing ivy. Oliver kept my hand tucked in his arm as he held the door, somehow managing to make the gesture both gentlemanly and natural. "I actually scouted this place yesterday," he admitted as we settled into a cozy corner booth. "You know, to make sure there weren't any precariously placed seafood platters or French menus."

one of the younger girls whispered in wonder. "Welcome home, Miss Elara!" a brawny warrior boomed, bowing his head so low I could see the nape of his neck. The head cook, Marisa, pushed through the crowd, her face flushed from the ovens. She didn't look at me with judgment; she looked at me like I was a guest of honor. "Luna! Just in time," Marisa declared, dipping a silver spoon into a simmering pot of rich, creamy stew. "You must try the first taste of the venison cream. If it isn't perfect, I’ll have to start the whole batch over!"

Outsiders rarely wandered far from the territory hosting the event, especially not during an auction attended by Alphas and high-ranking wolves. Good thing Enzo had been training me. My speed had improved enough that I could move from building to building without exhausting myself. It didn’t take long before I spotted the black Ravencrest vehicle parked outside Blackwood Lodge. “Which room belongs to the owner of that vehicle?” I asked, pointing toward the car outside. The woman at the reception desk looked me over and raised a single, unimpressed eyebrow. “Pack laws prohibit us from giving out private information.” I opened my mouth to argue, but a cold voice suddenly echoed behind me.

But this time… they felt different. Not a dream, exactly. A memory. She stood in a crumbling hall old stone, vines choking the walls, stained glass shattered into the dirt. A woman stood at the center, her arms outstretched as figures in black cloaks shouted, their faces masked, their voices cruel. “Outcast,” they screamed. “Breaker of laws. Betrayer of kin.” Samantha tried to run to her, but her legs wouldn’t move. She could only watch as the woman, a tall figure with hair like shadows and fire, was shoved to her knees.

Scarlett The restaurant Elijah had chosen, L’Éclipse, was a masterclass in understated power. Tucked behind a discreet limestone facade, it opened into a sanctuary of obsidian floors and tiered crystal chandeliers that hung like frozen rain. Every table was a private island, shielded by high-backed velvet booths and partitions of frosted glass etched with gold leaf. It was a place designed for the elite to disappear, where the air was thick with the scent of white lilies and expensive oud.

But they know it was JM’s mockup that made it happen. Afterwards, they head to the main branch of Countryside Steakhouse and Diner, where they meet the owner, who introduces himself as Melvin, and, decked out in red pantsuit, Mrs. Lapuz. The whole restaurant has been reserved for only them, but that isn’t saying much because it’s small. Kate guesses the exclusive reservation serves the secondary purpose of security because, without any bodyguards or police officers around, they were ill-prepared for a mob once Nate takes off his facemask and sunglasses.

His heavy boots thudded against the polished wooden floor as he led them deeper into the restaurant, drawing curious and disapproving glances from the diners nearby. Steve scanned the room with practiced precision, noting every detail. He, Emma, and the biker wolf were the only Americans inside the restaurant. The customers were numerous and exclusively Chinese, many dressed in business attire that suggested they worked as accountants or executives in high-paying companies. Their conversations created a gentle hum that filled the space, occasionally punctuated by the clink of chopsticks against ceramic plates or bursts of laughter from a nearby table.

He had a quick conversation with the woman in the black dress, saying something about someone named Luca, and then we were taken right to a table…and we got a lot of dirty looks. We were given a table by the window, and Bastien pulled the table out so I could squeeze into the seat against the wall before he put the table back in place and sat down. It was a famous restaurant in Paris that served only one thing—steak and fries. You could order as many servings as you wanted, and waitresses in maid outfits came by and refilled the plates with a new piece of meat smothered in a sauce along with a new batch of fries. I’d been there once before, a couple years ago.