Page 24 of Craved By the Werewolf
"So yes," she said, finally looking up at me with eyes that were suspiciously bright, "this place means everything to me. These kids, this program, making sure no one else has to feel as alone as I did—it's the most important thing I'll ever do. I'll never walk away from Haven House."
The words hung between us. "How will you manage LA and support Haven House at the same time?"
"I'll find a way."
I could see in her eyes that she meant what she said. "I know you will."
"I should head back to the station," she said, the moment broken. "Prep for tonight's show."
But this time, when I offered to walk her to her car, she shook her head.
"That's not necessary," she said, but there was no rejection in her voice. "I'm perfectly capable of walking fifty feet without an escort."
"I know you are." I fell into step beside her anyway, hyperaware of the space between us, and of the way her sleeve brushed mine again, a small contact that felt far more intimate than it should have and how easy it would be to reach out and touch her hand. "Doesn't mean I can't be polite."
She snorted softly. "You are very polite for a big scary alpha."
We walked to her car in silence, the weight of her confession settling between us. When we reached her car, she turned to face me, and for a moment, the walls she usually kept up were completely gone.
"Thank you," she said. "For doing this with me."
"It's important to you," I said, and meant it. "That makes it important to me."
Something shifted in her expression—surprise, maybe, or something deeper. For a moment, I thought she might saysomething more, might acknowledge what was building between us.
Instead, she looked down at her keys, and when she looked back up, some of her usual composure had returned.
"I'll see you Saturday," she said.
"I'll be there."
She got into her car, and I stepped back as she pulled out of the parking lot. But this time, as I watched her disappear, it wasn't just desire clawing at my chest.
It was something deeper. Something painful.
9
VALA
The Cauldron smelled like roasted pecans, spiced cider, and something sinful—exactly what I needed after the day I'd had. Mika had called it a "mental health intervention." I called it an excuse to avoid going to the station early and staring at my ceiling replaying every second of the Haven House promo, right down to the part where I may have accidentally brushed Thorne's hand and forgot how breathing worked.
We slid into a booth near the back, far enough from the stage to avoid being drafted for open mic but close enough to see the lineup. A fairy with iridescent hair was strumming a guitar on stage, her voice floating above the low hum of conversation. The Cauldron's brick walls glowed in the warm light from dozens of hanging lanterns, each one enchanted to sway lazily as if in a nonexistent breeze.
"Two spiked ciders, extra cinnamon," Mika told the server before I could order tea and ruin the mood. She leaned back, arms crossed. "You've been in a fog all week, Vala. I'm officially prescribing music, booze, and not thinking about a certain Alpha."
I ignored that last part and pretended to study the chalkboard menu. "I've been focused on LA."
"You've been staring off into space like you're trying to astral project." She tilted her head toward the stage, where the fairy had moved into a heartbreak ballad. "I figured a distraction was in order. Plus, open mic night is a great place to scout new guests for the show. Look—free work research."
I smirked. "So this is business disguised as pleasure."
"This is me saving you from sulking," she corrected. "You can thank me later."
The first cider arrived, hot and fragrant, and I wrapped my hands around the mug, letting the steam curl into my face. It smelled like autumn and denial. My brain kept trying to replay the moment earlier today when his shoulder brushed mine, the heat of his hand ghosting against mine for far too long.
I took a long sip, willing the cider to burn that thought right out of me.
Mika wasn't wrong.
